Sticks in a stiff box

body and soul
seeing believing
and feeling

the mind
is the measure
of all things
what else ?

or else this is
a mindless
universe

and you are
always
on my mind

John Lyons

Aftermath

It is late afternoon
         and the storm has passed
leaves litter the paths
         —bird silence
Toppled
         one of the two bay trees
that stood as sentries
          either side of the door step
a large fragment
         of the wounded terracotta
cast to one side
         Stillness now
as nature draws
         a kind of breath
I’m still here
         in this place
little changed
         but for the hours
that have passed
         through me
and around me
         I’ve generated no events
but I’ve written words
         shaped words
with a rhythm and a purpose
         moulded words into a poem
that seeks more to celebrate
         than to make sense
After all
         who am I to attempt
to ‘make sense’ of a world
         that is perfectly competent
in all its accomplishments
         I have nothing of value
to teach to the rose or anyone else
         I look and I listen
and I hope to learn
         what’s there to be learnt
I have no qualm
         no quarrel

John Lyons

On the mutability of fortunes

The swifts and swallows
         have returned for the summer
only to find themselves displaced
         by squadrons of parrots
sleek-feathered interlopers
         from warmer climes
whose speed and agility in the air
         brings them the richest of pickings
in this pleasant land
         this vast plate of plenty
from which they feed incessantly
         and which they celebrate
in never-ending raucous song

What will be left
         for the native small fry
we can only imagine
         but that’s nature’s business
and the fittest will survive
         you can be sure of that
Agility and flexibility
         and above all adaptability
have stood these exotic visitors
         in good stead whereas
the locals find themselves
         estranged and somewhat at a loss
brooding in their own homes

A heavy downpour last night
         has left the lawn sodden
but I notice that the roses
         have all perked up
they simply adore the rain
         their soft white petals
clinging to every last drop

John Lyons

Idle thought

The sometimes sadness of rain
         on a day made of loneliness
and absence and subdued birdsong
         the tall poplars draped in shadows
barely stirred by a sluggish breeze
         We carry our meanings in our head
and impose them on all around us
         a world filtered through the heart
or through the mind at the very least
         Nature makes no such demands
Last night a fox on the street
         a shade moving through
the thoroughfares of a secure
         parallel world in which I have yet
to establish my existence if ever
         the innumerate illiterate
world of the rose and the raven

That a poem has a beginning
         a middle and an end
is its greatest limitation
         but that is the fate
of all human creation
         locked as it is into the ruthless
narrative of time

The liquidity of language
         these words poured out
onto the page or into
         any other vessel
a bravura of observation
         but is a bee any less appreciative
of the unwritten beauty of flowers
         and isn’t its honey a greater accolade
than any other imaginable text ?

John Lyons