Love laid

Love laid

I can see her
in silks
her eyes
molten light
her pursed lips
restless as we rode
the underground

I can hear her voice
brief words
her hands
creating patterns
in the air
purr of her breath
slow release
of her sighs

I recall
the turn of her feet
as we strode across
Tower Bridge
the rich scent
of the wild flowers
in Potters Fields
sunlight drifting
on the river surface
and the nights
the endless nights
of love laid
upon love

John Lyons

Time pours salt


Time pours salt

Not even stone
can hold the memory

of Matilda Goode
forever :
moths devoured
her silks
now her dust

lies under earth
in the boneyard
of Christ Church

debris of dry 
leaves and twigs
litter the ground
rock turns to sand
: all things pass
time pours salt
on love’s
open wounds

John Lyons

C’est la vie


Monotone, John Lyons, (30 x 20 cm, oil on canvas)

C’est la vie

Night floats
into day
day floats
into night

all that

all rivers
run down
to the sea

all bodies
or later

love comes
and goes
but not

it never comes
it never goes

c’est la vie
that’s life

John Lyons

Time for breakfast

Time for breakfast

Age is knowing
          what’s going to happen
a sense of it at least
          I’m susceptible
to the ticking clock
          to the sound of my breath
to the stillness around me
          Overnight the final buds
on my pink orchids
          have opened

My mind teems
          with memories
I know what brings me
          happiness and I know
what saddens me
          I’ve known love

I drink kefir
          and eat slices
of fresh peach
          a few golden girolles
sautéed on toast
          Through the window
I watch as the early birds
          feed on the wing
summer has almost gone
          I am still here
living the simple life
          in abundance

John Lyons

The door is always open


            The door is always open, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

The door is always open

Out of the darkness
into the light
fire of passion
of blue sky
of pure white life

dark walls inclined
in daylight
green pastures await
art is departure
into something nobler
something brighter

black vectors

urge us to leave
to accept each exit
as entrance
to an outside world
in which the unfettered spirit
of the inner world

may flourish

doors pose challenges

have locks and keys
and mysteries lurk
on either side
of the frame : this is
the binary door
she loves me
she loves me not
take it
or leave it

John Lyons

Edited from previous text

Nothing saddens me now

Nothing saddens me now

Nothing saddens me
I have no tears
I feel no pain
I pine for no one
nor for any thing

you have exhausted
every avenue of sorrow
within me leaving me 
no alternative but
to live life to the full

in joy and creativity
painting as best I can
writing as best I can
loving those around me
as best I can

John Lyons

We are rare earths

rare earths
Rare earths, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

We are rare earths

Rare earths
           we bind in alloys
our bodies stretched
           across the periodic table
our flesh and blood
           our memories both
enriched and depleted
           in the process of time

We may pretend to love
           but our true destiny
is atomic and we are
down to the tiniest
           particle and thus when
all our closed circuits
           are finally broken down
and destroyed
           we are merely returned
to live among our faithful
           cosmic kith and kin

John Lyons

Country couplets

Country, John Lyons (50 x 40 cm, oil on canvas board)

Country couplets

All things of the earth
: sheep grazing

and hawks hovering
above dry dusty fields

scouring the stubble
of wheat and barley

with an eye for the kill
Summer days again gone

and so on and on the cycle
of death and resurrection

all that we live for sustained
by the fat of the land

work of human hand
cue September mists

and lovers’ lethargy
loth to rise from their beds

John Lyons

Maidan, Kyiv

Maidan, Kyiv

The snow in Budapest
           the snow in Berlin
the snow in Vienna
           colder than the snow that fell
in Independence Square
           on the streets lined with
photos of the young men
           and women shot by snipers
perched on the roofs
           of government buildings
their warm red innocent blood staining
           the immaculate white snow

John Lyons