To be determined
A home grown up in
Broken
Change comes for us all
And truly beloved
As the tree falls
Pillars begin to crumble
And new shoots begin to grow.
poet
Poem by Lyonrah
Walking, following my shadow in front of me,
so capable of holding my dream in your dark complexion, a friend that walks steadily through the line ‘tween what is real and what is dream.
The two kiss,
like an explosion of light
from that one painted street lamp.
What is seeing when it rips the structure asunder piece by piece till what you thought was solitary and enduring becomes nothing more then water flowing?
So like fantasy is this life I breathe,
where does one end and the other begin,
the line shrinks from distinction.
Lost at sea in both the real and fantasy, overlaying my beloved notions of Beauty upon the seen.
I attempt at wholeness, to wholly see another without my ideas strangling them.
Stand back you defenders, allow for the balance. So hard it is to walk with your head in the clouds as your feet take root in the softening ground. I look to where the two meet and think on the space between my shadow, a dream, and my feet, the concrete.
bounds
the daily crises
blaring screens that screen us in
define our limits so we don’t have to fear
the potential of something greater
to go outside of these bounds holds fear
to stay in holds shame
its a struggle against pay to play
to play and pay and pay and play
pay me to play, play me for pay
release me and stand underneath me
i can be boundless in my soundless screams
a truly beautiful world exists
if only in imagination
Poem by Lyonrah
I’m a simple man
scared terribly
by the ascendance I feel
through & all about me.
In the echoing crescendo
herald by the buds
of the stretching spring tree,
in the reply from the
scuttling squirrel
gathering acorns, pausing,
looking through me,
in the eyes of another
who holds mine in momentary matrimony,
rather then the usual,
a demonstration a performance,
an assertion of ones own dominance.
Sometimes it becomes so shockingly clear
that it can’t but cause
a stirring disturbance in me.
A need for coming back,
a need for returning from that place
whispered of in our dreams.
I huddle inside my shelter,
a gift so long condemned
as the original sin,
and do as instructed
by the ego within.
Poems by Lyonrah
Today’s study, a study of the invisible.
Oh children of the universe
Listening intently
Gaze focused out into space
Solemn no longer;
We replace the age old
With today.
Oh you angel
Living in harmony with your being,
No longer will I try to place at your feet that which will never reach, but now is the time, too unshackle ourselves and aspire to the heights offered by the gift of being man and woman.
To actualize that which our eyes and mind have know for so long inside, hark the call my siblings, hark and sing, even if it is hard to believe, for me it is the same, but relish in the name of names which stands a loft for our purpose to shape this into that, the visible a resource to achieve the greatest height, a monument to the invisible which comes down into our world through the bridges we so construct. So build and build, till in one stroke we bridge the gap and in ecstasy stand before the awesomeness possible from a life thus thrust into the torrent that is living amongst shackled minds.
They Have No Reason to Lie
They have no reason to lie
They carry the burden in silence
They live their lives in fear
There is power in truth
They have no reason to lie
They have no reason to lie
They carry strength to break the silence
They overcome their fear
There is power in truth
They have no reason to lie
An Infinite Regression of Past Lives
A skunk walks across the beach
in a red and white striped one piece,
a surfboard under his arm.
He stops every woman
to ask for the time of day.
None give it to him
as bikini clad women
tend not to wear watches.
They are, for the most part, cordial
in their refusals,
but the waves laugh at his rejections.
The skunk, visibly frustrated by the guffaws,
refrains from spraying the water
out of respect for the other beachgoers.
The skunk is not a skunk at all,
He is a businessman carrying a briefcase.
The sand is Grand Central Station.
He constantly checks his watch,
then squints at the schedule,
then back to his watch.
He is the type of person who shows up
hours early in case of this very predicament
and would likely catch his train with time to spare.
He asks anyone and everyone
for directions to the proper platform,
pointing to his ticket for reference.
No one acknowledges his presence.
He is not a businessman at all.
He is me. I am no businessman.
I am in a motel room
washing my face
I don’t know what city I’m in,
some town bordering Detroit.
I stare into the mirror in the mirror,
see how many of me there are.
It’s three a.m. and I have a strange feeling
I’m going to a funeral tomorrow.
Why else would I pack a suit?
Drunk On New York
Madness is unrefined passion
Passion is exonerated madness
Yak’s milk is sweet
and I drink to no end
No end
like these streets—
I walk every one
and never grow tired
knowing even eternity won’t last forever
and I have a train to catch
out to the countryside, where a mad yak
waits for me
with an infectious smile
with pure milk
which I drink to no end
and think of the endless city streets—
with bronze idols, glass walls,
cemented paths
That is all behind me now
The streets are behind me
The train is behind me
The mad yak is behind me
goading me to keep going to no end
goading me to drink her milk to no end
until the last sap of life is drained
so she can sleep to no end
so her dreams become my dreams
and my dreams travel beyond
the endless city streets
who refuse to sleep
They drink me to no end
consuming the same mad yak visions
that gestate in the womb of slumberless nights
who give birth to babies
that overrun the endless city streets
with cries for yaks milk.
The wails resonate
off skyscrapers as
an admission of want for nothing
other than mother,
an omission of subways, stadium deals,
condo complexes, dreams of electric sheep.
A call for transformation
of pavement to pasture
and the world’s city citizens
to sprout curved horns
grow hooves, don thick coats of fur
and udders and udders
filled with the passion and madness
of yaks milk
Voice Control
By Peter
wave function rolls
over tongue
say it
say it
it again
thoughts like
french kiss
ear lick
mind meld
right thought (check)
right speech (check)
lights
camera
(right) action
communication out
of focus
a monkey teaching a dolphin
to climb a tree
both agree that
oranges are oranges
peel means skin
skin does not mean peel
you can skin a banana
but you can’t peel a cat
you can tuna fish
can the piano
it’s out of tune
false positives
doubly negated negatives
placebos work
if you let them
everything is a matter
of percentages
90% of the time
from vegas to wall street
but I live in kansas
off-broadway is still broadway
paris is still paris
and still burning
I make a claim
then stake it
I have no idea what
that expression means
none of the words I invented
are in the dictionary
I shout them
from rooftops
on cold nights
words are just a song
I don’t know the melody
translate english into
english into english
and the original
meaning is lost
if it had one to begin with
this corn maze means
something but
is too big
for me make it
out alive
I need the bees
to dance my way out
I recite my lines
stage directions say
to exit left
I do
the curtain closes
no one applauds
Moving House
Moving house
A year of memories
Fun times
Remembering clogged drains
Fluorescent lights
Memories in space
Moving house
A house I outgrew
A year of posession
Moving house
The Sketchy Kids 
You must be logged in to post a comment.