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

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

Drunk On New York

By Peter

 

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

Drunk On New York