Warm supple
starflesh
soft to my touch
sweet tasting
to my tongue
smooth
to the palms
of my hands
I hold her close
hear the breath
as it rushes
from the lungs
feel the pulse
of her body
against mine
her words
in my ears
I am all of her
she is all of me
we here we now
John Lyons
The nature of things
as they are : silence
the true interior of the soul
when all is at peace
when all is said and done
it is the true nature
of the world
stripped of the word
the heart beats in perfect harmony
light builds over the sea
a gorgeous molten plain
into which the moonlight
dips in the early hours
while the innocent sleep
within their dreams or clasped
within the arms of their love
John Lyons
The sounds drift in
through the open window
the bustle of the city
of the street below
all the separate lives
of men women and children
their passing concerns
their permanent affections
the energy that they devote
to living their day
against the backdrop
of time’s slow burn
and here within my space
I see candles and flowers
a bed and chairs and table
all of which are marking
the pace of my existence
here day and night enter
and with whispers of silence
soothe the solitude of sense
sleep comes too and with it
dreams that carry me
to different regions of myself
and still I wake
to the profound
poetry of your love
John Lyons
Upon her dress
she has a body
see here
how the sunlight
adores her
how the wind
adapts to her form
how it lifts her hair
in shallow waves
see how the gleam
in her eyes
is reflected
in the waters
of the fountain
she moves freely
through the world
and nothing
can contain her
she is the spirit
of timeless beauty
John Lyons
Generations of the imagination
manifest in physical expression
or in the parallel world
developed intimately in the mind
when time was less of a burden
figures of speech or drawn
on the surface of rocks
to provide a narrative
of human consciousness
the eye the ear
the hand the mouth
light in the darkness
sound in the silence
choice and shape
all to create
the necessary voice
A rose is a syllable
its beauty caught
in the web of language
but think of this :
who was it and where
did a human being
first sit down and speculate
on the meaning
of the surrounding world
who was the first to dream
and to project
and who was it that decided
that the passage of life
was worth recording
who brought that necessary focus
to bear on the fine detail
the nuances of emotion
the dynamics of desire
and all relationships
and how did the pain
of loneliness
ever begin to plague the heart
and to what do we owe
the gift of love ?
John Lyons
From the Big Bang
the creation of mathematics
one thing after another
yes and no
on and off
fusion and fission
a universe seeded
with galaxies
that live and die
just like us
that consume energy
as they light up the void
around them
that give birth to beauty
the thoughtless rose
the terrifying tiger
your name and mine
and words words words
that Shakespeare fashioned
into the dramas of us all
: the cosmos has a tongue
and we speak its language
for better or worse
here and now
John Lyons
Although I’m the writer
I know that sometimes
the words says themselves
and I have no control
they spill out of me
with an energy
and a will of their own
and I read them
subsequently to try
to understand what
they’re getting at
and sometimes I succeed
but mostly I fail
it really is that hit and miss
Other times
I’m a harvester
I plough through fields
of words culling
here and there
a word or phrase
that strikes my fancy
and some of these words
have pedigree or form
a rose a tiger a grain of salt
a labyrinth shaped
by blocks of prose
I remember the blossom
blowing across the lawns
of my youth
the fruit that hung heavy
on the branch
and clear summer nights
seeded with stars
that never slept
John Lyons
I have a mental picture
of the poet Frank O’Hara sitting
in his apartment
on a glorious New York summer’s day
He’s wearing a crisp
white shirt and new sneakers
and is nervously tapping his fingers
on his desk in time
to a phrase from Rachmaninoff
that has been running
through his head
ever since he woke
Through an open window
he can also hear the city making
its usual dusty cacophony
he also has an eye on the clock
: the friend who is giving him
the ride to the beach is late
and he has so been
looking forward to the trip
Just then the doorbell rings
and at once
he is overcome
by the sudden surge of love
in his heart and struggles
to get to his feet
fearing he might drown
in the emotion
John Lyons
Let’s not talk
of method
or madness
let’s just be
you and I
boy and girl
who moved
along love’s
destinations
London to Paris
Berlin to Budapest
Venice to Vienna
let’s not talk
of beginnings
or of ends
but of ever
and a day
and of the special
breath that never
left us
that held us
together
body and soul
for all time
John Lyons
Tomorrow and tomorrow
etched in the mind
the word that appeared nightly
above that building
on the corner
of Mariahilferstrasse
Neon strips
letter by letter
illuminating the word
until complete
and so it remains
for a minute or so
before vanishing
into the dense darkness
of the Hapsburg capital
only to repeat
At times
thick white cloud
hangs from the horns
of the moon
Tomorrow and tomorrow
time creeps its petty pace
until first light of day
and the deed is done
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 