Musing on school days

This is the great conundrum
         that we are cinders
ash and dust
         from a paradise of stars

We take comfort from beauty
         but beauty passes
just as rose petals fade :
         age erupts on the skin
the muscles lose their tone
         sight grows dim
and though we struggle
         the slope slips downwards
always and away
         to the wild open sea

An old man in a tattered coat
         carries a sturdy ash cane
totters past the old schoolroom
         where first lessons were learnt
—chalk on slate
         and raffia mats

Young hearts and minds
         now fill the space
their euphoria echoes
         through the air
and in the playgrounds
         their hop and skip proclaims
the innnocent assumption
         that they will live for ever

In my hand I have held
         sharp fragments of flint
and wondered at the lives of those
         who shaped these tools
The hardness of that stone
         and the softness of love
immutable stone in the warm hand
         of enduring love

John Lyons

School days

This is the great mystery
         that we are cinders ash dust
We take comfort from beauty
         but beauty passes :
just as the rose fades
         the skin shows its age
the muscles grow slack
         the eyes gradually lose focus
and no matter how much we struggle
         the slope is always downwards
a river that runs to the sea

An old man in a tattered coat
         carrying an ash cane passes by
the old schoolroom
         where first lessons were learnt
chalk on slate
         and raffia mats
Young hearts and minds
         now fill the space
their lively chatter echoes
         through the air
and in the playgrounds
         their hop and skip
proclaims the innnocent assumption
         that they will live for ever

In my hand I have held
         sharp fragments of flint
and wondered at the lives
         of those who shaped them
The hardness of that stone
         and the softness of love
immutable stone in the warm hand
         of enduring love

John Lyons

Midnight prowl

Under a bright moon the streets
         are bathed in mystery
A fox ambles down the road
         heading for the railway
but there are no trains at this hour
         The fox sees me and begins to run
it darts across the bridge
         to the other side of the tracks
and by the time I get there
         it has vanished into the crisp air

The stars follow me home
         they have been there all my life
and they mean so much to me
         but they have not been decisive
I make the decisions round here
         just as I make the mistakes
and I get some things right

I think of her and the smile
         she brought into my life
barely two months ago
          She has turned my world
upside down and filled it
         with love : nothing will ever
be the same again
         nothing need ever
be the same again

John Lyons

While you sleep

My words are drawn to you
         helplessly hopelessly
drawn to you :
         my words form clusters
around you as you lie there
         sleeping perhaps dreaming

My words want to be
         with your fine hair spread
upon the pillow
         my words want to cling
to your soft pouting lips
         close to the sibilance
of your breath

My words want to rise and fall
         along with your breasts
to stretch the length
         of your legs
to curl around you
         hug you to their heart
and rest alongside you
         until you wake

John Lyons

Nothing fades

Nothing fades like flowers
nothing lives like love

so the luscious white lilies
have withered and dried

after a week in which they lived
their full-funnelled glory

The sag and droop of age
the tissues wrinkled

the leaves that have begun
to detach and litter

the base of the vase :
the purest of beauties

has had its day of universal
admiration and with a sigh

must now be discarded
its remains bundled

sadly out of sight
but love will survive

this minor tragedy
love will survive

there is no comparison
none at all

John Lyons

Revisiting Friday night

Friday night colour
         of companionship and love
congregations at bars and restaurants
         down by the riverside
buzz of their conversation
         flowing out into the cool air
fervent relaxation
         an end to the arduous week

City lights shimmer
         on the river surface
the Tower at Tower Bridge
         beautifully beheld
If not made for love
         what is life’s purpose ?
To stroll hand in hand
         to pause to kiss
to love your life away

To be a destination
         arms into which you hurry
at the end of the day
         A definition—names
destined to be coupled
         lives led in common
a rhythm shared
         fed with words that
flow back and forth
         a deep well of emotion
a heartfelt longing
         for the simplicity
for love never to end
         to be the making of them
for all time

John Lyons

Friday night

Friday night is the colour
         of companionship and love
office workers congregate
         at bars and restaurants
down by the riverside
         the buzz of their conversation
flows out into the cool air
         the tone is of fervent relaxation
and an end to the week’s work

The city lights shimmer
         on the river surface
the Tower and Tower Bridge
         a beautifully lit sight to behold
If Fridays were not made for love
         what is their purpose but
for lovers to stroll hand in hand
         to pause and kiss at certain points
along the way

But where are they heading
         if they are already there ?
Together is their destination
         and in time it will become
their definition—names
         and destinies coupled
their lives will enter
         into a common rhythm
and even their differences
         their most earnest
idiosyncrasies
         will be shared

And so the words flow
         along with the emotions
and in their hearts
         a longing for the simplicities
never to end
         for their love to be
the making of them
         for all time

John Lyons

Much ado about this and that

I have seen them perch
         on the very top of the tree
before launching themselves
         into a long slow flight of descent
wings spread wide but barely moving
         just enough to sustain their weight
and then turn in an arc and effortlessly
         find their way back to the treetop
where they pause before leaping
         once again into the accommodating air

The repetition of exhilaration
         all the fun of the fair
the helter-skelter of emotions
         the shudder of ecstasy
that wells up from the very core
         that erases all thought
that releases all anxiety
         the intensity of the moment
lost in the moment
         the senses all on the alert
to touch to taste to soft sounds
         to the light in her eyes
as the pleasures discharge
         and the muscles writhe
and her flesh can barely
         be contained within the confines
of my greedy embrace

John Lyons

Grace

The grace that comes
         from knowing
that you love
         and that you are loved
the musical phrase that recurs
         through your day
first and last voice
         a sing-song of celebration
first and last kiss of the day

This year will be our inauguration
         see how the buds on the trees
are poised to burst into life
         leaves that in due course
will fall and scatter in the wind
         the way of all blossom
but not of love : love outlasts
         love outlives—love craves time

And so it is an unearthing
         a bringing forth into the light
it is talk and accent and intonation
         it is the energy that moves you
and that in so doing moves me too
         Our names have become a phrase
just as our hands are joined
         or as we lie breast to breast
eye to eye or as we stroll
         down by the river
locked in conversation

So much is lost
         in the city bustle
a cormorant passes
         beneath Waterloo Bridge
leisurely flapping its wings
         in its unhurried purpose :
time will sweep away
         the horrors of dust
Give love its due
         honour it with all your heart
be guided by the stars
         and cultivate no regret

John Lyons