Not all things
are seasonal
love is a body
of hope
of belief
in the spirit
that transcends
time and event
and the perfect form
is there in the breath
the redemption
of all life
We are all
on a meter
but the stars
have no agenda
for us
we make our own
berries
out of the ash
John Lyons
In a single
flower
a chalice
offered up
to love
set on
a slender
green stem
the warm
red petals
of passion
brushed
with a soft
unrequited
yellow
at the margins
John Lyons
Caught in the nets of being
we struggle to be free
to disentangle ourselves
from anything from everything
that holds us back on life’s ladders
I awake at dawn
with a plan in my head
a thread of thought
that might lead to some
liberating action
At dawn in the dark world
I sit and meditate
as I sip at my coffee
weigh the trammels
and the chances
of leading my life
into a new dimension
my ears cocked
for a message from the angels
who circulate all around us
I hear foxes chewing
the last cud of the night
before they slope away
I hear birdsong
that reminds us each day
to begin afresh
without remorse or doubts
I hear the blank silence
that somehow
I must fill with words :
these are some
of those words
John Lyons
Blood and breath
taken for granted
thought and feeling too
how the sunlight
reaches into the earth
producing all energy
including the air
that we breathe
and such an array
of beauty in the natures
around us / not to mention
our own
To speak of blood
its flow and its warmth
and to speak of the words
shaped by tooth and tongue
how vocal this world of ours
how intricate
the truths of the rose
and of her beauty
and of our love
and its undying pulse
John Lyons
Put aside the ice and snow
the cold northerly winds
these incidentals are
of no consequence
there is a hardness to love
that will always triumph
over sentimentality
after all love has its values
and they are unshakeable
and they can be read
all around us
and in all our literatures
Love is neither a means
nor an end
it just is :
all of us drifters
through this universe
but love the sole fixed point
it is there in all eloquence
and in all beauty
it is the truest form of expression
and never flinches
in the face of adversity
In a world full of devices
and subterfuge
love is bare-faced honesty
and it is what makes
cowards cower
Look to the fractious gods
who defied Ulysses
but failed to bring him down
Look to Penelope
her unswerving heart
a tapestry for all to see
It is the betrayal of love
that stains the soul
and makes hogs of all
who fall by the wayside
John Lyons
White crocuses invisible
beneath the snow
the cold may last
a day or two before
temperatures rise
and the ice begins to melt
then the crocuses
will emerge once again
they may last a month or two
before they too melt away
John Lyons
Renewal of the bones
of all that moves you
your soul fabric
the flesh and blood
of your imagination
words turned
to known purposes
movements of the mind
in art and dance and music
each breath valued
each beat of your heart
and in your poetry
a kindness of understanding
a yearning for wisdom
lines layered in love
as petals to the rose
John Lyons
What roused me
from my daydream
was the sound of a heron
flying overhead as I stood
in the supermarket car park
It was down by the Thames
one cold January morning
and the heavy flap flap flap
of its wings surprised me
I looked up and watched
as it flew off into the distance
into the silence
I knew that it was heading south
perhaps to Crayford marshes
or beyond and I wondered
whether I would ever see it again
John Lyons
I’m a poet and a patriot
but I sometimes paint
though I make no claims
for my artistic skills
I simply try to lay down
the colours and shapes
of the words I carry around
in my head along with
whatever energies
I can bring to bear
If I was a painter
I would strive to be
a de Kooning or
a Jackson Pollock
or wherever the action is
but there’s no hope
of that so relax
it’s Saturday
and my mind’s on
the walk we are about
to take over the river to Spitalfields
to try a Philadelphia
cheese steak sandwich
and on Sunday
I will be watching the Superbowl
and cheering on the Eagles
even though I have
only the vaguest
understanding of the game :
it’s just not my game
John Lyons
White bluebells in a narrow
strip of land on Holly Hill
Hampstead : and brambles
with their white buds
tightly packed with life
holly bushes too
with tiny bullet-like buds
on the slender stems
and not a single berry
left by the birds
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 