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.
writing
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
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.
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
Accidentals
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.
The Sketchy Kids 