Autumn a brake
on the passage of time
a slowing down
a reduction in the speed
of life : hence the long nights
the low light of day
the mulch of leaves underfoot
the desire to hibernate
the longing for her warm
cosy companionship never to end
John Lyons
In my dreams
no stars no moon
no roses
no sweet lavender
no road to paradise
no sea breaking
softly on the shore
no nectar on my tongue
no light but the light
in your eyes
no sound but the murmur
of your breath felt gently
against my cheeks
in my dreams
John Lyons
Looking outwards
a hill topped
by ancient woodland
a pale-blue sky in which
the white clouds are drifting
slowly northwards
In the face
of a stiff breeze
the trees are standing
their ground
but there are dry
golden leaves floating
in the air
This is the season
of sweet chestnut
that soon I will gather
and roast and turn
into a delicious soup
Today no rain
has fallen
but at dawn I heard
the gnashing of foxes’ teeth
and shortly after
the raucous cry of gulls
unusual for them to be
so far from the river
Sometimes it takes
virtually nothing
for a day to be sublime
John Lyons
Gone the daffodils
gone the roses
the maple’s loom
is red and bees
in silence sleep
in hives of inactivity
– birds on the wire
soon to depart –
Winter is closing in
as nights grow long
and love is all we have
to see us through
John Lyons
This is the world
in which we walk
: leaves peppered
with dark spots
and shotholes and
cankers on the trunk
and dieback
here and there
on the branches
or blossom blast
in spring or
early summer
when flowering shoots
wilt or wither
And the question – why is it
that disease is
an integral part
of nature’s process ?
and why do some trees
die while most survive ?
I stand on the ocean shore
in awe of its eternal tides
No silence can compete
with its incessant roar
no rock can withstand
its ravenous tongue
and I think of her gentle face
and of all the love
that time so simply
swept away
The earth
so full of life
so full of truth
another word
for universe
that which
never lies –
the riddle
of the sands
But behind
every paradox
every mystery
lie explanations
and meanings
The innocent smile
of a young child
the purity
of her message –
as she left the tube
she turned to thank
all her fellow passengers
and to bid them goodbye
These are the angels
true messengers
who speak only
of goodness and love
the earth so full
of truth and love
John Lyons
The dance of light
on the river surface
the silver waters
carried out to sea
By Blackfriars Bridge
a cormorant perches on one
of the abandoned red piers
of the old Chatham and Dover
It pauses for a moment
in its day perhaps to catch
its breath if indeed birds
do get breathless and
have to catch their breath
I see so many birds
darting too and fro
as though their lives
depended on such frenzy
and quite possibly they do
slaves as they are
to their appetites
unlike us who have
domesticated time
and with it so much
of the world around us
John Lyons
Flat earth, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)
A topography
of the flat mineral earth
of fields and pastures
fertile in the imagination
a surface upon which
colours have been laid
and certain symmetries
marked out which please
the mathematical eye
the circle of life
from root to rust
finally squared
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 creating
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
Orange flowers, John Lyons (oil on wood)
Finally the fallen leaves
are turning from copper
to pure gold
This is the currency
that poets eagerly mine
each autumn
It’s a subject that appeals
to their inner Keats
the mellow sadness
of a year on the way out
Self-deprecating
Richardson’s Pamela
called herself
a piece of painted dirt
and so it is
the cycle in and out
of the earth
the human comedy
one door closes
another door opens
and while there is breath
there is hope
and where there is life
there is love
Whose hands are those
painted on the cave walls
men women children
the whole community ?
The caves are time capsules –
behind the art is the perception
that creation goes the distance
and that the thread of life
is eternal and breath alone powers
the thread of love
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 