Writings other than fish
(though they might slip in now and then)
Three Cubs
Mother bear has lost three cubs
but knows just where to find them.
The smallest sleeps in the top of a tree
after eating the pearls of cottonwood seeds.
The middle one grubs
for ground cones and shoots
blossoms and lichens among the mosses.
And her third, dark cub, largest by far
feast on skunk cabbage
breaks logs for grubs
and dreams of salmon
as he naps in the big boars lair.
Mother bear has lost three cubs
and she knows to not go find them.
-Jon Lyman 2015
Coordinates of Grace (lyrics)
Her sweet voice rattles
with the bones of the year
crooks her finger to draw him near
whispers a tale of a wild place
sets his quest to the coordinates of grace
he wanders among forgotten lands
following paths unnamed
till the sweet song fades, the journey ends
the quest alone remains
How clever we are to name the stars
claim the land, clock the hours
the golden child laid waste by age
may the soul recall the coordinates of grace.
She gathers flax as birthing nears
spins thread of his finest years
weaves his shroud without doubt or fear
she sings both far and clear
(chorus)
How clever we are to name the stars
to claim the land, clock the hours
set stone on stone, proud steel and glass
decry the tomb, deny the past
still, the golden child laid waste by age
may his soul recall the coordinates of grace
pray our souls recall the coordinates of grace.
-Jon Lyman, 1998
Halibut
The halibut beneath the tide
Bears the ebb and flow
Upon her back
Urges the deep onward
Roils the upwelling
Toward the land
With a push of her tail
She spans the inlet
The spines of her fins
Like ship’s ribs
Buried in mud
Her eyes rise
Like Cilla and Caribdas
When she opens her mouth
Rivers of fish run dry
She pulses drift
Through her gills
She turns, touches the land
With her tail levels forests
She lifts the earth
Her spines the young peaks
Folds in her flesh deep cliffs
That reach
The bottom of the sea.
Jon Lyman 1992
Heritage
In centuries to come you will live
in one story and one story only
told by your children's children.
Is yours of the maiden
lying down in springtime,
of the hero beset by the past?
Or of Raven croaking
The Triple Will?
All others are shards,
lost in a breath of time.
Still, fragments arise
given to each to retell.
Mysteries resounding to ancient drums.
Old gods hiding in caves listening
for their time to come again.
Through all the dross, all the noise
between yourself and
generations unborn
only one story remains.
Choose well. By that
will you be known.
No other.
-Jon Lyman 2018
La Serena Gorda
On the beach at Zihuatanejo
La Serena gorda sits atop a pillar
of salt washed bricK
before her restaurant.
A small, stout, bronze mermaid
her pig like smile peeks
from folds of scale covered fat
beckoning Americanos
in for cerveza and escabeche.
Her hands long and thin with small thumbs
fins of skin between each finger
to swim great oceans alone.
Her sweep is that of sirens
amid surf pounded rocks.
Sweet voices quiet the ocean's crash
fingers curved like sea grass
beckoning mast strapped sailor
to the rocks beneath
her robust folds.
- Jon Lyman 2006
Moths and Bears
In fall, moths cling
To overripe huckleberries
One to each red bulb
Dark fruit hung with grey wings
The moths curl tongues
Into fermented juices
Gorge and loose their drunken grip
As bears strip
The last berries
To lighten the reek of salmon
And sweeten winter's fat
In spirals soft as breath
Flights of moths waver
Upward toward the peaks
to find dry fissures among the crags
gathering against the growing chill
Filling rough hollows
Shimmering in the lowering light
Bears scavenge upward
And rummage the slumbering moths
atop their stomach-pack of berries and salmon
A dessert dug from cones of stone until
Smiles wreathed with grey wings
They turn toward unburdened sleep
And yet, a pulse of moths remain
beyond bear tongues reach
Beyond the seep of coming cold
A gem of flighted life
under sheltering snow
Each, then, bears and moths,
in winter night
below the peaks
among the crags
At last asleep
-Jon Lyman 2008
Elizabeth's Dark (Lyrics)
One bright night in the month of June
the dark tried to hide in Elizabeth's room
It slipped from the dresser to under her chair
when Elizabeth looked,
it was not there.
'Lizabeth cornered it under her bed
she lifted the covers
it whimpered and fled
back to her dresser
then under her chair where
'Lizabeth finally captured it there.
She kept it last summer in an old shoe box
told it stories of the Winter;s dark
on cloudy nights
with the shades down tight
they'd play in her room in the soft, grey light
She fed it daily and changed its air
'till Elizabeth said, "it growing in there."
Then it spilled from her closet, filled her room,
filled the yard and surrounded the moon.
And Elizabeth knows its all the dark
she loved last summer with all her heart
She caught it one night
in the month of june
when the dark tried to hide
in Elizabeth's room.
- Jon Lyman 1986
Again the Fool (lyrics)
Tell me about the great ones, Daddy
Give every picture a name
Show me the old ones asleep in the creeks
The scars the pipeline made
Bring it all back, make it seem real
Sing me a picture I can feel
Tell me about the great ones, Daddy
And promise they'll come again.
