There really is no time like the present
poetry    breath    rhythm    the expression
of feeling       of thought      what it is to be
alive and in the moment     Kingfishers
woodpeckers   barn owls   wrens and dragon flies
observed from the hide
                              at the water’s edge
the dense humid smell of vegetation
the rustle of leaves and the play of light
on the river surface     close to where as
children we came with our nets and our jars
to fish for tadpoles
                So much life has passed
over that weir  :   “Way of the world,” pilgrim
Patsy says   “You can never step into
the same brook twice.”
                       Patsy’s pearls of wisdom.

John Lyons

Time flies    stutters    glides   nose-dives    drags its heels
Bottle    half empty     or bottle    half full?
Say how much you love me      Do you or not?
Streams of consciousness into which we can
never step        like never the same river
twice
       Don’t take it personally    but it’s
personal   :   do you see what I see    No
you don’t        because you can’t     Each of us
lost in our own space       mini galaxies
adrift in the cosmos   :   do you read me
over and out       calling planet x y
are you receiving me     I am in love
with you    over   :  and when transmission fails
sadness floods
                      the long dark night of the soul

John Lyons

Everything turns into writing    Crows
calling to each other across parched fields
a hawk hovers high above the wheat stubble
no rabbits     no hares     a vast emptiness
year after year    crop after crop     the rise
and fall of carbon     wheat     bread    energy
life and death
             names that come and go and are
soon forgotten     :   this is an erasure
universe in which the only constant
is change   
           In the house that Jack built time turns
everything upside down     Poets fight
to stem the tide     build a bulwark of words
remembering love
                        as the saving grace

John Lyons

“‘And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,’”
“Just imagine him counting out those words.”
“‘Your monument shall be my gentle verse,’”
“The finest cheese      made from the finest curds.”
Now Patsy has much talent to amuse
In knowledge as in hue she is most fair.
“A challenge I shall set       you can’t refuse
Write me a rhyming sonnet I thee dare.”
My fingers drumming on the table top
I hum and ha while setting to the task.
The neighbours’ dog is barking  :  IT MUST STOP!
Give it a bone
                  is that too much to ask?
The poet struggling helpless and forlorn
Puts down his pen
                         picks up the crumpled horn. 

John Lyons

“No rhyme or reason to this country,” she
says —that’s Patsy, the house philosopher—
“Every day we wake to the news that
the poor are getting poorer and the rich
richer.” “The law of nature,” I smile back
to her.
       Outside the fierce summer sun is
crisping up the dust on the streets    I feel
it in my throat     “Come back to bed, Patsy,
the day is young.”
              She shakes her pretty head.
“No no.  Miles to go,    things to do    never
enough time on the infernal clock.”   I
hear pigeons on the roof cooing   making
love      mating     call it what you will
having a good time
                      before the sun sets

John Lyons

The delicate silent life of flowers
the red rose in bud     its petals slowly
unfolding     damp now with the morning dew
Discrete beauty built from matter forged in
the furnace of stars    along with us all
Grace to be born
                     with a heart and mind
to know and be known and feel love’s power
to have the words and the breath to map out
the glory that it is to be alive
Last night the foxes     magpies this morning
but the noise is harmless   :   no anger in
their world 
           We the angry ones have so much
to learn from the peace and serenity
of the natural world that surrounds us.

John Lyons