Nothing ever ends

Unknown portrait
                   Unknown, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, oil on canvas)

Nothing ever ends
        nothing is ever finished
a portrait

        a poem
nothing is ever complete
        And so a day a week a year
a lifetime : how could love
        ever be exhausted

A cluster of actions
        condensed around
a burning star
        ash of our hours
in which the kiss
        is mightier
than the sword

In Margravine we sat
        and consumed our love
as squirrels played
        among the headstones
and we were driven
        by the wisdom
of our feelings

Bluebells grew
        in the shadow
of the cemetery wall
        and here and there
and daffodils

There is no reason
        for love : it simply is
of necessity and brooks
        no denial    So too poetry
the passion according
        to my heart

John Lyons

Love among the graves


       Tulips, John Lyons (40 x 40 cm, mixed media on canvas)

That Easter she brought flowers
blood-red tulips from Amsterdam

On a bench in Margravine
they sat and ate fresh doughnuts

they watched the squirrels at play
among the tumbledown gravestones

Life tasted sweet and good on the palate
and love was still a promise to be kept

John Lyons

Whoever has a nose

Whoever has a nose

Whoever has a nose
           for the past
let them disinter it
           I have no desire to rake
over fallen leaves
           today is about newness
fresh shoots on every branch
           a universe yearning for renewal
an end to the treacherous cold
           of winter months

seedlings are in the warm ground
           nests are being refurbished
In corners out of sight
           love is being freshly made
populations will swell
           and there will be
bright new flowers
           to celebrate the births

Love does not dwell
           it moves with the times
it accretes
           it musters its energies
it turns timid whispers
           into loud bellows
a proud rampant bull
           scattering the herd

Whoever has a nose for it
           let them loiter in cemeteries
overrun with squirrels and mice
           where piteous acts of passions
have come to sorrowful dust
           I’ll have none of it
not while I retain
           a single living breath

John Lyons


In praise of Wallace

In praise of Wallace

Some say that he’s no poet
           but what do they know
he is succinct and always
           to the point
and shadows run freely
           through his verse
and the heavens are a backdrop
           to the endless mountains
Men and women live
           in his lines and he observes
more than a blackbird
           will ever see

He hears the strumming
           of a poor pale guitar
but he is generous
           in his appraisal
because he knows
           that things are as they are
and so he gives them a voice
           and poetry is the subject
of his poetry
           and his life’s summation
the flesh the bone
           the dirt the stone

In Margravine
           where the squirrels romp
and crows fill the air
           with their raucous song
and the tombs sink deeper
           into the earth while nature
flourishes all around
           and young lovers walks by
without batting an eye
           and not so much as a sigh

John Lyons