Voices
           
The voice within the voice
           that nags and complains
the voice of thwarted ambition
           and of dashed dreams
the disconcerted voice
           tired of birdsong
weary of the dawn chorus
           irritated
by the laughter of children
           the controlled voice
within the controlling voice
           the voice that hijacks conversations
that throws words against a brick wall
           the voice that knees in the groin
the loveless voice of excessive
           self-regard that teeters on the brink
of dispassionate pantomime

And as a counterpoint
           a voice of belched words
loosed to the eddies of the air
           a voice devoid of guile
or pretence or subtexts
           a voice that clings perilously
to the sharp edge of the truth
           a voice suited to wide savannahs
to gently flowing rivers
           a voice attuned to the subtlety
of roses and to the dignity
           of tables laid for supper guests
a common or garden voice
           that hums to the chatter of bees
that gathers honey
           from the least likely pots
that at times gives in
           but never gives up
a voice that revels
           in all life’s energies
a voice that sings
           of wheat ripening in the fields
of apples that swell on the branch
           of the intimacy of distant stars
and of suburban highways that guide us
           ineluctably along love’s lanes

John Lyons

Axles of devotion

And so we turn
        around axles of devotion
circling the lips and the roses
        that render us oblivious
to the dark lanes of death
        There was a time
when bee and butterfly flew
        from bloom to bloom
pollinating the fruit of our lives
        a time when star kissed star
and wave fell upon wave
        in the ever-shifting sea
our bodies barricades
        to the deathward parade
of twisted time
        My hand upon her breast
and in my words
        the perennials of love
that built a tower
        of whispered light

And so we lived within
        the permissions granted
holding life’s empty burlesques
        at arm’s length
fighting bone by bone
        for a bliss beyond
the dreary sesames of science

A drench of tears could never
        save the moon from meaningless
catastrophe
        its icy shadows all a mockery
of every ticking dream
        Only the flesh remembers
only the flesh holds stone to account
        Only the flesh will bring us through
the troubled foam of all our days

My eyes have hugged beauty
        have clung to its cliff-like façade
and in my arms I have felt
        the pangs of mortal dust
As evening fell the first moth
        circled the bright candle
and I feared for its life

John Lyons

This is our spring

This is our spring
        out of season
blossom on the cherry tree
        when there should be snow
daffodils basking
        in the late December sun
This is our spring
        out of season
the unexpected warmth
        of your body
of your kisses
        of your words
the passion
         and the easy mesh of limbs
the flowering of love
        when least expected
This is our spring
        out of season

John Lyons