When I first
held you
in my arms
we were
lovers
Now we are
words
that never meet
we are distance
and silence
and no regret
John Lyons
poetry
How her garden grew
A poem about the space
that we create
in our lives
distances and proximities
boundaries we set
permissions we grant or deny
allowing someone into our lives
or keeping them at arm’s distance
inner and outer space
the preservation of territories
of the heart and mind
as much as bodily
a bed of roses with thorns
beneath the blooms
but nothing ventured –
traceries and markings
the vertical soul
tattooed with experience
what came with her kiss
what necessary words
and how did they live
and how did they die ?
The oblique blue sky sustained
between the branches
of oak and elder
and at night in the blackness
a crown of constellations
a whisper of winds
shuffles the leaves
I remember her breath
brushing against my cheek
I remember how we put
time to the sword
and how her garden grew
John Lyons
The kiss
Lovers, John Lyons (50 x 50 cm, oil on canvas)
An aerial view
of the lie
of the land
lovers locking
into a kiss
a port of call
a docking
one delicately
poised above
another
a passage
through time
a navigation
of narrow straits
John Lyons
Why sparrows sing
That they love the sound
of their own voices
why sparrows sing
that they dance
during courtship
for no other reason
than to enthral a mate
and why poets have words
to sing of the life of being
of crocuses that emerge
out of the winter soil
and how the earth wraps itself
in bridal blossom
with desire running
through all things
and memory
as Marcel said
is resurrection
the past that trails
behind us but never dies
Smoke dissipates
in the pale sky
and nature’s appetite
knows no surfeit
enough is never enough
Through green growth
we rise up towards the sun
our bodies burning
our breath panting
our arms outstretched
our souls aching for love
John Lyons
The deep roots of love
Strip away the intricacies
of appearance
strip away the complexities
of the world
and live in the simplicity
of the moment
Though we are born
into the nucleus of time
we outgrow it as we move
deeper into love
and learn to revel
in all its enchantments
In love we no longer live
in the silence of self
and every kiss given
and every kiss received
reverberates
down the generations
as a natural truth
There is nothing to own here
but everything to be —
triumphant in the abandonment
of all that is false and pointless :
just as we respect the oak
and the sycamore let us admire
the deep roots of enduring love
John Lyons
Forever in my life
Rainfall, John Lyons (70 x 50 cm, oil on canvas)
The rain perhaps
the rain as it used to rain
in my childhood
slow steady rain
an ablution of the earth
the damp air heavy
with the scent of soil
The rain perhaps
tiny droplets of memory
falling through the universe
and my mind wanders
to far forgotten places
and the faces
that I knew there
The rain perhaps
when we first built a shelter
and called it love
and we huddled there
together tightly and listened
to the rain and wind
and were content
The rain perhaps
that is neither a beginning
nor an end in itself
as though I had
always known you
always wanted you
forever in my life
John Lyons
Fit for poetry
Flowers, John Lyons (oil on wood)
Dagwood dogwood
whipple-tree
these are but names
conferred over time
We know it by its fruit
by its berries
by its blossom
by its simple
untoothed leaves
The larvae of butterflies
and the engrailed
and emperor moths
feed on it
quail devour its red seeds
a tea made from its bark
can treat pain and fevers
From dogwood
to dogberries
to skull tree
these are but words
fit for poetry
John Lyons
The mirror’s daily challenge
The face the skin the eyes
the receding hairline
it’s not what it used to be
: the mirror’s daily challenge
Olson called it a civil war
the unique appearance
that fades into sameness
distinctive features lost
over the years so that familiar
perhaps cherished blemishes
are now disguised under
the general depredation
of time and exposure
to relentless sunshine
so that you’re no longer
who you thought you were
a stranger gazes back at you
from the flawless silver
and you wonder who
let this guy into your life
John Lyons
it’s meaningless
General Sherman, NYC
So the weather takes a dip
the wind retrieves its bite
tears at the fresh spring leaves
gusts under the eaves
drives the rain hard
against the skylight
displacing the Saharan dust
that blew up days ago
Last night I counted the doors
featured in an Antonioni movie
Sometimes it’s meaningless
to watch films or to eat
or to drink coffee
out of a paper cup
This morning
I’m reading Frank’s poems
wondering about how many
daydreams I will see today
whether any of them
will notice my lavender lips
will talk to me
will listen to me
Tonight promises to be
a clear sky with stars :
nobody owns them
as far as I know
though I am tempted
to add the word yet
John Lyons
Surely among an old man’s memories
Surely among an old man’s memories
there should be recollections
of the long nights of love he spent
in his younger days when the world
was new and the stars had lost
none of their brilliance
and the streams teamed with trout
and the roses seemed never to die
when he would wake to sweetness
to gentleness to light – content
at every turn of his dreams
the solid architecture of his life
built upon the unerring
beauty of her heart
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 