Mornfull moon

Mornfull moon
a filigree of frost

upon the pane
streaked with tears

of melting ice
cold comfort

from a cold heart
Birds sing to me

for want of a better
the air clear and dry

silvered by the sunlight
So much promise in a day

life converging on life
all at such a pace

their song
is one of innocence

one of jubilation
The simple truths

we are schooled in
everywhere apparent

yellow and purple
and white crocuses

refuse to be beaten
to accept defeat

We live in a world
of wonderment

everything on course
to be as it should be

but for the loss
of love’s labour

John Lyons

A confused love story

Did she hear
              and if she heard
did she understand
              and if she understood
did she care

Did she want
              or did she need
or did she know
              what she wanted
or know
              what she needed

did she feel
              what he felt
and if she did
              did she care

did she know
              what he needed
know what he wanted
              and did she care
at all

and if she knew
              what she wanted
and knew
              what he needed
and felt what
              he wanted
did she care
              if he cared
about her

Saturday Sunday
              above and below ground
a train by the market
              a museum platform 
eating for two
              come rain or come shine
be happy go lucky
              with a hug and kiss
all is forgiven

And so home to sleep
               perchance to

John Lyons

A kiss out of kindness

a kiss out of kindness
              red lips and a red coat
and a blue sky
              and green leaves
and a long walk
              at a healthy pace
and a breathless arrival
              sweetness and light
the fingers are short
              the nails trim
and with the markings
              that belie her age
the eyes are sandy brown
              and they dart
from side to side
              restless and enquiring

and a kiss out of kindness
              and the river flows
and the swans ride it
              and the ducks
come and go as if
              owning the place
and the wind lifts her hair
              and she talks a good talk
says that roses are elegant
              but violets are true
that she will light a candle
              so that our love will prosper
and the ivy clings
              to the old college walls
and he holds her hand tightly
              pressing the warm flesh
and she smiles at the shadows
              and lowers her voice
makes the train feel at home
              and says love be not shy
love be ever so bold
              and the streets hear her coming
her heels on the stones
              there are two on the table
and dust on the floor
              they could make love forever
and always want more

John Lyons

When I think of you

When I think of you
I think of the rose

without the thorns
the long green stem

the petals so red
and soft to touch

the aroma that wafts
through the air

that fills the room
and stirs my heart

When I think of you
I think of the rose

a thing of beauty
to be held and

to be admired
a moment in time

and all too brief
of how the petals

will fall and the dust
will gather and the light

will fade and how our
love will pass

and only the memory
will remain

until that too
fades

John Lyons

Denial

At dawn stars tumble
              from the black sky
leaving us with a single
              champion to cast light
into the whispering abyss

The wind and birdsong
              send conflicting messages
as consciousness struggles
              with the challenges of the day

A heavy bombardment
              of thoughts and feelings
assails the mind and competes
              for the old territory
the battle-torn stamping ground
              of empty conquest

 Here the fears and the hopes
              the unseemly obsessions
refuse to form a line and so
              overrun the inadequate
undisciplined mind
              that simply knows no better

In our absence the spider
              has constructed its web
it is a thing of beauty
              a causeway that farms the air
tougher and yet more gentle
              than any iron or steel
an emblem of self-sufficiency

We in turn
              set about reconstructing
our terrible systems of belief
              the day reassembled
piecemeal
              until once again
it resembles pretty much
              the one that went before
like all our days
              the vast custom concatenation
of segments that alienate us
              from who or what
we are supposed to be

Night knits the rose
              the day unravels it
its brief beauty
              perishing in the midst
of our unflagging denials

John Lyons

It’s a wonderful life

Yes it is a process
              in which nothing is ever perfect
although the goal is perfection
              in which knowledge
is never complete
              although that is the ambition
in which love is all that counts
              although all too often
that is forgotten

We are vessels of desire in thrall
               to the sensible spirit of pleasure
: a pretty face and a sweet smile
              the golden gleam of hazel eyes
the subterranean pull of passion

This way love’s intelligence lies
              this way we move hopewards
into the arms of the earth attuned
               to the delicate topographies
of our inner sensibilities
              At night we bed down
in linens soft and cool
              to the touch
and revel in the nakedness
              of our tenderest dreams

Expect the unexpected
              always
the turn of a corner
              a quick-step
a turn of phrase
              a footfall and syllables
that can change a life

Banish faint consolations
              and never settle for second-best
the flowers of friendship never fade
              much less love—
it is a wonderful life
              live it to the full

John Lyons

Just a thought

A bulging half-moon
in a wintry blue sky
above the red-bricked houses
just gone midday

a stillness broken
only by the intersecting
flights of birds
and a silence broken
only by their small-talk
their melodious chitchat

occasionally a cooing
pigeon announces
its location rather brashly
blurting out
its amorous intentions
above the familiar
sonic texture :
no breeding

a light breeze
gently rustles the dense
green branches
of the only conifer
I can see
from my window :
somebody has to
fly the flag

the other trees
stand open-armed
naked and motionless
not a care in the world :
is this not
perfect peace ?

It would be
I muse
if you were here
with me
but you’re not
so it’s not—
not quite

John Lyons