A fork in the road
The stars are our footlights
in this world of performance
in which gongs rattle
bells ring out
and there is much sitting
and standing and walking
and being still until
stillness is all
Time is dimension and box
the roses in the vase
on the table
along with the silver service
awaiting the guests
for the ceremony to begin
We have made a home
out of habit and language
The mind says be minimum
the tongue says be quiet
as we advance naked
into the light and passion
is an empty promise
a counterfeit doubloon
pressed into the palm
and so the river runs
through the city shapes
where we circulate
I have a bundle of tunes
under my arms
a veritable sheaf of poems
but will I survive
the hostilities of the curtain
and will love in the end
shape up or suffer
as the poet says
surfeit of dust
and surcease of the bone
Words then
two-a-penny
the tired old drays
that plod the streets
their hooves stumbling
at every fissure
and night after night
the serenade that mounts
monotone into the darkness
in which trembling hands fumble
as they attempt to unbutton
the truth that lies beneath the lies
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 