Morning sketch

Where she sat
she sits
at the window seat
watching the world
as it passes by

Time age
and all that is
immaterial
have not tempered
her beauty

But she ponders
the riddle of her life
Petals fall
from the white orchid
they litter the floor

A life lived daringly
on the shores of the ocean
or by swift flowing rivers
with much sunlight
with much moon
many stars

She sits and ponders
the mystery of love
what it means to have
and to hold
till death do

and why are love’s laws
so severe
when the flesh is weak
and a kiss is just a kiss
why must she
remember this ?

John Lyons

These stars have followed me

These stars have followed me
           all my life and last night
in the black sky they shone
           brighter than ever
Strange how they bring
           such comfort just knowing
that they are there
           and all our origins are secure

Love comes from those stars
           the binding of atoms
of bodies and souls
           and all life driven
by their energy
           which is why our hearts
are warm
           when they are loving

Nothing much has changed
           in the ancient woodland
by the railway track :
           thousands of years
marked by the rise and fall
           of the same vegetation— trees mostly
and it was here
           in a small maternity unit
set in a clearing
           that I came into the world
my origins pieced together
           from fragments of universe
and all the time
           through all these years
I’ve yearned to live a life
           of the purest simplicity
to know and live love
           in its infinite felicity

John Lyons

Words are not love

That is to say
           that the sky is blue
with just a few
           high clouds
and barely
           a breath of wind

As fine a day
           as you could hope for
at this time of year
           A birthday approaches
but plans have been
           cancelled

There is no appetite
           for celebration
but this mood will pass
           as all things pass
One should not allow
           the emotions to gain
the upper hand :
           the love of words
can be a betrayal
           when things are said
for effect and do not come
           from the heart

Let us remind ourselves
           that words are not love
and poetry has no responsibility
           other than to itself

John Lyons