How it goes

A poet works
            with eyes and ears
listening and watching for
            whatever is worthy of note
and for the silence
            that sustains it all

A poet sees and tells
            such as it is
the lie of the land
            the clocks that tick
the hand that leans
            out of the boat
to trail fingers
            in the smooth sea

A poet wipes the salt
            from his lips
before he kisses
            the love of his life
He preserves
            her beauty in lines
that will reach
            beyond
the outer edges
            of time

But a poet must not
            be betrayed :
to do so is to break
            the universe in two

John Lyons

Self-portrait

And so my life evolves
            in momentary flames
of passion and of loss
            of belief and disbelief
the warm colours of love
            the frosty colours
of abandonment
            my image strung up
on the walls
            of a civilised cave

These are the true forms
            these the accurate renderings
of a somewhat chaotic existence
            captured the texture of my life
It is my breath that has filled
            this unfinished canvas
and I fully intend to paint
            myself out of every corner
that I have through my choices
            and my good
and bad decisions
            created

What does it represent
            what does it all mean
you might ask
            and I answer
everything
            every tiny detail
It is for the observer to unravel
            the intimate timeline
to arrive
            at the heart of the matter
the broken heart
            and to piece it all together

John Lyons

Embers

I imagine flakes of time
            falling gently
through the universe
            the ash of moments
invisible to the naked eye
            but that the heart 
apprehends in the darkness
            that moves into the light
in the light that moves
            into the darkness

Three years of flowers
            that first flourished
then faded and then died
            The images abandoned
in the mirror along with
            the laughter and the love
What it meant
            to be together
what it means
            to be apart

John Lyons

Revised from an earlier post

A portrait in oils

Once in a while
           you may come
to resemble
           the portrait I painted
of your youthful face
           using principally
burnt umber
           upon titanium white
with a hint of cerulean blue
           for the eyes
and a trace of red
           for the lips set against
a deep cadmium
           yellow background

Of course it’s not you
           but merely a series of strokes
hints of what you might be
           or might were once
mineral and translucent
           or opaque and of the earth
and of the sky
           the body and soul of you
of what you are here to express
           in your thoughts
and words
           and in the flesh

It means nothing
           as it lies on canvas
and awaits
           an appreciative eye
a smouldering mirror
           alive with intent
devised with all the warmth
           of my hand and deficient
only insofar as it betrays
           the limitations of my gift

John Lyons

A world made sense

It is human to know birdsong
to know the sound of the sea
the waves pounding
and the dry suck of the shingle
as the waters recede

It is human to hear the wind
whisper through the trees
and to interpret the voice
of all natural phenomena

to feel the sun on your face
and take it as a gesture
of brotherly love as a caress
from the source of all life

It is human to know feelings
and to put them into words
and to arrange them into a world
made sense by our senses

John Lyons