I Woke Up Stained

I woke up stained.

I don’t know when it happened

Maybe it was the recent news

Maybe the cold callous city streets

Maybe the steel structure that divides us

Like that steel I am tarnished

My shine is gone unpolished

 

I woke up tarnished.

I had a silver shine faded away

Maybe my heart glimmers with dreams of renewal

Maybe there is golden age of true justice and sacred peace

Maybe people are starting to change

Like those people I have changed

My heart is gone stained

I Woke Up Stained

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

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

By Peter

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?

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives