The long green
       leafy tongues
of this plant
       peering through
the undergrowth
       lapping up the light

Its four-petalled
       flower little bigger
than a pinhead
       proud to exhibit
itself amid the tangle
       of blackberry canes

All life
       out of this soil
this rich clay
       from which your lips
were formed
       minerals that fed
your blood your breath
       and shaped your limbs

Here birth and death
       coexist as one
feeds the other
       in the eternal cycle
of resurrection
       And so I say
: make of your love
       a bed of roses
so as to be sure that
       it will never die

John Lyons

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

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

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