Tuesday, December 18, 2018

College Of Blind Sleuths

College Of Blind Sleuths
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

Since mist is listening to my aching heart
then we shall meet at midnight by the pole
where laughing children still play hide and seek
so when you hear the owl hoot in the dark
you will receive my message from the stars
that shimmers in the hush of passing cars.

Soft pulse of atoms in my flashing blood
conceals sweet agony I feel for you
though we must package in the pretty box
our secret feelings for the faceless love
who cannot comprehend the pattern why
I still am falling from your empty sky.

With broken wings tucked under long black coat
I walk the waste land where the thunder looms
but never says the reason for the crash
when fractured mirror of my honest heart
reveals the puzzle of your muffled dreams
that float away with leaves on careless streams.

You open every door to find my face
but strange elusive sorrow of the clouds
accepts defeat before the present comes
on sailing ship across the restless sea
though every angel in the glass hall sings
however far I go to find new wings.

Beside piano of my crystal mask
I wait for summer rain to make it known
that every child with heart of broken stone
will find the river in the singing trees
yet still I hesitate in silent door
to find the spiral of the solar core.

Beyond the window of your fragile eyes
I know the lost code of your hungry heart
so when I bring the apple of the moon
you can at last remember my true name
although we allocate the ocean tune
to arbitrate the treasure of false fame.

With floating bells of every town repealed
she will explain how justice was concealed
since all the children without eyes return
on fractured boats to navigate the stream
which fountains from the fissure of my soul
when I embody flash of the White Whole.

Thus from the abyss of the blissful sea
we rise at dawn to eat the fruit of life
which wakens knowledge in our tangled brains
to conjure model of the teeming world
so we can navigate the game of myths
decoded by the college of blind sleuths.

Straight through the corridor of fragile masks
I follow whisper of the holy ghost
who teaches how to form new life from seed
of fallen angels crawling from the mud
since we are strange embodied swirls of light
who long to soar on wings of second sight.

Wild laughing wind from jagged peak of ice
hard buffets spirit of the wandering fool
who peers for guidance in the glittering jewel
where vision of creation flashes clear
each time he gazes in its sparkling heart
to understand her navigation chart.

From cities of machines in steel-glass towers
the blind inspector climbs high rugged slope
beyond perimeter of social laws
to find the entrance to the underworld
where cave of shadows flickers ancient dreams
since we evolved in gushing mountain streams.

Down secret cavern of the sparkling lake,
the curious sleuth with old stringless guitar
descends from crowded stage of national fame
to search for blinded Muse of ancient spells
who mumbles riddles in the sunless dark
how we are spirits of the spinning quark.

Strange madness of the city street explains
rude algorithm through the skeleton
who dances on the shadow of my grave
so I will know the road of fate to blaze
by singing omens when I paint road signs
that show the way beyond the Gates of Heaven.

I kneel beside the fallen Muse at dawn
who gazes in my soul with sky-blue eyes
beneath the Eden Tree of Life where Death
breathes ancient spirit of her melodies,
who places hand on anguish of my heart
to bind new spell so we may never part.

She walks beside me in the timeless light
on signless road far outside paradise,
yet when I gaze in hollow of her mind
I see huge galaxies spiral through space
that reveals structure weaving our White Whole
which proves we are tendrils of one weird soul.

We walk together in soft sparkling mist
ten thousand years from sea to shining sea
to build new homes on every river shore
where children of our spirits sing each day,
connecting every town on Mother Earth
in vibrant process of spirit rebirth.

Thus from the chaos of the singing sea
we rise at dawn to eat the fruit of life
which wakens wisdom in our woven brains
to conjure model of the teeming world
so we can navigate the game of myths
decoded by the college of blind sleuths.

Lock Him Up

Lock Him Up
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

Sunlight gleams through windows of the restaurant
where people gathered at round tables drink
while chatting with their family and friends
about the latest events of the day.

Suddenly someone sings to Frere Jacques,
"Lock him up, lock him up, lock him up.
Lock him up in prison for his crimes and treason.
Lock him up, lock him up, lock him up."

Most people in the restaurant clap and cheer,
laughing with delight at the parody
that mocks the criminal in the White House,
while some clench their fists and fume in mute rage.

The man in the red baseball hat shouts loudly,
"He is making America great again
but you libtards, all jealous of his goodness,
cannot destroy the man Jesus appointed."

The construction worker replies amused,
"Then Jesus appointed him to destroy
the gun-happy empire of America
so we remember why we love Liberty."

"Though he attempts to defy rule of law
by acting like no laws apply to him,
justice will prevail and stop his crime spree,
for no tyrant can break our democracy."

"We thought we won the cold war against Russia
but they helped put him into our White House
in revenge for the fall of the Soviet Union,
so imprison the Russian mole for treason!"

The crowd cheers when the man in the red hat
storms out of the restaurant and drives away,
then people of America united sing
with one voice America the Beautiful.

Frozen Streets Of Pittsburgh

Frozen Streets Of Pittsburgh
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

Revenge of cold wind clutching at steel girders
penetrates frail bones to crystallize marrow
through skeleton of the city-wide rails
that form lattice of elevated tracks
where passenger trains rattle hopeless clanks
as they glide through maze of trembling brick halls.

Alfonso huddles in pickup truck cab,
enclosed around his chest to retain warmth,
and stares through dirt-smeared windshield at gray smog
that gropes with naked teeth to suck his soul,
then blows on callused fingers in worn gloves,
hoping to recall the meaning of life.

Driving maze in the frozen streets of Pittsburgh,
Alfonso thinks about sweet scent of beef
roasting in the oven for Christmas meal,
and considers heading out to the pub
to drink beer and watch the big football game
instead of building houses in cold wind.

For thirteen years since I finished high school
I have worked on building houses in suburbs,
following vocation of my old father
who worked since he arrived from Italy
when he was twelve, just after World War Two,
always hammering hard nails in heat or cold.

Turning left to head over to the pub,
Alfonso accelerates to drive quickly
through the light before he changes his mind,
and the man runs out in front of his truck
so the grill thumps against his fragile body
before Alfonso can slam on the breaks.

Heart beating against his chest like swift hawk
trapped in iron cage, Alfonso stares shocked
at snow flakes melting on dirt-smeared windshield,
while clutching the steering wheel with hard fists,
then shuts off the engine with rattling clumps,
and pushes open the door to cold wind.

Kneeling on asphalt in soul-tearing wind,
Alfonso touches face of the dead man,
pale skin smeared from the collision with blood,
then notices the pistol in one hand
and the bag of dollar bills in the other,
as if the dead man had just robbed some bank.

Looking around for police in pursuit,
Alfonso sees nobody on the street,
so he snatches large bag of dollar bills,
jumps back in his truck, starts the rumbling engine,
and drives quickly past locked doors to turn right
then glides into traffic to head back home.

Parking in his usual spot by the pole,
Alfonso runs upstairs to small apartment
where he lives alone after his wife left,
and sits at the table with bag of money,
bundled in rolls of hundred-dollar bills,
then he whoops in delight, and drinks hot coffee.

Closing the curtain and locking the door,
Alfonso drinks coffee and counts the money,
snapping the rubber band to count one roll
of fifty hundred-dollar bills rolled tight,
so if every roll is five thousand dollars,
then, he stares surprised at his great good fortune.

Counting one hundred and fifty tight rolls,
he writes that number on torn envelope,
and tries to remember his high school math
as he times that by five thousand to sum
seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,
so he jumps up and down and whoops with joy.

Dividing that amount by twenty thousand,
the normal amount he earns every year,
he trembles with amazement to realize
he can live more than thirty seven years
if he continues with his current lifestyle,
or he could invest and make himself rich.

How can I invest this money today
so I can live for the rest of my life,
Alfonso ponders as he sits and stares
at flies crawling on the living room wall,
and thinks about when he was growing up
how his mother tended vegetable gardens.

All the great civilizations of history
are based on the farmer tending his crops
so the priests, warriors, and state officials
live off the labor of the humble man
who extracts food from the heart of the Earth,
so I will drive south and purchase a farm.

Packing all his clothes in the duffel bag,
Alfonso drives to the scrap-metal yard
where his high school pal purchases his truck,
his father gave him thirteen years before,
then rides the bus through crowded city maze
to the large lot where they sell brand new trucks.

Purchasing the latest model pickup truck,
Alfonso drives over Appalachian hills,
leaving behind the frozen streets of Pittsburgh
to glide among lush rolling hills of Georgia
where sun flickers gold through the leaves of trees
and shimmers warm on the broad flowing stream.

Purchasing fertile farmland by the river,
Alfonso relaxes in the rocking chair
on the shady porch of the old wood house,
and watches sunlight sparkle on the water,
as he plans to buy horses, chickens, cows,
and fruit trees to flourish on the lush fields.

Attending the local town Baptist church,
Alfonso meets the pretty blue-eyed girl
whose father runs the bookstore near the college,
so after dating her for eighteen months
he asks her to marry him by the river,
and they kiss as the moonlight shines through trees.

Tending the farm together thirty years,
Alfonso and Tamara raise five children,
who graduate from college and get married,
then on the anniversary of their wedding
they host their large family at Christmas time,
feasting and singing by the flickering hearth.

