Time threads its way

jewel
Precious stone, John Lyons (oil on wood)

Time threads its way

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

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Global meltdown

melting world
Global meltdown, John Lyons (oil on wood)

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

A poem for the day

underpainting
Abstract geometries, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

A poem for the day

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

Wings for a day

Wings for a day

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

Who makes much of miracles?

Who makes much of miracles?

I know of nothing else but miracles,
           whether I walk Manhattan’s streets
or raise my eyes over the roofs of houses
           toward the sky
or wade barefoot along the beach
           just in the water’s edge
or stand under trees in the woods
           or talk by day with anyone I love
or sleep in bed at night
           with the woman I love
or sit at a table
           to share a meal

or look at strangers
           riding the same train
or watch the busy buzz
           of honey-bees around the hive
or cattle calmly feeding in the fields
           or the flight of birds
chasing insects in the air
           or the wonder of sundown
of stars shining through
           or the curve of a new moon
in the bright black night
           all miracles to me
that life with all its gifts
           breath brings to me

John Lyons


Adapted from ‘Miracles’, by Walt Whitman

 

Highgate Wood

 

Highgate Wood

Highgate Wood

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

Canary Wharf

Canary Wharf

The early morning
           chatter of birds
never idle
           never pointless

a roll call
           present
and fighting fit
           here I am

let the day begin
           bring it on
time may ruffle
           our feathers

but it will never
           defeat us
and by God it’s great
           to be alive

John Lyons