Don’t you just love
short poems
the ones you can read
with a flick of the eye
the ones that tell you
that summer is a-coming
the bees are buzzing
and everywhere you look
bulbs are bursting
into flower and the smile
on her face reminds you
just how good it is
to be alive—
truly
John Lyons
The beauty of life
lies in its fragility
the pleasures
that are fleeting
the fresh petals
on the rose
that will soon fall
and need to be
replaced : and love
that always needs
fresh words
and gestures
to keep it alive
so that no day
is ever the same
no moment
monotonous
and we live
in the expectation
of renewal
and reaffirmation
never tiring of what
touches the heart
and moves the soul
to joy as though for
the very first time
John Lyons
A very touching new poem from friend of the blog, Molly Rosenberg.
A deep gnawing in my heart
An urgency pressing into my thoughts
A deep desire to return to the land and people
From whence my blood has sprung.
A short air space away.
Maybe a journey through
Glassy green waves as
In the old days.
I crave the sound of those dear voices
Long to laugh with them and hear
The stories that only they can tell
And I can hear again and again.
I need to go before it is too late
Before the shadows are all that are left
The memories of sandy days,
The cows down the back lane
The chickens by the gate.
The smell of gorse and salt.
Blackberry and apple
Soda bread and breac
Just memories that I
Can almost taste.
But it is the people
That I am missing
The need to be with
Them grows stronger
As the days and years pass.
Molly Rosenberg
A poem
is the occasion
of its creation
of its being
of its breath
of its expression
and it may contain
or exclude all things
and all times
and all places
and all feelings
and all thoughts
and all dreams
and all words
and however much
silence it requires
a poem may be spun
from a web of emotions
or of affections
or of affiliations
local
or international
public or personal
but a poem must
have the courage
to speak the truth
to admire beauty
and to value love
and tenderness
above all else
John Lyons
Earlier this morning
I noticed that something
was ruffling the leaves
on the branches of a tall bush
just outside my window :
it wasn’t the wind because
nothing else was moving
I looked more closely
and saw a tiny green chaffinch
rocking rhythmically
back and forth as it pecked
at the fresh green buds
on the bush
while high up above
under a faultlessly blue sky
aircraft were leaving
immaculate white trails
in their wake
and down by the railway line
I observed a tall tree
without a single leaf
but with a large crow
perched silently on one of its
uppermost branches
and it occurred to me
for reasons unknown
that the tree was statement
to which the black bird
provided a very eloquent
and conclusive full stop
John Lyons
At the top of Maresfield Gardens
in Hampstead at the front
of one of the houses there’s a holly tree
the lower branches of which hang over
the brick wall close to the pavement
and their leathery leaves are covered
in a fine film of dust and on some
there are signs of damage and decay
but hidden among them
is a solitary bright red berry
sole survivor from last season
and I wonder how the birds
could possibly have missed it
for so long just as I am happy too
to admire the utter simplicity
of its ineffable beauty
John Lyons
After so much sun during the day
suddenly the air has crisped
with a sharp frost and up above
the jet black sky is crystal clear :
incredible that there should be
such limitless darkness
filled with so many burning stars
the piercing light filtering through
without diluting the deep dark
—and it seemed to me
that had I had
the time and the inclination
on this beautiful spring evening
it might just have been possible
to number every single star
in the universe
John Lyons
To engage with her beauty
and with her breath
to live the day and night of it
the come and go
and to plan and to agree
and to decide
always decisions
decisions
Now it is dawn
now it is dusk
and we are neither here
nor there neither together
nor apart our locations
and our locutions
—here she comes
trailing black and blue
there I go
trailing green and gold
A reminiscence
of eyes and hair
and a body above all
an abyss into which
the slow fuse of the future :
where will it all end ?
John Lyons
What is beauty
and who shall be
numbered among
its gold standards ?
is it the slow burn
of her amber eyes
the thin pouting lips
or indeed the hands
and arms engaged
in sweeping arabesques
creating endless clusters
of unconditional intimacy ?
and love is measured
on what scales of intensity ?
is it passion or depth
or fidelity down the ages
is love the chameleon
that never changes
steadfast but unfixed
in categorical habits
it is always time to move
stasis being the dreary
proclamation of life-death
: love lives on the lip
on the tip of the tongue
a true treasury
of tactile invention
its joy is urgent
its abandonment
forever unforgiven
John Lyons
The dance of light
on the river surface
the silver waters
carried out to sea
By Blackfriars Bridge
a cormorant perches on one
of the abandoned red piers
of the old Chatham and Dover
It pauses for a moment
in its day perhaps to catch
its breath if indeed birds
do get breathless and
have to catch their breath
I see so many birds
darting too and fro
as though their lives
depended on such frenzy
and quite possibly they do
slaves as they are
to their appetites
unlike us who have
domesticated time
and with it so much
of the world around us
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 