Snowstorm
The beauty of what is
or the beauty
of what’s about to be
fully-fledged
or new-born
the rose that is
about to droop
or the tight bud
bursting with energy ?
a single flake falling
or a field covered in snow
and the roving eye
of the blackbird
the only thing seen
in that entire scene
and the fact
as Wallace tells us
that poetry
is all in the mind
John Lyons
Of course poetry may dwell
on the surface of things
but words are not surfaces
and their significance
runs deeper than we might
in reality imagine
the unblemished rose
is one thing
and the imagined world
quite another
poetry is the magnificent
cause of being
and if at all
we only ever exist
in the reality
of the imagination
and beauty is
what is taken
to the heart
John Lyons
My question today
was how many leaves
will fall in the Fall
in Lewisham alone
in the coming British autumn
and who could count them
and even if they could
why would they bother
and what is the value
of a single leaf
so fresh and vibrant
in springtime but
doomed like us all
to be dust too soon
life-giving leaf
destined to die
albeit blessed to live on
in song
John Lyons
Out on the street
animated voices
people making plans
exchanging information
somewhere close by
scaffolding is being
erected
and the shutters
of small shops
are opening up
for business
suitcases dragged
over the cobblestones
sound like the canter
of horses
once I’ve had my coffee
and a bite to eat
I’ll be out there myself
part of the throng
building the day
John Lyons
I remember when these oaks
were planted
a tight cluster of eighty saplings
a made-to-measure forest
or at least one in the making
this was back then
when the road was widened
to cope with the boom in traffic
I would cross these fields as a boy
on my way to my first school
where I learnt to write
with chalk on slate
The games I’d play
the conkers and the marbles
and my pockets always bulging
with victories
and I remember how I revelled
in the simplicities of life
never dreaming that one day
all my certainties would fall away
John Lyons
A neighbour has sown sunflowers
at the rear of the garden
and I see them now from my window
their immense heads gently bobbing
in the breeze —the characteristic
bright yellow ray florets
surrounding a reddish brown disc
I know that as they grow
during the day these heliotropes
tilt to follow the sun
but these tall specimens are in full bloom
and their faces are inclined to the east
I know too that their days are numbered
and that their proud capitula
will soon be bowed
John Lyons
The other night
making my way home
a large creamy moon
distended in the sky
not quite full
in fact on the wane
and bulging gravidly
as though about to burst
and pour its light
across the face of the earth
but it has no light
and knows nothing
of love or our hopes
or dreams though
it rules the tides
of our emotions
John Lyons
Love is the theory
of everything
he said
love is the wholeness
of the rose
the beauty
of the honeycomb
the frail wings
of the honeybee
that perform
such humble service
Nothing in nature
is incomplete
or lacking in parts
and there is unanimity
among molecules
which are simply
cosmic breath
atoms that perpetually
bind and bind again
all of us drawn up
out of the earth
by the energies
of love
John Lyons
How clear
on this bright morning
the fine fibres
spun by industrious spiders
the silky threads of light
strung from beam to beam
from wall to wall
weightless lines of beauty
that colonise the thin air
and are there
to entangle if not to entice
the most innocent of prey
the aphid and the mosquito
the bluebottle fly
all grisly grist
to that particular mill
John Lyons
Our stories are in our genes
our genes in our stories
Olson called them
the genes of the soul
the dreams of light and dark
the voyages of fantasy
of exploration and discovery
the confrontation with our fears
the defeat of all those
who would oppress us
with their mythical truths
Theseus had a thread
and Ariadne’s love
and the Minotaur died
and by the skin of his teeth
Ulysses made it home
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 