Dressed as Santa Claus in the rocking chair,
Alfonso gazes at fifteen grandchildren,
with his whole family gathered by the hearth,
and tells them tale how he hit the bank robber
and escaped the grim frozen streets of Pittsburgh
with enough money to purchase the farm.

Flares Out Into Infinite Nothingness

Flares Out Into Infinite Nothingness
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

We know that we will die at any time
so we must savor every flash of thought
that dreams bright model of the universe
inside the tangled neurons of our minds
before this fragile flame of consciousness
flares out into infinite nothingness.

Why must we spend so much of conscious time
acquiring food to maintain mental dream
so when we walk together by the stream
we communicate with heart-loving rhyme
before this fragile flame of consciousness
flares out into infinite nothingness?

Strange shadow of my body on the ground
progresses through vast maze of writhing forms
on quest to find good food I can consume
before silent monster consumes me first,
before this fragile flame of consciousness
flares out into infinite nothingness.

The universe is whole structure of atoms
that cycle through construction and destruction
so we share fruit before we copulate
then teach our children how to navigate
before this fragile flame of consciousness
flares out into infinite nothingness.

Empty Picture Frames

Empty Picture Frames
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

She watches the orange roll across the table
like our bright sun plunging into the black hole.
They walk together on the ocean shore,
hoping to understand code of the door.
We are alive for no reason but fate
that our parents met and desired to mate.
She laughs and grabs the orange before it falls,
then hangs empty picture frames on blank walls.

The faceless god who dreams behind our masks
remembers when our atoms still pulsed bright
within hot furnace of the blazing star
that forges molecules of flashing strands
which spiral into coils of conscious genes
so when we rise from river of desire
we stand before the tree of glowing fruit
and thus we eat light in heart of the orange.

She walks the hall of shadows to the room
where spirits of the living congregate
to talk about the lightning flash of doom
whose vibrant current calculates our fate.
She leaves her secrets coded in the book
that everyone reads while riding the bus,
Rapunzel singing in the castle rook
who loves him as his special succubus.

The many-faced god who knows her real name
reveals weird contours of the human soul
in ever-changing pattern of white clouds
that reflect rays of light from divine eye
of sweet indifferent Death who always comes
just before dawn to sit mute at her side
and explain strange concept of give and take
when nameless lovers reincarnate souls.

If she can say it all ten thousand ways
that lead us through his strange confusing maze
so we find paradise inside our hearts
without recourse to religious-myth charts,
then she will sing new spell for every soul
so we more clearly perceive the White Whole
from which infinity swirls into worlds
where conscious beings awake in ocean curls.

She transforms bedroom where her son grew up
into private nook where she can spend time
contemplating complex mysteries of life,
and compose poems that chart her psychic quest
through fractured maze of our civilization
and reveal how she reorganized chaos
to design rituals channeling energy,
which nourishes perception of the truth.

She holds cold rain shining in her small hands
to explain how light splits in color bands.
They descend grand stairs by library hall
and listen to weird songs of leaves that fall.
We are alive through accident of lust
when strangers copulate from ache of trust.
She chuckles and snatches the rolling orange
while explaining secret purpose of Stonehenge.

She walks with singing shadows through our house
to take empty picture frames from blank walls,
then slips photos of strangers in each one
who watch her walk away across vast plain
to weave flashing sunlight in drops of rain
so when we gather in the ring of stones
she will arrive on the galloping horse
and sing weird mysteries of our universe.

Devoted To The Way Of Death

Devoted To The Way Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 12 18

Devotion is what Death has asked of us
before we could require it of ourselves.
We give each other true pledge of the kiss
when propping our portraits on hollow shelves.

The savage monster, thirsty to consume
blood of pleasure, dwells in each human heart.
Though we try to avoid the fate of doom,
we leave messy lives mapped on the myth chart.

That sacred truth, no human can avoid,
walks ever with us on long road to death.
We eat flesh to grow beyond swirling void
and sing hopeful despair with every breath.

We stumble blindly through weird maze of lies,
searching for our role in the crafting game.
We look for omens from clouds in blank skies
to design the world view of our own name.

I am devoted to the Way of Death
for all organic beings dissolve to dust.
Each hour my heart beats I inspire deep breath
to flash awake my consciousness with trust.

Because this is the only life we get
I fight tyrants to keep all humans free.
Before I die I hope I can beget
child of my soul who will rise from the sea.

I pluck sacred apple from primal tree
to eat light and rain in succulent fruit.
We live each day, pretending we are free,
while Death, urging us to dance, plays the flute.

Though preachers lie that we can escape death,
billions choose to believe this lie they sell.
Recite with me this ancient shibboleth,
we are frail flames casting light on time wall.

