The broken books

Our lives out of books
           picking the bones
of old stories
           looking for insight
the scorched grass
           in the shade
of the pyramid
           the black shadow
of vultures circulating
           lazily overhead
knowing that
           their day will come
snakes slithering
           through the dry scrub
a desiccated civilisation
           gone to dust

The greatest element
           we have to battle
is the god of self
           so resourceful in its
resistance to change :
           whatever tremors
shake us down
           we refuse to acknowledge
scurrying to rebuild the past
            stone by stone
lives out of books
           lived by the book
though the books
           are cooked

John Lyons

Tulips

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

Morning meditation

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

White crocuses

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

Sunday poetics

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