Holding station

Holding station

On a cold crisp morning
           world in sharp relief
silhouette of firs
           against the skyline
a sky plied by jets
           playfully releasing
thin white trails
           of condensation as they go

And play’s the thing
           the absence of aggression
allowing life to flow
           through the veins
giving rein
           to the innocence
that is there
           in our nature

Light brings life
           brings colour
here in this holding station
           where hopes and dreams
are given time
           in which to breathe

John Lyons

 

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Autumn meditation

Autumn meditation

That mid-October
           autumn glow
a stillness
           in which the clarity
of birdsong is appreciated
           the larders are full
and nature prepared
           to buckle down
for the winter
           no one or no thing
wants to be caught
           out of position
when the storms set in
           what eggs were needed
have been laid
           and soon nests will be abandoned

but the baton has been passed
           to another generation
These days
           there is little talk of peace
little appetite for compromise
           for brotherhood
or protection of the weak
           and the poor
the fit will survive
           but too much of the discourse
is mean-mouthed
           every man jack
I see how the light falls
           how it illuminates one side
casts a shadow over the other
           how the hand moves the mind
how the mind moves the hand
           to words

John Lyons

Wild flowers

Wild flowers

Air circles the wild flowers
it stirs the grasses in the meadow
and light falls upon all things
and in one way or another
feeds all things and the flowers
draw nutrients out of the soil
and their rustic beauty has
much to do with their freedom

and the fact that they are wild
and uncultivated and serve
no purpose other than to enrich
our lives with their allure

John Lyons

Sweet William

Sweet William

The flower of the gods
           born into the palm
of my hand
           today stripped
of your beard
           prostrate
searching for
           the sense of it all

on that day
           the world changed
with your smile
           with your laughter
with the light
           in your eyes
bearded flower
           of the gods
those gods
           that walk among us
that breathe our air
           and feed on our food

on that day
           colours came
reds and blues and pink
           and greens and yellows
on the edges of the fields
           in the scrubland
where wormword grew
           on that day
you smelt of birth
           and thrashed
your tiny limbs
           and in my hands
I felt the warmth
           of your innocence
and loved you
           as I do today

John Lyons

Forgotten wars

Forgotten wars

Nobody cries
over the death
of fallen leaves

Nobody cries
over the death
of those who fall
in distant wars
the innocent cut down
by remote control
Nobody sees their faces
or knows their names
or really cares at all

Nobody cries
over the death
of fallen leaves
knowing that spring
will bring renewal

Nobody cries
over the death
of those who fall
in distant wars
though they are
gone forever

John Lyons

Apple and orange

Apple_orange

Apples and orange, by John Lyons

Apple and orange

What have we here
           a painting of three
two alike and one non
           representing
the fruit of life :
           nothing concords
with art
           and words
are not replicas
           the paint is unique
neither good nor bad
           just of itself

as is love
           neither one thing
nor another
           merely itself
and there is texture
           and feinted shadows
and a ripeness
           that goes to the core
but this is life
           apples and orange
trying to capture life
           availing itself
of the materials to hand
           love that extemporizes
that is love
           that exists beyond
the realm of times
           love that shifts its shape
and its complexion
           but is always original

because repetition
           is a myth created
by Plato since there is
           nothing old under the sun
and love is evolution
           and constant innovation
and art couldn’t care less
           or give a damn
for anything else
           except love

John Lyons