In the hearth of feeling

Rose with a heavy head of dreams
how love breeds how hate destroys

How blissful were those days of ignorance
or were they truly or were they even once ?

My bruised redemption welcomes the diffuse rapture
my brooding eyes fixed firmly on the horizon

of the undimmed beauty of her instrumental body
In love enough is never enough nor in the field

are the fresh and fragile daffodils ever capable
of carpeting an entire plot but form clusters

crowding the spaces the crocuses might have chosen
The vigours of nature are a marvel to behold

no flower withers but another follows suit
just as the ensemble singers’ voices vie

from branch to branch—my life was complete
before you came to complete it further

to add grain to the fortunes of my winter store
I was murmurless in unvanquished space

my days revolving with the easy accidents of life
but an orchid appears its petals bent on seduction

and the body in which my virtue lay gasps
at the subtle radiance of your skin

that stretches out before me intimate and unbound
O for the accuracy of angels that know and understand

the rise and fall of man in the circles of paradise
where falling blossoms may clot the light

Betrayal is a tongue that cannot tell—a string
that vibrates in the dull emptiness of deceit

Yet love knows no counterfeit and accepts no forfeit
its affinities unshifting amid the hostilities of time

John Lyons

How gently the frost

How gently the frost descends
         a breath it would appear
from the heavens
         from a cold heaven
that will warm at break of day

the thin fur of ice
         will melt and soak
into the land
         and what was white
will once again be green

adversities that come and go
         nothing major :
in themselves trivial reminders
         that life is process
that some things are forever
         and some are not

we who are happy in love
         will welcome the challenges
of the day with a peaceful mind
         we will batten down the hatches
and weather the storm
         buoyed by our belief
in the beauty of the rose
         bolstered
by the memory
         of honey on our lips
and the warmth of flesh
         on our flesh

John Lyons

Love’s tangled web

Last night the fox was back
         I heard it in the early hours
there still was the faint patter
         of rain on the skylight
and the sound of the fox
         coming from the end of the garden
from a fox lying no doubt
         under the elderberry

It was a lone voice performing
         an aria one might say
to unrequited love :
         foxes are natural musicians
and it is common for them
         to sing their hearts out

Like the rest of us
         a fox knows that life goes on
that one day follows another
         and that love is more than an event
love is a radical change
         it can mean family and roots
different responsibilities
         but it sweetens the days and nights

Yes
         love is a boisterous beauty
that moves the soul to song
         and in love it seems
that nothing is as it seems
         it is a table for two and a rhapsody
in the dead hours before the dawn
         breaks into another day

John Lyons

The violinist

I remember his broad hands
         the hands of a musician
of a violinist in love
         with his instrument
: he would converse with it
         sometimes silently
teasing the notes
         from the taut catgut
and I remember
         how his face would contort
and suddenly relax
         then tighten again
as he advanced
         through the score
onwards on a journey marked
         by notes on a stave
a roller-coaster walk
         on the wild side
his lips tightly pursed
         and his deep blue eyes
in a different world
         or on a different plane
a different dimension
         from which he would retrieve
such melody and passion
         that the air was transformed
into wave upon wave
         of transfixing beauty

I remember his hands
         the broad fingers
that nimbly danced on the neck
         the shudders and the long
sweep of the bow
         back and forth
coaxing the lacquered body
         to release its vibrant breath

and I remember his impish smile
         which taught me
that music is ageless
         as is love as is passion
and that no one owns
         these things or these emotions
that they possess us
         that they lift us up
so that we are transfigured
         our lives illuminated
by the power of creation

After all is that not the essence
         of love and art to create
to make something new
         to nourish our lives
and renew the face of the earth ?

John Lyons

Hands

We are born to feel
         our way through life
the instinctive outreach
         of the hands :
first tactile vision
         first bearings
before the eyes truly focus
         shapes and textures
manipulated as we grasp
          objects and turn them over
in our tiny hands
         intrigued by the connection
with all that is within
         and outside ourselves
The warmth of the mother’s breast
         at which the infant paws
as it sucks on the nipple
         the touch that binds
in bonds that last a life

True that the eyes lock
          : they engage as sensors
that say yea or nay
         come or go
but once permission is granted
         the hands are there
to seal the embrace
         to hold fast for dear life

A language all of their own
         that speechless lovers relearn
as their fingers gently explore
         the contours of a face
the shape of an ear
         the softness of the flesh
that flows down to the hips
         caressing each curve
with open palm
         accumulating an entire
topography
         a whole palpitating body
of accidental knowledge

True labourers in the vineyards
         it is the hands that bring home
the spoils of love and tenderness
         this I believe hand on heart

John Lyons

Sleep on

Sleep
         a respite
within time’s gift
         a permission
to absent oneself
         to rest and to repair
to dream
         wound loosely
within a cocoon
         of silent intelligence
that is of a different order
         in which fragments
of consciousness
         appear to make sense
and sense appears
         to fragment
a realignment
         of the soul perhaps
of our desires and
         of our affections
that which we live
         without understanding
the understanding we have
          Sleep is the ultimate
self-care when we are
         truly alone with ourselves
and yet feel in touch with
         and buoyed up by
the entire universe
         or do I exaggerate?

John Lyons

Ice

On the roof
on the blades of grass

on the dead leaves
and dry berries

that still cling
to their branch

on the road and
on the parked cars

No ice
in your heart

nor mine
never

not a single
touch of frost

John Lyons

Jonah and the tree

Sun shining through
the bare bones of nature :
with what vigour their branches
thrust skywards in their
everlasting lust for life
for green leaf
for growth
for flower and for fruit

In the shade
of one of the species
Jonah once took shelter
and pondered who he was
and where he was
and why he was
and what he was supposed
to do with his life
while the answers
were all around him

John Lyons