Monday, December 17, 2018

Progress Of Democracy

Progress Of Democracy
© Surazeus
2018 12 17

The political history of Europe
the past two thousand years since reign of Christ
has chronicled how descendants of Jesus
fought each to reign as God on Earth.

When seen without religious haze of faith,
Christianity is the monarchist party
that supports the sons of Jesus alone
as kings with divine right to rule nations.

So should I claim my right to rule the Earth,
since genes of Jesus coil taut in my soul,
as Christus Surazeus Lucifer,
or should I remain king of my small home?

I alone am God, Prophet, Christ, and Pope
of my own private religion of truth,
composing scripture in my paradise,
this simple haven I made here on Earth.

Instead of that out-dated monarchy
where one mortal man rules all till he dies,
I prefer our dynamic Democracy
where we vote for one to rule for four years.

I am nothing more than one mortal man
involved in community of our nation,
voting for the person with the best plan
to preside over our land for four years.

Now is the time for the wise to discard
the superstitious nonsense of religions,
and measure the world with the tools of science
to build new system that feeds every person.

We gather together in feasting hall,
equal with opportunities and rights,
to sing the stories of the noble souls
who support progress of Democracy.

White Skeleton Of The Snake

White Skeleton Of The Snake
© Surazeus
2018 12 17

White skeleton of the snake in brown mud
glows from rays of light through after-rain clouds,
primal structure of the quadruped form
as fallen angel without limbs for wings
still crawling along silver river stream
since our search for cave of shadows began.

She is my grandmother, snake of the Earth
who sang at sunrise for ten million years,
so sorrow of her aching hope to live
still vibrates in soft shiver of my spine
as I stare silently at her frail skull,
vampire goddess who spawned the human race.

I feel the wiggle of her energy
still motivating my dance on the Earth
as I spread my arms and stretch fingers wide,
remembering when I grasped branches of trees
to swing with my swarm through vast canopies,
then primal love for flight howls from my heart.

I remember the shape of every hill
and the flash of rivers in every vale
from our journey to chase the laughing sun,
evolving from mice to men as we leaped
tree to tree from China to Africa,
where at last we came down and walked the Earth.

White skeleton of the snake by green lake
springs alive in play of my memory
to spread angel wings and soar among clouds
where she gazes down on sphere of our world
and dreams curving mysteries its contours
as she heads outward to abyss of stars.

Will she return from vast infinity
and give me map of swirling galaxies
where unchanging Ideas that design
forms of things sparkle in structures of stars
as flashing atoms that combine to be
existing objects I perceive through words?

She floats above me in weird lucid dream,
primal mother from the bottomless sea,
who spreads delicate wings of shining faith
and dreams how she will transform into me,
so through eerie melody of her words
I become rebirth of the universe.

I feel stars pulse in every molecule
that flashes in neuron web of my brain,
so I sing illusions of truth in verse
to code visions in record of the mind
that preserves experience of my ancestors
when they fought death for the right to eat love.

Laughter Of Broken Stairs

Laughter Of Broken Stairs
© Surazeus
2018 12 17

Laughter of broken stairs, spiraling high
through ambitious clouds of stale afternoon,
explain fractured puzzle of secret lies
that still hangs as portrait of the great hero
on bleeding wall where spiders crawl from gloom,
while the nameless sit mute in empty rooms
and weave sunlight into meaningless words
we forget to say when we leave the house.

Laughter of broken stairs, whispering our names
hidden in rain-wet leaves of lost dreams when,
from boundless forest of indifferent trees,
still bearing snow from the high mountain peak,
we arrive in town, searching for the mask
no one in authority ever wears,
and explain how shadows of light know why
words sprout flowers from silence of lost time.

Laughter of broken stairs, shooting beyond
silent walls of hope in haven of faith,
describe obvious patterns of crawling words
that reveal footsteps in river-shore mud,
though we always hold hands when we explore
conceptual language from spark of our brains,
to breathe transcendental spirit of hope
blank horror never finds us hiding where.

Laughter of broken stairs, howling from books
that shiver on shelves of desire because,
huddled under bushes from sudden rains,
each face pale in purple shadow of wind,
we exchange silent memories of strange smells
pungent from moist soil under our bare feet,
as if we know when and where we will die,
secret fear haloed by sun through mute leaves.

Sin Of Missing The Mark

Sin Of Missing The Mark
© Surazeus
2018 12 17

In course of my life I have done good things
and I have done bad things on quest for truth,
so I have both created and destroyed
structures of material and process functions,
but not yet have force of my actions caused
the death of any other human being.