Over a hill north of Fairbanks
The dark one crawled into view
With greed in its heart, oil in its eye
It came roaring like the great ones do.
Here I thought they'd all finally died
Choked on the gold up the 40 mile
This one must have evolved to survive
All its black rumors were true.
Hold on till it learns your name
Till hunger and need are one and the same
Then clamor and fire taste of fate
Part of you dies, part of your hates
the one that you've become.
And the dreams you find when it finally dies
have changed your mind, changed your life
Something cries where deep inside
You still hear the great one roar.
Till me about the great one, Daddy
Give every picture a name
Show me the old ones asleep in the creeks
And the scar the pipeline made.
-Jon Lyman 1979
Farewell Olive
Olive sits behind her cakes
with sugar roses and Fare Well Olive
large upon the face. I have that
photograph, with cakes and well wishers
and those just seeking afternoon sweets
above my desk. Within the year
Olive died of cancer. I see her here
each morning.
Coworkers stop speaking
when they see Olive's picture
take note of the young women
whispering in her ears
the men waiting like greedy boys
and the one older woman who clutches her cup.
Olive alone with her cakes
wearing a frank expression
that says, "Get on with it."
My kayak slips through the sea
among sea lions and seals
finds honeycombed beaches
tucks into clefs in forbidding rock
and glides me toward evening
utterly unafraid of the dark.
- Jon Lyman 1995
Marmot
In the high meadows
marmot whistles each spring
his signal as sharp as new rock.
In winter avalanches
remove trees, re-bed rivers
obliterate boundaries.
crude sculpture done
with a thumb
marmot whistles
to a new world.
-Jon Lyman 1992
Blood
When I was very young I followed
my older brother across a bundle
of thin maple beams chained high
above the dirt floor of my father's barn.
Father and Uncle Jigger stood in the sun
with the barn doors flung open
watching my brother cross the tight arc of poles
bent with the weight of a bare flathead Ford
V8 block suspended by tackle and chains
with empty head bolts scrabbled
about the blocks bright faces.
I recall climbing the thin boards
nailed to the rough timbers that framed the barn
to the first round of horizontal timbers and stepping
onto the uneven bundle of poles
as they flexed down and up again toward
my brother at the other side.
I have forgotten the rest
though I carry my father's thumb
print in my skull all these years.
He pulled me from the headbolt I had speared
when I routered in headfirst
and ran, his thumb staunching blood
gushing from my skull
to his father, a surgeon, down the road.
from time to time I press
that spot, still soft, on my now bald head
Until the layers of skin and scars divide
and I find my father's thumb
firmly planted in my blood.
-Jon Lyman 2002
Mother bear has lost three cubs
but knows just where to find them.
The smallest sleeps in the top of a tree
after eating the pearls of cottonwood seeds.
The middle one grubs
for ground cones and shoots
blossoms and lichens among the mosses.
And her third, dark cub, largest by far
feast on skunk cabbage
breaks logs for grubs
and dreams of salmon
as he naps in the big boars lair.
Mother bear has lost three cubs
and she knows to not go find them.
-Jon Lyman 2015
Coordinates of Grace (lyrics)
Her sweet voice rattles
with the bones of the year
crooks her finger to draw him near
whispers a tale of a wild place
sets his quest to the coordinates of grace
he wanders among forgotten lands
following paths unnamed
till the sweet song fades, the journey ends
the quest alone remains
How clever we are to name the stars
claim the land, clock the hours
the golden child laid waste by age
may the soul recall the coordinates of grace.
She gathers flax as birthing nears
spins thread of his finest years
weaves his shroud without doubt or fear
she sings both far and clear
(chorus)
How clever we are to name the stars
to claim the land, clock the hours
set stone on stone, proud steel and glass
decry the tomb, deny the past
still, the golden child laid waste by age
may his soul recall the coordinates of grace
pray our souls recall the coordinates of grace.
-Jon Lyman, 1998
Halibut
The halibut beneath the tide
Bears the ebb and flow
Upon her back
Urges the deep onward
Roils the upwelling
Toward the land
With a push of her tail
She spans the inlet
The spines of her fins
Like ship’s ribs
Buried in mud
Her eyes rise
Like Cilla and Caribdas
When she opens her mouth
Rivers of fish run dry
She pulses drift
Through her gills
She turns, touches the land
With her tail levels forests
She lifts the earth
Her spines the young peaks
Folds in her flesh deep cliffs
That reach
The bottom of the sea.
Jon Lyman 1992
Heritage
In centuries to come you will live
in one story and one story only
told by your children's children.
Is yours of the maiden
lying down in springtime,
of the hero beset by the past?
Or of Raven croaking
The Triple Will?
All others are shards,
lost in a breath of time.
Still, fragments arise
given to each to retell.
Mysteries resounding to ancient drums.
Old gods hiding in caves listening
for their time to come again.
Through all the dross, all the noise
between yourself and
generations unborn
only one story remains.
Choose well. By that
will you be known.
No other.
-Jon Lyman 2018
La Serena Gorda
On the beach at Zihuatanejo
La Serena gorda sits atop a pillar
of salt washed bricK
before her restaurant.
