In the uncertain light
some certainties
the passage of time
the coming and going
of the seasons
youth followed hopefully
by the wisdom of age
and a little less ignorance
hell receding as the heavens
come a little closer
less fear of fear
and life refreshed
in the commerce
of words and the truth
of poetry and belief
in the purity of love
John Lyons
I noticed that the blackberries
on the canes in the garden
are almost ripe for picking
Blackberry and apple pie
was one of my favourites
when I was a boy
In those days I knew
nothing of poetry
but I was an expert
when it came to judging
blackberry and apple pies
I understand that I am
the world in which I walk
can debate whether
it is nobler or not but would
honestly kill for a decent
blackberry and apple pie
John Lyons
Snowstorm
The beauty of what is
or the beauty
of what’s about to be
fully-fledged
or new-born
the rose that is
about to droop
or the tight bud
bursting with energy ?
a single flake falling
or a field covered in snow
and the roving eye
of the blackbird
the only thing seen
in that entire scene
and the fact
as Wallace tells us
that poetry
is all in the mind
John Lyons
Of course poetry may dwell
on the surface of things
but words are not surfaces
and their significance
runs deeper than we might
in reality imagine
the unblemished rose
is one thing
and the imagined world
quite another
poetry is the magnificent
cause of being
and if at all
we only ever exist
in the reality
of the imagination
and beauty is
what is taken
to the heart
John Lyons
Thousands of men
and women and children
crossing a bridge
all ages all shapes all sizes
all faiths all creeds
every denomination
and of every ability
crossing a single bridge
one end to the other
of a finite bridge
the clump of their feet
on the boards of the bridge
and on the sidelines
thousands urging them on
the air thick with their
cheers and their applause
life from one end
to the other
John Lyons
Isn’t it hard to imagine
a universe with less stars
say a few thousand at most
and less planets and moons
in an outer space more akin
to our own intimate world
a cosmos of homely proportions
one we can get our head around
and yet as I look across the fields
I see birds coming and going
in their hundreds flitting
from tree to tree or cackling ducks
following the path of the winding river
swarms of swallows weaving through
the summer air feeding on a froth
of all but invisible aphids
and in all things there is the plethora
of plenty and only I am alone
John Lyons
It has taken generations
of imagination to arrive
at the world we have today
to develop the sense of things
and a sense of the self :
there was a time of innocence
but we live in an age of complicity
and intricate evasions of the truth
and still the approach to summer
has its separate silence
which may be detected
in the modulated signals
of birdsong
Nature with its own
unfretted agenda : yesterday
daffodils and crocuses
and swathes of cherry blossom
and buds barely able
to contain their leaves
John Lyons
Life is of the mind
but what is real
is not the same
as solidity
Is love more real
than the rose
the feeling
more acute
than the thorn ?
No ideas
but in things
though the idea
is a thing
in and of itself
just as the mind
is a location
a place of thought
and feeling
and where love
takes up
residence
John Lyons
A short walk
down the path
to the front door
where to the left
a climbing rose
has just been planted
and behind it
a new trellis
pinned to the wall
The rose will prosper
its roots will reach
deep into the earth
the mineral truth
of its beauty
will flourish
year on year
and it will be
a thing of joy
The emblematic rose
and the power
of object and images
and the speech of truth
what Wallace called
weekend wisdom
the time devoted
to words and thoughts
and how we carry words
within us
close to our hearts
weekend thoughts and words
and the sad smell of lilacs
displaced
by the rose’s aroma
and how we give
each other our word
and how its truth
lies at the very heart
of language
and how betrayal
of the word
is an arrogant dagger
fatal to desire
John Lyons
Body
air
forms
and images
born between
mountains
by a bay
in the west
looking out
across the sea
at a point where
the river enters
grew up
between gorse
and heather
the taste
of wild honey
on her lips
midnight
held no fears
but the aching
dawn was
by all accounts
unbearable
the sun that
scrutinized
her every
movement
happiness
seen as so many
blades of coarse grass
there where
the withering wind
blew in bringing
chill winter clouds
the night fires
kindled under
hopeless stars
a name
and no more
John Lyons
johnjosephlyons 