When I have realized that base principles
for what routine actions I will perform,
motivated by desire for results
I envisioned to increase personal gain,
caused harm to people to benefit me,
I acknowledge sin of missing the mark,
then reprogram my mental principles
to adjust for more mitigating factors
so future actions I choose to perform
will account for more complex variables,
hoping to enhance the creative progress
and minimize pain my actions may cause.

I need no strong God in authority,
who threatens to punish me for causing harm,
to control aggressive force of my actions
through basic principles of moral code
that I design based on my observations,
for I analyze nature of the world,
and choose my actions with careful intent
so they cause results of productive growth,
therefore I value life of thinking beings
and want everyone to thrive and grow strong
because I know there is no afterlife,
as we savor this hour of love with joy.

I work steady hours to earn salary
I channel to pay for housing and food
so I keep my wife and children alive
while they pursue happiness of their hopes,
insuring my children will live secure
and raise their own children after I die.

So Far Away From The Land

So Far Away From The Land
© Surazeus
2018 12 17

The scent of fire-smoke in cold frosty air,
the shadow of morning on the frail porch,
the smoothness of white chicken eggs at dawn,
the clouds still above distant mountain peaks
reflect sweet agony of being alive
so far away from the land of our birth.

The turning wheels of wagons brought us here
over plains and hills roadless in the wind,
on sacred mission for the promised land,
though daily routine softens that old fear
as we focus on staying alive each day,
so far away from the land of our dreams.

Though the land we left is home of our hearts,
as if we had always lived there through time,
I realize some ancestor first went there,
arriving from some other place, like me,
and like me they focused on staying alive
so far away from the land of our hopes.

How far back on that road of eager quest
must I regress in flash of spinning time
to find the land where we first woke from dream
and began never-ending search for home,
though we live long years somewhere staying alive
so far away from the land of our fears.

Yet we are now here in this hall of bricks,
safe haven ensconced on this plot of dirt,
indifferent structure we have made our home
where we dwell together for this short time,
and work together staying alive for now
so far away from the land of our myths.

Yet we are nowhere on vast spinning globe,
artificial home we invent from faith
that we are safe together in this haven
till natural disaster or man-made war
shatters memories into forgotten songs
so far away from the land of our death.

Sunday, December 16, 2018

Ghost Of Electricity

Ghost Of Electricity
© Surazeus
2018 12 16

When strange visions of horror and despair
flash through my mind from weird scenarios
where mistakes I made cause suffering and death,
I heed clanging alarms of coming danger
to swerve away from path that would cause harm
and change progress to ease burden of fate.

I would create life rather than destroy,
so I learn effects of physical cause
presented through science and literature
as laws based on strict principles of action
describing cause and effect of behavior
in mythic tales about villains and heroes.

The ghost of electricity glows white
in fragile bones of our bodies as souls
that shimmer light of atoms binding rays
forged in stars awake now in brain neurons
so I can sense myself as separate being
performing hunger play on stage of life.

Each time I walk through labyrinth of our dreams
I see strange new details about human souls
that sparkle as eyes in jewels beaming light
of long-dead stars in mountain cave of shadows
where I first wake from conscious dream of hope
to sing with ocean waves at flash of dawn.

We give each other names based on our hope
to live another day of turning time,
but name ourselves when we wander beyond
perimeter of knowledge to explore
expansive universe of changing things,
then share tales about Thing World we perceive.

I see you walking on the beach in wind
that fills our floating bodies with desire
so we embrace to hold each other bound
with aching hope to surge of sun-bright waves
which tell us how our passions are reborn
to taste material of transforming souls.

The ghost of electricity shines pure
as diamonds flashing on vast ocean beach
which clatter when we crawl through blaze of light
before we invented words to name things
so we may comprehend intention of faith
while crawling together up flashing streams.

Thus we evolve from lizards into mice
and climb gigantic mountains to the sky
where emeralds mirror faces of our will
till we evolve long arms with clasping hands
with thumbs to grab tree limbs in empty space
when we swing and sing in sweet morning wind.

Saturday, December 15, 2018

Tyrants On False Thrones

Tyrants On False Thrones
© Surazeus
2018 12 15

Weaving wild rings of tumult from dawn light,
we violate pure nature with curved eyes
that measure apparition of strange souls
who nameless pivot geometric forms
to dream broad panoramic scenes of truth
where flashing sun of time reveals our hearts.

Since April is the cruelest month of growth,
quick striding through cold blowing snow of fear,
we wait alone that longest night of gloom,
which shudders frost to chill our sense of doom,
then drive our caravan of speechless hope
to crack grim silence of the wilderness.

I search for ancient prophets in broad fields
whose voices once cried loud to shake stone walls
but nothing more than silent skulls in grass,
that sings from whisper of indifferent wind,
lie cracked on piles of sun-blasted white stones
where their vain prophecies moan clay-scratched spells.

