A quiet house

A quiet house
and from a window
barren black trees waiting to bud
no coral or turquoise sky
just the dull grey of lingering winter

Yesterday by the railway cutting
a pigeon tossing dead leaves aside
one by one with its beak
scavenging for food under the mulch

But beauty conserved in the mind
the thought of love
that is not a perfection
much more a process
a necessary moving towards another
in which kindness and understanding
are unlimited in the give and take
of adjustment or accommodation
fingers that run through printed silk
the blue midnight of a summer shared
Life is the fugitive
and we pursue it with a passion
: to hold her and know the intimacy
of her breast and to have seen her
in times of joy and ecstasy and in sorrow
each kiss a blessing each word
a consolation

Love is neither a posture nor a demand
it sets no agenda and comes at no price
as long as it is true and mindful
Her hands reach out to me mine to her
and in that grasp
in that physical understanding
our affections are enshrined
our hearts set on a course
against the destructive surge of time
and for ourselves we needs must make
a quiet paradise in the house of our heaven

John Lyons

Ceremonial

Love not of words
           but deeds and actions
life fleshed out
           in passionate embrace
a consonance
           of unashamed breath
and voices locked
           in a single refrain

Sound silence
           of omnipresent love
bodily conceived
           budded in the rose
star-strewn love
           tender the touch
of her breast
           on his breast
lush lips singularly
           articulate
his hands drawn
           to the lobes of her ears
to the hollow of her throat
           to her hair
to her waist
           to the limbs that flow below
to her glistering eyes
           to the ardent truth
of her warm disposition
           to the shapely
dance of her step
           to the banter of sea
that flows in her blood
           to the body
that knows more than her head
           to desire just
as the sun rises
           to a crescent moon

John Lyons

Caution to the wind

We never can be born enough :
           to be born is to feel
and to express those feelings
           with words decisively
and to write like nobody else
           when everybody writes
like everybody else

We are born to eternity
           to breath and to feeling
to warmth and to love
           and to words

Born to speak and to write
           from our indefatigable destiny
and from the intrinsic truth
           and humility of our inalienable voice

Nothing false
           nothing hating
nothing loveless
           nothing easy
nothing small
           nothing ordinary
nothing empty or unreal
           nothing feeble
nothing clumsy
           nothing guessed
nothing fearful
           nothing nowhere
nothing nonsense
           but always
innocent and eager
           and flesh and blood
and impossible
           and impetuous
and daring and tender
           and now or never
soul over heart over 
           hand over mouth
always caution
           to the wind

John Lyons