All that excitement in the air
forget the grey clouds
the sharp frost overnight
all that excitement
is the sound of birds
clamouring for attention
spring is around the corner
smarten up those nests
gather fresh twigs and
any soft fibre you can find
to create a featherbed
no time to clutch at straws
time to get broody
to go forth and multiply
nature’s unswerving path
is the family way
John Lyons
Where are the snows
of my childhood
On this warm
February day
I ask ?
Where are the snows
that once covered
the hills of my childhood
the snows that tumbled
into the stream
and floated on
into the empty distance ?
I mistyped distance
and it became dustance
a new word to describe
old times
the old snows
for example
of my childhood
my neverlasting
childhood
the substance
of distance
in time
As a child
wherever I saw
a pendulum within the body
of a grandfather clock
I would halt the swing
so that time stood still
I gave it no thought then
it was instinctive
Age has taught me
if nothing else
that my childhood instincts
were right on target
time is the killer
and wherever possible
it should be stopped
in its tracks
John Lyons
The monumental
sadness of stone
immovable
unmoving
the hardness
of heart
in contrast
to the softness
the gentle warmth
the tenderness
the proactive will
of love
John Lyons
The sickle-shaped
crescent moon
cradles my thoughts
my feelings tonight
Light that brings
comfort in the darkness
the horns upon which
dreams are hung
I know that if
she once loved me
she will love me
always because
love casts no shadows
is never fickle
resolves all chaos
rebukes all dilemma
love creates bright
constellations that burn
with the fire
of human breath
my pulse beats
in time to ocean blood
my feet firmly fixed
on cosmic soil
John Lyons
the moon is a cradle
I lower my thoughts
into it gently
my feelings
its light
casts shadows
across the darkness
and brings comfort
I know that I am
not alone
in the emptiness
of the universe
sometimes
when I write
I realize that words
have a mind of their own
that I am powerless
over their meaning
that their viral load
can create unease
what synchronises
the warm breath
of human bodies
we call love
the only known
antidote to chaos
we call the desire
to make art
John Lyons
Rain today but
the sun will soon shine
I am assured
tulips require
the rain and
they are raring go
just beneath the soil
surface : the bulbs
have been switched on
it’s just a matter
of time and
temperature
along with my tears
my shadow will
soon dry
John Lyons
Who is she who leaves
a trail of red petals
in her wake
a life strewn
with winter blood
and summer frost
whose windswept hair
lashes the eyes
of those who adore her ?
John Lyons
The spirit of peace
large and rich and thrifty
that builds vast and populous cities
that encourages agriculture
and the arts and commerce
the balance of freedoms
nothing too close
nothing too far off
neither the stars too far off
The poet who is a workman
who concentrates the light
who turns a pivot with his finger
allows no time to stray
is obedient to his conscience
who understands how
the processes of life grow men
and women and children
who talks of the soul of eternity
as manifest in the rose
and in all creatures
his thoughts hymns
in praise of things
equable and egalitarian
expecting and believing
and trusting in what is good
and upright and firm-fibered
who sees certainties
for what they are
and beauty for what it is
the preserve of the smile
and the noble gesture
a beauty beyond the pant
and sigh of sex
the beauty of fluent truth
expressed
in the beauty
of words that are lashed
to the earth out of which
all things arise
John Lyons
The sun sets, coal-black mountains;
a bird, the fields fall silent.
People enjoy their relaxation but
I watch . . . and from my heart I fly
through dark forests to Ukraine.
I fly on and on, with the poem I make,
and it seems my soul is set free.
Night falls over the land, woods and hills
and stars appear in the still blue sky.
O stars! star after star—and tears
fall. Have you risen in Ukraine yet?
Do brown eyes seek you out
against the sky? Or fail to do so?
If they forgot or fell asleep, at least
they’ll not hear about my sorry life.
Taras Shevchenko
Version by John Lyons
Taras Shevchenko was born into serfdom in 1814. A political dissident, an artist, he is now considered the national poet of Ukraine. He died in St. Petersburg in 1861 and is buried by the Dnipro River in Kaniv, Ukraine.
Can someone
please explain
why the world
is always
so
up
in the
air ?
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 