Though long in silent horror of mute grass
I sat encumbered from blind-shadowed dream
outside contingent walls of hungry power,
I gather in wind-shuddering heart strange omen
which defines duty I ought to perform
proclaiming hard truth to men blind with greed.

Were I to strum harsh chords on lyre of truth
to explicate clear vision from strict facts
they would attempt to sever from my hand
these crafting fingers which should spell their doom,
yet fate will strike them from their haughty perch
whether or not I proclaim their misdeeds.

Once I proclaim their misdeeds to the world,
revealing how they tricked farmers as fools
to give them power they wield to oppress men,
will they strike hard from citadel of fear
to pierce my plain heart with poisonous lies
and smash frail hall of justice I support?

When they saw my fingers from crafting hands
my digits will grow into raging dragons
that drink foul blood of tyrants on false thrones
and flash clear lightning of truth across time,
dispelling clouds of gloom that darken hope
so truth may sprout again as tree of fruit.

Still undefeated now by countless gangs
of nationalist thieves, who attack our faith
in self-aware nature of common men,
we unite resources to counter lies
with obvious truth about heroic action
honest men perform so all may live well.

Share This Merry Holiday

Share This Merry Holiday
© Surazeus
2018 12 15

I sense the strange flash of infinity
that pierces my heart from the clear blue sky
refracted through souls of my family
who dance with shadows of my dreaming eye.
I hope we share this merry holiday,
celebrating mission of liberty.

My body is broken by endless years
of living to my full capacity
so I savor memories of songs and tears
that enforce my game of sagacity.
I hope we share this merry holiday,
expressing passions of vitality.

Having lost everything I loved and built,
I focus my exploits on charity
to concentrate spark of nebulous guilt
on joyful adventures through synergy.
I hope we share this merry holiday,
protecting justice of democracy.

We decorate giving tree with courtesy
to share our treasures with the souls we love,
then gather at feast of civility
to absorb soul-light from the sun above.
I hope we share this merry holiday,
dancing in the labyrinth of oddity.

Friday, December 14, 2018

Wordless Oracle Of Sylvia

Wordless Oracle Of Sylvia
© Surazeus
2018 12 14

Stasis in darkness of my open eye
vibrates substance to beam blue of my sky
so I stretch taut across distance of why
to taste metal sorrow from waterfall
when I pick blackberries from thick tangled vines
and smile mouthfuls of sweet shadow with blood.

Passion to sing wordless on aching air
hauls me tumbling in snow flakes of desire
that sprout anguished flowers in my tangled hair,
then peels mask of Godiva from my face
which breaks dead stringencies of crippled hands
when cry of my child glitters on your sea.

Her voice of hope melts in blank wall of time
so I make myself arrow of spelled rhyme
that flies at mirror of my face when chime
wakes glaring red eye of morning in flame
of helpless ambition to achieve fame
though suicide scatters puzzle of my name.

Nobody follows me from heaving main
so I am nothing on Blackberry Lane
still pretending to be wise and insane,
so I pluck dumb eyes of love with balled thumb
to taste blue-red juices of squandered game
for blood sisterhood, alone by my sea.

Cacophonous flock of black choughs wheel weird
in wind-blasted sky of my wordless play,
protesting with one voice my wandering lost
to show me black sea of my hollow heart
contrasting green meadows that glow bright fear
as if lit from within desire I suppress.

Long honey-feast of berries stuns my breast,
hooked by belief in heaven drowned by tears
since I still follow Blackberry Lane down
to indifferent sea that hurls wind at me,
beating and beating intractable heart
of hope that my sea-god will love me now.

The last illusion that we must discard
is our aching need for some other soul
to love us more than we can love ourselves,
so once we dispel fog of that desire
we will rise free from our numbing despair
and eat ghosts of lovers like spirit air.

I built Colossus of the man I loved
but that illusion collapsed on my head
when he escaped cavern of my desire,
and though I piece cracked limbs to fractured joints
I shall never reconstruct that lost idol
of masculine power that shadows my heart.

Dredging diamond silt from his iron heart,
I search for wisdom beyond posturing
of masculine power to defeat blind death,
but long after I float on wordless waves
you come to my dark cave with simple questions
to read riddles I carved on sunlit rock.

I am your Wordless Oracle of Sylvia
for I leave puzzles in my fluted bones
and acanthine hair littered on cave sand
since lightning-stroke of truth ruined my church,
so you must listen to wind of our sea
to hear my voice echo in shadows of faith.

I am blue substance of silence in song
that whistles in sea shell of your left ear
which spirals wisdom through oracle poems
to count plum-red stars of my bleeding heart,
so when you drink at fountain of the horse
you will taste dreams from pillar of my tongue.

