Flat earth, John Lyons (30 x 25 cm, oil on canvas)
A topography
of the flat mineral earth
of fields and pastures
fertile in the imagination
a surface upon which
colours have been laid
and certain symmetries
marked out which please
the mathematical eye
the circle of life
from root to rust
finally squared
John Lyons
I have a mental picture
of the poet Frank O’Hara sitting
in his apartment
on a glorious New York summer’s day
He’s wearing a crisp
white shirt and new sneakers
and is nervously tapping his fingers
on his desk in time
to a phrase from Rachmaninoff
that has been running
through his head
ever since he woke
Through an open window
he can also hear the city creating
its usual dusty cacophony
he also has an eye on the clock
: the friend who is giving him
the ride to the beach is late
and he has so been
looking forward to the trip
Just then the doorbell rings
and at once
he is overcome
by the sudden surge of love
in his heart and struggles
to get to his feet
fearing he might drown
in the emotion
John Lyons
Orange flowers, John Lyons (oil on wood)
Finally the fallen leaves
are turning from copper
to pure gold
This is the currency
that poets eagerly mine
each autumn
It’s a subject that appeals
to their inner Keats
the mellow sadness
of a year on the way out
Self-deprecating
Richardson’s Pamela
called herself
a piece of painted dirt
and so it is
the cycle in and out
of the earth
the human comedy
one door closes
another door opens
and while there is breath
there is hope
and where there is life
there is love
Whose hands are those
painted on the cave walls
men women children
the whole community ?
The caves are time capsules –
behind the art is the perception
that creation goes the distance
and that the thread of life
is eternal and breath alone powers
the thread of love
John Lyons
Sardines, by Michael Goldberg
So I like to keep
tinned sardines
in my cupboard
for a rainy day
and whenever
I think of them
I think of Frank
O’Hara visiting
Mike Goldberg
who is painting
sardines into
his picture
but when it’s
finished Frank
goes back and
says : Where’s
the sardines?
They’re gone
they were too
much says
Mike Goldberg
John Lyons
Somewhere
there is a part
of me and
somewhere
there is a part
of you and I can’t
help thinking
that those two
parts should
come together
somewhere
some time soon
John Lyons
Art class, John Lyons
A crowd
a fullness
and an emptiness
tightly pressed
together and yet
so far apart
each one mysteriously
transparent
open-mouthed
expectant
perhaps each hoping
to trade in
their inner 5th Avenue
their fragility
their soulful aloneness
for some firm
intimate connection
one with another
John Lyons
Reposted to correct layout
Love these cool
October mornings
when we wake to a world
on the edge of frost
but with the expectation
of sunshine and a blue sky
As I walk in the street
my spent breath dissipates
before my eyes
In the background
I hear the chatter
of sparrows
the cooing of pigeons
This is the story of time
and all our evanescent days
that are bound to vanish
no matter how earnestly
we attempt to seize them
The flow is relentless –
the rivers that run down
to the sea or the bells
that toll for us all
on the tower
of the Conciergerie
The pulse of blood
carries me forward
on a tide of oxygen
I may love you
or leave you
You may love me
or leave me
But time is all we have
for the present
Is that why a stroll
through forests
or ancient woodland
is so refreshing
and so relaxing
all that oxygen
the trees and plants
release into the air ?
Is that why standing
on the shoreline
staring out
at the ocean horizon
induces such calm
in the soul ?
John Lyons
A field or a lawn of bright
dancing dandelions
their Latin name Taraxacum
comes from the Persian
but for the Swedes
they are wormroses maskros
how many people know that
and what does it matter ?
As children we counted them
and when they’d gone to seed
we plucked them and puffed
on the puffballs sending the seeds
flying into the warm summer air
O the enchanted delights
of our sweet dandelion days
never forgotten never to return
John Lyons
On Friday mornings
I visit the willows
in the park
They’ve been a presence
in my life for as long
as I can remember
that is to say
I’ve known them longer
than most of the people
that I now know
Love has come and gone
and come and gone again
but the willows remain
A small stream runs
through the park
and often as a child
I would stand
on the narrow bridge
and watch the water flow
over the gentle weir
and sometimes
with a glass jar in hand
I would fish for tadpoles
and proudly carry them home
And sometimes now I think
of all the different bridges
I’ve crossed in my life and
all the rivers I’ve gazed into
sometimes accompanied
sometimes alone
and I remember so much
and regret nothing
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 