Perfect

When
beauty
lies in
the arms
of the
beholder

John Lyons

Vortex

Now in the still point
         in the soft-petalled silence
the slow rain
         falling falling
a blessing
         on the parched land
now in the absence
         that feeling
of abandonment
         now in the pointed stillness
leaves standing up
         to the cool wind
acceptance with
         a shrug of the shoulders
now in this otherworldly
         world
in which words are
         of importance
are necessary
         in the binding
of body to soul
         now amidst the engagement
of stars and fairweather
         sentiments
a bleak sense of history
         plagues me
a road too often travelled
         a cycle
a syndrome
         a vortex
an unwarranted
         resolution

John Lyons

Occupations

Among other things
         poetry is an act of occupation
a marking out of the territory
         with words that establish
distances and times
         and within those unlimited boundaries
hopes and dreams and emotions
         and thoughts and doubts
what little is known
         and much less understood
within the cosmic melee
         and if there is a unifying centre
it lies at the point of necessary love
         it is an addressing of the world
of people and of words too
         such and such a phrase borrowed
from such and such a text
         poetry is a will and testament
to life’s texts and textures
         her eyes her hair her lips
her sensibility all marked up
         the summer’s day of her smile
her openness to the enactments
         of untold intimacies—poetry
an occupation
         in every sense of the word

John Lyons

Guttersnipe

The moon brought low
         lies in a pool of rainwater
its surface streaked
         with oil and dust
Under darkness
         the sad moon
of the misbegotten
         is soon forgotten

A moon without stars
          sad as a fish out of water :
those who talk of love
          know not what they say
The mad moon says
         make love not sense
reach for the stars
         and bank on your dreams

John Lyons

A place of home

The place of first words
         of first family
of first games
         of first flowers
of first love
         roads I have walked
all my life
         long forgotten
long remembered
         here by a wounded willow
where I once took shelter
         here where with
net and jar
         I first fished
the shallow waters
         or through these woods
where I first wandered
         gathering chestnuts
to roast on the open fire
         there with coal in the scuttle
and snow on the ground
         winter with its subtle shades
of darkness and summer
         greens with proud thorns
on the rose the blood
         of my innocence
drip
         dripping
here in the place
         of first words
I am once again
         at last at home

John Lyons