All this beauty
from stars
the lips
the hair
the fullness
of her female form
her hips
the elegant feet
all this beauty
from the stars
and in her eyes
starlight
John Lyons
If you go down to Highgate Wood
there are sparrow-hawks
on the prowl and crows and magpies
looking for easy pickings –
so the long-tailed tits
can take no chances
In the fork of a tree
or the thick of a hawthorn bush
they build a nest shaped in the form
of an old-fashioned flexible purse
with a narrow entrance
to one side near the top
It’s made from a mesh
of tiny moss leaves
bound by spider silk
and covered with flakes of lichen
to provide camouflage
against predators
The interior they line with hundreds
upon hundreds of downy feathers
to insulate and create a warm cradle
for the clutch to come –
and for weeks
they live in fear
until the brood has found its feet
and found its wings
John Lyons
Version en français
Si vous descendez à Highgate Wood
il y a des éperviers à l’affût
et des corbeaux et des pies
à la recherche de cueillettes faciles –
donc les mésanges à longue queue
ne peuvent prendre aucun risque
Dans la fourchette d’un arbre
ou bien au milieu d’un buisson d’aubépine
ils construisent un nid en forme
d’une bourse souple à l’ancienne
avec une entrée étroite
d’un côté près du sommet
Il est fabriqué à partir d’un filet
de minuscules feuilles de mousse
liées par la soie d’araignée
et recouvertes de flocons de lichen
pour se camoufler
contre les prédateurs
L’intérieur ils tapissent
avec des centaines
de plumes duveteuses pour isoler
et créer un berceau chaud
pour la portée d’oisillon à venir –
et pendant des semaines
ils vivent dans la peur
jusqu’à ce que la couvée ait
trouvé ses pieds
ait trouvé ses ailes
Hard cold cruelty
of the mirror
true friend of time
harshest critic
inflexible judgment
how thin
how destructive
your silver lining
as you throw back
in our faces
every wrinkle
every line
every error
of excess
and how you prowl the world
lurking
in every unexpected corner
ready to pounce
in halls and bathrooms
hotels and restaurants
to confront and unnerve us
when masks have dropped
and we are left alone
with little more
than our intimate
loveless reality
John Lyons
Time threads its way
through the rain
down into the gutter
down into the earth
the gentle drizzle of time
and I lie here thinking of her
far away now
but remembering the closeness
the soft warmth of her body
the beauty of her composure
the sheer energy of her existence
everything that drew me to her
As galaxies roll around the universe
as stars are born and others die
as fresh shoots of life appear
all around me I pine for her
hating her absence and the silence
with which she has filled
my days and nights
There was an intensity
to what we shared
with all the simplicity
of passion – and I know
that it can never die
And so I wait for her
to turn again – to return
to place her heart
into my hands once more
John Lyons
Perhaps I’m eating too much cheese, despite knowing that the flatulence from cattle breeding – and that includes milch cows – is contributing to the overproduction of methane gas in the atmosphere.
I suppose that makes my camembert consumption not particularly friendly to the environment, but what can you do? I don’t want to raise a stink about it.
Nevertheless, here’s my apocalyptic vision (on a camembert lid) of climate warming leading to global meltdown.
John Lyons
Spring with all its promise
the flowers that we cut
tulips and irises and daffodils
the words we hold
close to our hearts
when time moves
at a gentler pace
and we hear the coo of doves
as nature positions itself
for all that it takes
for the species to survive
the particles of life
coming together
difference converging
and young children skip
along the pavements
and lovers embrace
under the shade
of willow and oak
A world that the beholder
imagines and savours
in the mind and heart
Light borne on the tide
the river suffused
and the oceans deep
with the mystery
Knowledge of things –
chromatic achievements
are as naught
when love is absent
John Lyons
A tiny white butterfly
the smallest I’ve ever seen
flutters among the wild flowers
on a stretch of wasteland
between two railway tracks
its pale wings gently
paddling the air in which it floats
from bloom to bloom
Nectar to feed its brief life
nectar to fuel its brief love
nectar to sustain its brief beauty
a poem to celebrate the memory
John Lyons
Ancient woodland
hornbeam holly and oak
new growth shooting up
alongside the deadwood
fungi feeding on the carcasses
of fallen trees
At night bats
have the run of the place
– pipistrelles – natterers –
and common noctules
but by day the dogs
are out in force
dragging their owners
by the lead
kicking up the dirt
as they go
John Lyons
Revised from earlier post
johnjosephlyons 