Friday, 14 March 2025

Six Poems by Ed Lyons

 






Mountain Storm

 

 

When cows in still and sheltered valleys lie,

      And lightening flickers on the furthest ridge,

      A rushing creek runs calmly past the bridge.

Soon sharp peaks will cut the pregnant sky.

 

Then, in the moonward flying mountains,

      Which live to watch the dying light of day,

      To shine forth ruddy sun and ruddy clay.

Rain will spill as if from bleeding fountains.

 

The silence now is broken: angry wind

      Calls the rumbling thunder to attack.

      The night advances, shades of gray and black,

By electric streaks to be illumined.

 

The reaching hills and hanging sky are one.

Life was born in such a dance of rain. 

 


Dog Days

 

 

The waterfall now strikes the waning days

      Of August. The searing sun in doldrum wallows,

      As torrid land salt water swallows,

With blistered streets and glare-white sky ablaze.

 

Now the soft gardenia eve draws nigh,

      As orchid hues of sunset stain the west

      Beyond the lapping waves, and in the east,

Lightening flies through corners of the eye.

 

The myriad milky stars of summer shine;

      Among the planet, silver Dian capers,

      The air a velvet womb of viewless vapors

Arising from the gently foaming brine.

 

But even as the Dog Star season sleeps,

Along the eastern skyline, autumn creeps. 


,

Winter

 

 

I walk on ice as yet the day breaks blue,          

      And early coughing tears my eyes awake,

      Forcing me my lingering dreams to shake.

The rising sun seems natural, yet untrue.

 

January’s but a weary blur

      Of restless days and heavy soulful sighs.

      The sun hallucinates against my eyes,

Much too brilliant for this time of year.

 

There is a tortured girl for whom I’m yearning.

      Her sad eyes spur my pen upon the page.

      She stirs my turning thoughts into a rage,

And she commands my soul, and sets me burning.

 

Each new dawn is welcomed, and yet dreaded,

And I’m confused, yet sense where I am headed. 

 


Summer

 

 

The swollen, searing, rumbling clouds now grown

      To thunderheads which pour within my soul,

      The searing midnight madness to cajole

The sleeping stillness of the summer town,

 

The sins we toasted in the drunken night,

      The nakedness erupting near the dawn,

      The bottles scattered on the humid lawn,

Make me see there’s little left to fight.

 

I hear her sobbing echo down the hall,

      And like an anxious father I draw nigh,

      But realize there is naught to do but sigh,

And wonder how this broken angel fell.

 

A storm at dawn may drive the sun away,

But yet I know it’s worth it here to stay. 

 


Some Blocks Off

 

 

Some blocks off, I ear glass-whispering chimes,

      And know the Sunday-light blood-bright sunbeam –

Sparkles saintèd, painted stain-pains, writ in gems,

      And that she’ll stand amid them, a singing dream

Clarion voice lost amid choir, organ flights

Ascending like myriad birds on incense plumes,

      White hands hymnal-holding, blue eyes raised

            To cross and candlelight,

      Soft breath breathing fragrant altar blooms,

            A virgin-vision by white virgin praised.

She, this, belongs to someone somewhere else,

      To other greening seasons, younger souls.

For me, sadness invades with the sad-knelling bells,

      This smoke-choked room, these blues-burnt butts and bowls.





To a Figure Skater

 

 

Those plump domestic ducks on balance-narrow

      Blades with patience wobble-waddle and tread,

      As on thick fenny-ponds with paddles of lead,

These fowl-too-flying-awkward slowly row.

And I myself an unsprightly sparrow

      Who in quick-dizzy-fits flits ahead.

      O had my feet the fleetness to be lead

by you, a swiftly-launchèd swimming arrow.

 

How do you, gliding windhoveress, dashing-dare

      To aspire thy form to such two-fold loveliness?

            O grace-wild legs! O sailing streams of air! ballerina motion!

Those plump domestic ducks on balance-narrow

      Blades with patience wobble-waddle and tread,

      As on thick fenny-ponds with paddles of lead,

These fowl-too-flying-awkward slowly row.

And I myself an unsprightly sparrow

      Who in quick-dizzy-fits flits ahead.

      O had my feet the fleetness to be lead

by you, a swiftly-launchèd swimming arrow.

 

How do you, gliding windhoveress, dashing-dare

      To aspire thy form to such two-fold loveliness?

            O grace-wild legs! O sailing streams of air! ballerina motion!

O wing-stretched arms sailing streams of air!

      Silent-strainless ice-wind-witch, you are caprice –

            Filled, tameless,  free as clouds











Ed Lyons has been writing and publishing poems for over forty years. He is a regular contributor to the Poems from the Heron Clan anthology, and has also appeared in Albatross, A New Ulster, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, which earned him a Best of the Net nomination,, Án Aintiúl, and North Carolina Bards, and written hymns for the Moravian Church. The last is the subject of Ed’s 2019 chapbook Wachovia, published by Katherine James Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Ed lives in Winston-Salem, also in North Carolina.

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