A small, stout, bronze mermaid
her pig like smile peeks
from folds of scale covered fat
beckoning Americanos
in for cerveza and escabeche.
Her hands long and thin with small thumbs
fins of skin between each finger
to swim great oceans alone.
Her sweep is that of sirens
amid surf pounded rocks.
Sweet voices quiet the ocean's crash
fingers curved like sea grass
beckoning mast strapped sailor
to the rocks beneath
her robust folds.
- Jon Lyman 2006
Moths and Bears
In fall, moths cling
To overripe huckleberries
One to each red bulb
Dark fruit hung with grey wings
The moths curl tongues
Into fermented juices
Gorge and loose their drunken grip
As bears strip
The last berries
To lighten the reek of salmon
And sweeten winter's fat
In spirals soft as breath
Flights of moths waver
Upward toward the peaks
to find dry fissures among the crags
gathering against the growing chill
Filling rough hollows
Shimmering in the lowering light
Bears scavenge upward
And rummage the slumbering moths
atop their stomach-pack of berries and salmon
A dessert dug from cones of stone until
Smiles wreathed with grey wings
They turn toward unburdened sleep
And yet, a pulse of moths remain
beyond bear tongues reach
Beyond the seep of coming cold
A gem of flighted life
under sheltering snow
Each, then, bears and moths,
in winter night
below the peaks
among the crags
At last asleep
-Jon Lyman 2008
Elizabeth's Dark (Lyrics)
One bright night in the month of June
the dark tried to hide in Elizabeth's room
It slipped from the dresser to under her chair
when Elizabeth looked,
it was not there.
'Lizabeth cornered it under her bed
she lifted the covers
it whimpered and fled
back to her dresser
then under her chair where
'Lizabeth finally captured it there.
She kept it last summer in an old shoe box
told it stories of the Winter;s dark
on cloudy nights
with the shades down tight
they'd play in her room in the soft, grey light
She fed it daily and changed its air
'till Elizabeth said, "it growing in there."
Then it spilled from her closet, filled her room,
filled the yard and surrounded the moon.
And Elizabeth knows its all the dark
she loved last summer with all her heart
She caught it one night
in the month of june
when the dark tried to hide
in Elizabeth's room.
- Jon Lyman 1986
Again the Fool (lyrics)
Tell me about the great ones, Daddy
Give every picture a name
Show me the old ones asleep in the creeks
The scars the pipeline made
Bring it all back, make it seem real
Sing me a picture I can feel
Tell me about the great ones, Daddy
And promise they'll come again.
Over a hill north of Fairbanks
The dark one crawled into view
With greed in its heart, oil in its eye
It came roaring like the great ones do.
Here I thought they'd all finally died
Choked on the gold up the 40 mile
This one must have evolved to survive
All its black rumors were true.
Hold on till it learns your name
Till hunger and need are one and the same
Then clamor and fire taste of fate
Part of you dies, part of your hates
the one that you've become.
And the dreams you find when it finally dies
have changed your mind, changed your life
Something cries where deep inside
You still hear the great one roar.
Till me about the great one, Daddy
Give every picture a name
Show me the old ones asleep in the creeks
And the scar the pipeline made.
-Jon Lyman 1979
Farewell Olive
Olive sits behind her cakes
with sugar roses and Fare Well Olive
large upon the face. I have that
photograph, with cakes and well wishers
and those just seeking afternoon sweets
above my desk. Within the year
Olive died of cancer. I see her here
each morning.
Coworkers stop speaking
when they see Olive's picture
take note of the young women
whispering in her ears
the men waiting like greedy boys
and the one older woman who clutches her cup.
Olive alone with her cakes
wearing a frank expression
that says, "Get on with it."
My kayak slips through the sea
among sea lions and seals
finds honeycombed beaches
tucks into clefs in forbidding rock
and glides me toward evening
utterly unafraid of the dark.
- Jon Lyman 1995
Marmot
In the high meadows
marmot whistles each spring
his signal as sharp as new rock.
In winter avalanches
remove trees, re-bed rivers
obliterate boundaries.
crude sculpture done
with a thumb
marmot whistles
to a new world.
-Jon Lyman 1992
Blood
When I was very young I followed
my older brother across a bundle
of thin maple beams chained high
above the dirt floor of my father's barn.
Father and Uncle Jigger stood in the sun
with the barn doors flung open
watching my brother cross the tight arc of poles
bent with the weight of a bare flathead Ford
V8 block suspended by tackle and chains
with empty head bolts scrabbled
about the blocks bright faces.
I recall climbing the thin boards
nailed to the rough timbers that framed the barn
to the first round of horizontal timbers and stepping
onto the uneven bundle of poles
as they flexed down and up again toward
my brother at the other side.
I have forgotten the rest
though I carry my father's thumb
print in my skull all these years.
He pulled me from the headbolt I had speared
when I routered in headfirst
and ran, his thumb staunching blood
gushing from my skull
to his father, a surgeon, down the road.
from time to time I press
that spot, still soft, on my now bald head
Until the layers of skin and scars divide
and I find my father's thumb
firmly planted in my blood.
-Jon Lyman 2002