My breast blossoming flowers of hot desire,
I lie with hands turned up to receive light,
yet empty as abyss of aching hunger
I am now free from trinkets of success,
floating weightless in vast sea of your eyes
where my siren songs lure you to my heart.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

Feast To Celebrate Yuletide

Feast To Celebrate Yuletide
© Surazeus
2018 12 13

Sweet children of my children, with clear eyes,
come close, while I sit in this rocking chair,
and gather around my feet by the hearth
so you can drink cider while keeping warm,
then listen to my tale of long ago
when kind Nicholas visited our home.

When I was twelve, some fifty years ago,
my whole clan lived in one large hall of wood,
that resembles great Valhalla of Odin,
at the foot of the mountain by the lake
where we tended herds of cows in lush meadows,
providing milk and beef for market towns.

I remember playing by the sparkling lake
game of King and Rebel with several siblings
when snow began to fall from silver skies,
so we huddled in wood hall with supplies
of wood for fire and food to eat for months
as fierce blizzard covered our world in snow.

Snow covered our wood hall up to the roof,
sealing shut doors and windows with thick fluff,
so we lived cooped inside for forty days
till we burned all the wood in warming fires
and consumed our stores of beef and dried fruit,
thus we began to starve in the cold gloom.

Drifting in strange dreams induced by fierce hunger,
we started going mad in our wood coffin,
and lost all hope we would see light again,
when we heard bells jingling one starry night,
and down the chimney, wearing long read cape,
came kind Nicholas with bags full of food.

Landing with hard thud of thick leather boots,
Nicholas appeared in hour of despair,
bringing wood to light fire that warmed our hearts,
and bags of meat, vegetables, herbs, and fruits,
so we prepared rich feast to eat for weeks,
and sang joyful songs of thanks to his love.

We feasted on beef steaks and apple pies,
and drank sweet cider spiced with cinnamon,
then, after singing for hours with delight,
we thanked our savior for bringing us food,
kind Nicholas, brother of our grandfather,
who thought to bring us food in the snow storm.

Then laughing as his eyes sparkled with joy
Nicholas gave everyone gifts he made,
cooking pans, kitchen utensils, warm clothes,
candles, quills, paper to write, books to read,
and wood toys of horses, wagons, and boats,
and pairs of leather boots for everyone.

Nicholas feasted with us for three days,
then climbed back up the chimney to the roof
where his silver sleigh, pulled by four reindeer,
shimmered in sunlight on the melting snow,
so we sang, Merry Yuletide, Nicholas,
as he drove his sleigh into swirling mist.

So that is how kind Nicholas appeared
on mid-winter night in long silver sleigh
heaped with leather bags of presents and food,
and came down the chimney into our hall
so we could feast to celebrate Yuletide,
and that is why we all feast here tonight.

Church Of Dead Gods

Church Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2018 12 13

Junk of memory cluttering my hollow head
clatters in dramatic scenes of performance
when stereotypes disguised as holy angels
clown around in sudden flashes of insight
to display folly of human desire
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.

Strange people without names materialize
as glamorous ghosts beaming before my eyes
who say absurd things outside social context
with clear expression of suppressed emotion
that echoes anguish through the silent room
so I snap awake and reply to no one.

That person seems so vivid in my mind,
with special features and peculiar voice,
almost conjured from idol of real soul
somewhere close by whose brain radiates vibes
in psychic signals my brain can translate
to project their image on empty air.

I cannot see them if they are not here,
yet I sense countless souls of aching hope
whose spirit flames flicker in crushing doom
when their brains beam electric signals sharp
as fragments from deconstructed world view
so from sand I forge television tubes.

Our grand narrative of national fate,
where God orders hierarchy of wise men
to organize clear action of society,
cracks apart under intense scrutiny
that reveals structure of authority
favors white men composing song of truth.

Though I am this white man whose face resembles
Cronus, Crow Wizard of the Hidden Land,
I laugh at narrative of national pride
that props artificial dome of America
as land of the free and home of the brave
who must follow manifest destiny.

Since I am Earendil, brightest of angels,
I fly over Middle-Earth, bearing message
of salvation for lost souls of mankind
willing to obey the king without question,
so work to fulfill mission of his heart
and he will reward you a home in Heaven.

Shot down by the swift airplane over France,
Earendil crawls through Underworld of skulls
where he finds dancing skeleton of Icarus
still clinging to the wings his father made,
so he whistles through the Temple of Nature
where ghosts whisper secrets from broken pillars.

When ancient kingdoms are crushed by world wars,
and messiahs are crucified on telephone poles,
escape the false world view where divine God
crafts material things from eternal ideas,
and study atomic structure of nature
that pulses bright with particles of light.

