Those winter days

The coldness and in the cold
           the silence beneath grey skies
the coal fire burning in the hearth
           at night out into the back garden
with the scuttle to fetch coal
           white snow lying thick on the fuel

the biting winds and the chilblains
           everything done at speed to keep warm
but never a complaint always anxious
           to enjoy the day no matter the weather
arms outstretched warming myself
           by the open fire fascinated by the flames
wondering what the future held for me
           and now I know more or less

John Lyons

A way of life

A poet is never idle
           he lives among people
and among things
           and his mind never ceases
to admire nor to enquire
           he cleans he tidies
he prepares food
           he eats and drinks

and even though he rests
           his mind is never still
he is determined
           to give beauty its due
and to praise whatever
           truth he perceives
and he knows that peace
           and love are intimately
bonded in the wisdom
           of the human heart

John Lyons

Vocation

It’s a long story
           this fondness for words
for thoughts and feelings
           and I imagine a coastline
the contours of which
           I have been travelling
all my life hoping
           to unravel some secrets

but the eye always anxious
           for new perceptions
the ear always longing
           for new music
and the heart always
           looking for love

John Lyons

Words

what would we do
without them

words for everything
written and spoken

fanning out across
the face of the earth

a parallel universe
of words expanding

exponentially
there seems to be

no end to them
A whole culture

built upon them
a whole faith too

tell us o wise one
of the beauty and truth

of words

John Lyons

If you go down. . .

I walk in the same woods
           where I was born many years ago
ancient woodland
           down by the railway track
here where the smell of decay
           is matched by the odour
of fresh vegetation
           my story unfolding
amid the ferns and fungi
           in the understory
where the light struggles
           to break through

What is this thing called life ?
           Time and energy made me
as it makes all things
           just as a king is a thing
and I have travelled so far
           to be back where I started

John Lyons

You think ?

Rose without thorns
           there is no delight
in the absence
           of challenge

John Lyons

Tracings

Tracing of lines
           the poet
the painter
           the lover
fingers poring
           over a map
over a canvas
           or a body
hovering over
           a piece of paper
or keyboard
           the mind that sees
in sequence
           the voice
sings
           as it composes
love within
           the narrative
the trail we leave
           behind us

John Lyons

Philosophical

At midday I notice a fox
           sitting Buddha-like
on the shed roof
           motionless

from its vantage point
           it appears to be lost
in thought
           as it stares out into space

with its fine thick well-fed fur
           it looks a picture of health
and seems not to have
           a care in the world

a white cat with
           black patches
enters its field of vision
           but the fox does not stir
a philosophical fox
           that lives and lets live

John Lyons