In that sense
the good bishop
was right
attention is all
a world depends
upon it
look about you
look within you
the fine detail
of your breath
the shimmering
synapses
that fire you up
beauty has a depth
that demands
concentration
life is too rich
to let slip
feel it down
to the very core
John Lyons
Follow the trail of paint
the boundless
shapeless energy
the thin line
that speeds Pollock on
to reveal his inner likeness
a see-through heart
a tangled coil of veins
with the ceaseless
coming and going
of the courageous mind
addicted to freedom
He of the multitude
perpetually present
in the scene of selves
and just imagine
the sensual pulse
that flicks the wrist
all colours fused
in passionate exhalation
compositions that disturb
the veils of dishonesty
burying them beneath
a bed of his truth
for this truly is
beauty
in the eye
of the beholder
John Lyons
This poem appeared earlier today in a slightly different version.
Now the wind veers
turning northerly
and we huddle
within ourselves
this is a coldness
not of the heart
but of the bones
—a kiss alone
will keep us warm
John Lyons
The nameless shadows
untimely laid to rest
in avenues of cold hard stone
cemented into the merciless
grey of winter skies
collective or individual lives
arranged in rigid alleys
that rise and fall underfoot
but not a single angle less
than ninety degrees
no soft circles or tender arcs
or any hint of creative
deviation from that norm
that awaits us all one day
Here no birds perch
and no song is heard
as the memories filter
through and into the dust
these were our cities
these were our streets
this is the place
where we finally rest
John Lyons
Beauty
is subtle
supple
it radiates
truth
glamour
is an ugly
vulgar
abyss
John Lyons
A sense of
gratitude
when I look
at the stars
John Lyons
Emblems
The rose
with its
proud thorns
the prickly
flowering
beauty
of the thistle
John Lyons
Inspiration
is the breath
of the imagination
a temporal
spatial incident
that alters
the universe
beyond repair
John Lyons
Think of summer
of lavender
and thistledown
floating in the air
of martens feeding
on the wing
of trout rising
in the clear waters
and the taste
of honey fresh
from the comb
with scones
and clotted cream
days of plenty
nights of love
everlasting
John Lyons
Words that live
in the imagination
the blue sense of sky
and a rose
the colour of love
naked jubilation
and the day’s first kiss :
he draws a bow
across a set of strings
and a chord is struck
in the heart
where affections
are scaled
day by day
Misfortune is love
misplaced
or that fails
to draw breath
a bluebird flitting
from branch to branch
must mean something
even though its shy song
is rarely heard in full
time and cinders
treat with contempt
there is only one story
live it be it
and never say die
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 