Time and time again

All that we have
         is time
time at our disposal
         disposable time
the days of the lily
         of the sparrow in the field
are ours to observe
         as the river runs
as the sea swells
         all is processed
within time
         and timeless
is beyond the memory
         of our imaginations

When I was a child
         time passed as a child
the legacy of those days
         far behind me
I may count the steps
         from here to eternity
but never reach there

I need space in which
         to savour the time
that is left
         to linger
in the moment
         of her kiss
to quell
         the savage latencies
of time if only
         for a time

John Lyons

Roses

Time is a river that runs through the rose
so where one rose falls another rose rises

just as another rose rose where another rose fell
and so time and the river and the rose on it goes 

roses are red my love violets so blue
where one sweet red rose fell another rose grew

roses are red my love this you should know
wherever red roses fall others will grow

John Lyons

Poetry apologises

Okay I’m sorry
         a bit late today
late night
         what can I say
bleary-eyed
         searching for a subject
I’ll get there
         don’t worry
it’s not easy
         a path I’ve chosen
but give me a break
         day after day
crack of dawn
         hoping for inspiration
praying
         begging
crying out
         for a new idea
for something to say
         to those who are
sick and tired
         of the dawn chorus
tired of all the roses
         the falling rain
of the errant foxes
         that live by the tracks
and forage in bins
         and back gardens
tired of reading
         about hazel eyes
and silky skin
         and tender lips
and flesh on flesh

Well sorry
         what are dreams
but appetite for a difference
         I’ll get back to you
in the meantime
         I apologise. . .

John Lyons

Eight lines

Knowledge and experience and expedience
These are the supposed touchstones

but it’s really all about the blood
about how mineral became sense

how breath became expression
about how the world was made

to sit up and take notice :
about the emergence of truth

and how beauty captivated the emotions
in the evolution of this human universe

John Lyons

Short poem

Years amid the frailty of fallen blossom
of winters that have come and gone
dust and ash blown across the universe
a little less pain when love allows
life bled from the earth
breath blown into a new body
the confusions of physical desire
my life in the shape of a soul
and all the time that nagging doubt
that root curiosity that propels me on
summer when spring is dead
autumn when all growth is gone

John Lyons

Dawn chorus

First rays of the day
         stream through the skylight
and with them
         the first sounds
as my mind slowly
         scrambles for some
semblance of consciousness

A family of pigeons
         nests nearby
and this morning
         I discover the gift
not of tongues
         but of ears
I hear the loose
         vocals of a female
belting out 
         with great gusto
One day I’ll fly away
         and in a slightly higher
less perfect pitch
         an angelic adolescent
You’re gonna miss me
         when I’m gone
and there unmistakable
         in the background
a baritone smooth
         as you like coos
Can’t get enough
         of your love

John Lyons

Sketch

The trees are weary
         see their tired leaves
drooping on this grey morning
         already hints of autumn shades
have blighted the green foliage :
         it could be an early winter
and yet summer
         has barely begun

What’s needed
         is a little sunshine
to perk up the chlorophyll
         to get the old sap rising
to reinvigorate the landscape
         to reignite nature’s love affair
with itself—to put the birds
         and the bees back on track

John Lyons

Or do I digress

That root curiosity
         that drives us on
to know who we are
         to know our purpose
and to know our end
         self-explorers
and self-doubters
         more question
than answer
         to know ourselves
let alone another
         to see through
the eyes of another
         to know how it feels
to be as another
         our lives laced with song
fragments of knowledge
         picked up along the way
experience eating away
         at our innocence
the parade of years
         the lilacs that once bloomed
the hands once held
         the lips once kissed
pile it on
         all the pressure
all the accumulated selves
         the days and nights
when we loved
         and were yet unloved
the moonstones that burned
         through our dreams
all hope against hope
         and then a breakthrough
the root of it all
         that germinal moment
out of which love rose
         fully formed and perfect
the blushing petals
         under an adoring sun

Such is the process
         that sometimes 
though we may not be aware
         the words know
what they mean
         and will out the truth

John Lyons