These frail flowers
a figment
of the imagination
nothing real
or accurate
or even precise
or well-executed
mere pigment
on a wooden base
but not a single rose
or peony or petunia
or daffodil
will outlive this
notional posy
John Lyons
What she whispers
into my ear
what I whisper
into hers
love intensified
by word of mouth
JohnLyons
The mere suggestion
will suffice
when it comes
to art
the form
inseparable
from the content
shapes we carry
in the memory
things associated
with multiple purposes
the detailing
of the expression
of feelings
a simple bouquet
for my love
John Lyons
Corrected text
The stars are out tonight
not quite infinite in number
but nevertheless innumerable
diamonds are tiny nuggets of star
stars and diamonds are celebration
that in the darkness there is light
as there is light in her eyes
and in her smile a celebration
In these winter days
we have each other for warmth
all warmth from the stars
all love that warms the cockles
the creative universe a web of wombs
out of which each human heart
John Lyons
What Wallace took
from Emerson
that the beautiful rests
on the foundations
of the necessary
the poet’s fidelity
to his office
to the announcement
and affirmation
of the beauty of things
All form is an effect
of character
all condition
of the quality of life
The soul is the form
that makes the body
: the beauty of a rose
is not arbitrary
it is the embodiment
of a truth and only as such
does it enter our spiritual world
and love is the higher beauty
to which our human souls
necessarily aspire
John Lyons
The age of steam
had not ended
when I was born
I remember
thick plumes of smoke
that trailed
behind the locomotives
and the acrid air
that hung
in the soot-stained platforms
I remember
the piercing whistles
that trumpeted warnings
as the engines roared
through the station
at full throttle
and the rhythmic chug
and pant
and the grinding
of wheels of steel on steel
I was a child then
and I remember
all my innocence
and my love of life
John Lyons
When the poem
doesn’t come together
I put down the words
and pick up the paints
and when the colours disobey me
and run riot all over the canvas
I never know what to do
Someone once told me
Just let them be
the colours and the words
they will find their own way
if you just let them be
At the moment my fingers
are reeking of turpentine
and I don’t know
whether to paint
or to write
or do neither
I had a thought
that the default setting
of our souls
is love
and that we are to live
as roses do
rooted in the soil
aspiring to beauty
John Lyons
