Making do

Making do

What the sun has made
           and what we have made
from words alone
           a version of the world
cast in syllables
           shaped into poetry
and with breath
           the sound waves
the gentle rhymes
           that soothe the heart

What we have made
           from love alone
words with which
           to fill the silence
to record the song
           of nightingales or
the croak of crows
           to pick lilies and
contemplate the rose
           world of sunrise
and sunset and words
           without end

John Lyons

Advertisements

It’s not ideal

It’s not ideal

In that sense
the good bishop
was right
attention is all

a world depends
upon it

look about you
look within you

the fine detail
of your breath

the shimmering
synapses
that fire you up

beauty has a depth
that demands
concentration

life is too rich

to let slip

feel it down
to the very core

John Lyons

Riding the Big Dipper

reflection-of-the-big-dipper
Reflection of the Big Dipper, Jackson Pollock (1947)

Riding the Big Dipper

Follow the trail of paint
           the boundless
shapeless energy
           the thin line
that speeds Pollock on
           to reveal his inner likeness

a see-through heart
           a tangled coil of veins
with the ceaseless
           coming and going
of the courageous mind
           addicted to freedom

He of the multitude
           perpetually present
in the scene of selves
           and just imagine
the sensual pulse
           that flicks the wrist
all colours fused
           in passionate exhalation

compositions that disturb
           the veils of dishonesty
burying them beneath
           a bed of his truth
for this truly is
           beauty
in the eye
           of the beholder

John Lyons


This poem appeared earlier today in a slightly different version.


 

 

Berlin memorial

Holocaust_memorial
Berlin memorial

The nameless shadows
           untimely laid to rest
in avenues of cold hard stone
           cemented into the merciless
grey of winter skies

collective or individual lives
           arranged in rigid alleys
that rise and fall underfoot
           but not a single angle less
than ninety degrees
           no soft circles or tender arcs
or any hint of creative
           deviation from that norm
that awaits us all one day

Here no birds perch
           and no song is heard
as the memories filter
           through and into the dust
these were our cities
           these were our streets
this is the place
           where we finally rest

John Lyons