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.

Poem by Lyonrah

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.

Poems by Lyonrah

Poems by Lyonrah

A friend warned me once,
told me to steer clear
that all it gives is pain,
but that’s not how I see it,
the hue can change.

It would be a lie
to say it didn’t feel like I was wilted and dry,
sitting alone wounded, exhausted, spent, 
cursing the sun lit contagion.
But to me,
a youngster with his head 
full of yellow and orange dreams,
the colors tend to whisper breathlessly,
shift and shimmer
from translucent to opaque,
sometimes coming 
as a glossy sheen.

Now though it seems
to be
not the color of dark mystery
but the soft light edge of a dawn,
where it stands above a spread
of complimentaries.

Out of sight, a memory lingering, 
a fire light I saw for the first time 
when I couldn’t distinguish 
between dreams and reality.

Poems by Lyonrah

How To Create With a Busy Schedule

Being a creative person is not an easy feat. We all started out on the creative process because we enjoy creating as a means of free expression. This leads us to try to turn our pursuits into a career. Yet in the meantime we all have bills to pay, jobs to go to, errands to run.

There are tons of resources on the web about increasing productivity. We can manage our time better and avoid procrastination. But being creative isn’t like running errands or taking care of tasks. Creating requires all those organizational skills plus the inspiration to make something new. You have to be ready to take advantage of inspiration, and be organized enough to follow through with projects.

The paradox of creation is that it comes from both within and without. No creation happens without outside influence. It’s the background or context of a work that gives it meaning. Yet to create a person must synthesize this context into a new creation. The context reaches a critical point where everything clicks in a moment of inspiration.

You can’t predict when inspiration will occur. The trick is to be prepared. When you get home after a fourteen-hour day, and by all logic you should be exhausted, but you get an idea that’s burning to be expressed. Then you reach for your guitar but you’re missing a string. So instead you watch TV and fall asleep.

When you lead a busy life, you don’t have the luxury of taking your time with inspiration. It is fleeting and urgent. That’s why one of my prime tips of creating is to always be prepared for inspiration. Not just in terms of being organized, either. It’s a mental preparation to be poised to grasp the moment of inspiration.

The memo app on your phone is your best friend. When you’re out with your friends you might get a great idea – save it there for later. You figure out the last lyric to a song at 4:20 A.M.- don’t wait! Finish the song right at that moment. Inspiration DOES NOT wait!

Creative works don’t always happen in a flash of inspiration, however. Sometimes the only way to complete a project is with a grind. Maybe you’re a musician who needs to lay down backing tracks. Or a writer who needs to flesh out a piece after proofreading. Or an artist who needs to fill in a tedious, detailed pattern.

Once again, the answer is organization. When you’re always busy, you can’t wait around to get to it later. Busy people MAKE time for what they care about. Creators need to create and will be unhappy if they don’t. Don’t be unhappy. Set aside time to finish and organize your old projects just like you would set aside time to go to work.

Creators must create, it is in our nature. If you are stressed out from a busy life, channel it for inspiration. Then be ready to grab it by the horns when it comes.


Much love,

Eliott – founder

How To Create With a Busy Schedule


By Clare Flanagan


From age twelve & onward I was warned

about them – notelong departures

from the prevailing key, hanging stealthy

between staff lines, barely heralded

by some arcane mark. Accidentals

stretched my knuckles to gristle

over stiff-sprung valves, derailed

whole melodies, hammered breath from me

til the true sound came into being. It’s been years

since I last read music, but today

on the commuter trail behind the Knollwood

Super Target with its wayward shopping carts

like loose cattle & empty apartments

metastasizing by the highway, those were the kind

of notes tearing through me –

teasing unready fingers

on the left handbrake, a rough reflex

half a beat behind. I’d seen the car

too late, but I was wheeling, coming in

sun-blind and hot, and in a single slow moment

I spiraled forward, a body-nautilus, back wheel rising

over wordless mouth. Curled before the hatchback

that stopped feet short of me, too-long shoelaces tangled

in the stilled pedals, I saw open skin hash-marking

my elbows and knees, road-carved sharps

across a measure of skin –

bloody blue-notes like the ones

I used to pencil in, meaning

don’t make that same mistake

you keep making. Even as I took

the hand of a stranger, who helped lift me back

to the world, the only word I could say

was sorry. But now, my legs being

less pavement-shaken, I want to examine

these bruises, let water sting the gravel

from the wounds. I want an ablution, a blessing

for white knuckles grasping

the wrong brake. I want to hear

the wrong note in the right place, a divine slip

from the key of speed, my still face feet

from the short-stopped vehicle, the voiceless

two-ton warning that all this momentum

is temporary. What I want most now

is to learn the best and most difficult song —

the chord that sets the wheels spinning again,

rate regardless, the one sung in gratitude

for being given one more mile

to fly forward, another day

to fall.


letter to a facebook bot

Salutations Ashley. It certainly has been some time since we last saw one another. The War was tough & trying times for us all. How have adjusted to civilian life? I hope all is well.

If I may be so bold, I never forgot our victory at Guirgevo. When I reminisce on those days, I can feel the blood rushing through my veins as my body recalls the thrill of battle once more. Our brothers in arms who fell that day will not be forgotten.

And that fateful night at Petropaulovsk, I recall lying with you, underneath the stars, our bodies bloody and broken. I remember the breaking of first light at dawn. We summoned all the courage we had for one final charge. All our hope rested on the Queen’s Naval Forces, the fabled Redcoats, to reinforce and relieve us from our futile struggle. When the ships sunk, all hope was lost and we slipped into despair.

I remember nothing after this time, it was all a blur. It seemed my eyelids closed for just a moment, but when I awoke I was recovering in a medical ward in Eguisheim. After the treaty was formalized in Paris I attended the ceremonies and decorations of the surviving heroes. I saw you at an aristocratic dinner party but the next thing I knew you were gone. I always wondered since that night what happened to your story after Petropaulovsk and the war.


General Sir Collingwood Dickenson

letter to a facebook bot