What’s known in the memory

What’s known in the memory

Of all that passing life
           what remains
is what’s known
           in the memory : a river
in County Waterford
           flows through my mind
the heathered bank where I stood
           with my cousin Paul
under the summer sun
           so we cast our hooks
and watched as they drifted
           downstream

that youthful day the trout
           were too shy
or too cunning
           and they avoided our bait
and so we returned home
           empty-handed

but Paul
           who has passed
along with that day
           lives in the memory
and I am always
           who I was
going to be
           just now

For the angels among us

For the angels among us

Angels more common
           than one would think
they move among us
           silently and their silence
is their message :
           the aura of innocence
lambs that gambol
           and skip and small
children who love
           blue skies and open fields
in which to romp
           laughter on their lips

To attempt to describe them
           would be foolish
for they are better known
           by their actions
pure and unselfish
           Wherever there is love
the angels are present
           they are the filters
through which our words
           pass when we wish
to praise the beauty of life
           in all its truth

John Lyons

In praise of petunias

petunia

In praise of petunias

The violet white
           and pink flowers
of the petunia
           a hardy plant from
the tobacco
           species

the roots of its name

           derive
from the tupi-guarani
           language of Brazil
in which pety signifies
           tobacco

it reached Europe

           in the mid-16th century
whence petun
           an old French word
for tobacco

its unassuming beauty
           rises up
through the light
           into the air

its powerful scent
was believed
to ward off
evil spirits

John Lyons

What is it to love ?

What is it to love ?

The poet asks
           what is it to love
what is it that moves
           two people
to take one another
           as their own
to have and to hold
           to exclude all others ?

that love
           clear and bright
seen in the intersection
           of their eyes
and in the shared pattern
           of their movements
in the harmonies
           of their breath
in all their geometries
           and in the rhythms
and the intricate narrative
           of their dance

What beauty arises
           from their unmuted concentricity
from the steadfast enactment
           of their most intimate dreams
As circles of darkness
           are kept at bay
by circles of light
           so their souls shine
in the singularity
           of their conjoined flesh
: time is the dust
           that love outlives

John Lyons

When she wakes

When she wakes

Her tousled hair
           when she wakes
the fine threads
           that bear her age
the intersection
           of her beauty
with the world
           the accumulated
events of her breath
           and all that it takes
to make a life
           a probe advanced
into history in the making
           knowingly becoming
who she wishes to be
           the flesh of her
with its starwarmth
           like all things
fabricated from
           universe

So I ask myself
           what is there
not to hold dear
           and to love ?

John Lyons


Revised

Bones that yearn

archaeology
Bones, John Lyons (coffee grounds and oil on canvas)

Bones that yearn

Bones that yearn
for other bones
out of the earth
into the earth

coffee grounds
and yellow cadmium
eyes turning
one toward the other

only love heals
the scars left
by love

winsome
her hazel eyes
her lips
a celebration

love woven
on the loom
of her life

bones
and the echo
of other bones
long gone

Venus sidles up
to the moon
and for a brief
moment

it illuminates
their love
their bodies turning
in unison

time will one day
sweep them away
for ever conjoined
their dust

their bones
laid to rest
for a single
eternity

John Lyons