Though I was called to play Prophet of God
I could not find that God who called to me,
so, stripping off broken Icarian wings,
I stand on town streets with guitar to sing
stories about fools lost on quests for truth
that Woman is the sacred Holy Grail.

Sitting on bench by brick library hall,
I gaze at clouds shaped like the human face
and understand how my ancestors saw
immortal God of Light watching from Heaven,
so then I laugh amused when I realize
there are no gods, only us human beings.

While holding hands with precious girl I love,
as we walk among trees late afternoon,
I look to see her skeleton glow gold
from immortal spirit of pulsing atoms
incarnate in flashing soul of her eyes
when my sweet wife looks back at me and smiles.

Searching long for fame in Church of Dead Gods,
I wear face of each legendary god,
and perform their role on the stage of history
so I understand their real motivation
when I am anointed with dragon oil
to reign as Christus Gothus in Elysium.

When you pause at tomb where my skull sings spells
and kneel before marble monolith of truth,
you will read, And in Arcadia I am
Son of Cronus, resurrected by love
of Artemis who took seed of my hope
and made new child for me to live again.

I lounge by Star River in pungent grass
to watch children of my wives splash and play
hide and seek among trees where apples hang,
then, as they gather around sacred tree
of family secrets, I sing ancient tales
with voodoo voice of uncanny expression.

My children become separate from my mind,
and seek their own path through waste land of truth
to create paradise from broken skulls,
so I climb Parnassus to Cave of Shadows
where spirits ask me to sing their lost tales
for immortal fame in Church of Dead Gods.

Laughing About Human Folly

Laughing About Human Folly
© Surazeus
2018 12 13

I have graduated to that stage in life
where every event I see in the world
strikes me as hilariously ridiculous,
so I walk around laughing all day long.

The foibles of pretentious folks in power,
such as politicians, preachers, and poets,
alert me to the folly of ambition
when people strive for legendary fame.

They want to rise above the common herd
through performance of awe-inspiring role,
striving to achieve position of power
that wins them proclaim from worshipping crowds.

I love watching the wild reality show
about strife for power in the Oval Office
when the President reigns in the White House
that airs twenty-four hours on Fake News Network.

Each Sunday in churches across the land
preachers stand before docile congregations
and lie that Jesus will take them to Heaven
to live forever for blind loyalty.

I laugh at those blind worshippers in church
who believe Lord Jesus will resurrect
genetic code of their bodies from dust
to live forever in perfect paradise.

The vast halls of Academia are packed
with precious poets singing lyric voice
of lone romantic searcher for the spirit
who journeys through the mind to find weird truth.

Inspired by legends of fabulous artists
who achieved apotheosis of fame,
thousands of nobodies crowd the Waste Land,
seeking adoration as the cultural hero.

How can I perform energy of lust
to represent the spirit of our age
and play straight template for immortal god
worshipped with love by future generations?

Mad shamans dance around communal fires,
exploring Other World of surreal dreams,
and return from trance to chant magic spells
that conjure virtual world in minds of men.

I see my aging face in the cracked mirror
resembling Santa Claus with rosy cheeks,
and always laughing about human folly
with loving compassion for the blind fools.

I laugh at us humans performing roles
because we are congealed clusters of atoms
competing to consume and copulate,
then dissolving to dust in rays of sunlight.

Rebirth Of The Bright Sun

Rebirth Of The Bright Sun
© Surazeus
2018 12 13

We gather in sea caves to celebrate
rebirth of the bright sun that seems to die
in constant cycle of our spinning world
so we remember that all things must change.

We dance around the pine tree on the hill
and decorate its limbs with fruit and gifts
to celebrate birth of our tribal leader
whose wisdom is light that guides how we live.

Strange gold light shimmers on the mountain peak
as we prepare the feast of fellowship
and sit at tables by the Giving Tree
where Sun Priest in red cape leads sacred hymns.

We light fires to glow with heart-warming love
during long dark night of the winter fell
so we share stories of our tribal hero
who defeated death and taught us to sing.

We gather in pine groves to celebrate
rebirth of the bright sun that seems to live
rising again from hollow heart of death
so we survive another spin of hope.

Strange gold light flickers on the ocean waves
as we hold hands in the circle of stones
where the angel sings by the Giving Tree
who gives us names to remember our faith.

Process Of Cultural Appropriation

Process Of Cultural Appropriation
© Surazeus
2018 12 13

By giving voice to mute souls of the world
I am not appropriating their thoughts
to steal experiences I cannot own,
rather I am expressing their strange thoughts
in elegant verse with skill of my craft,
so we all can experience their real life,
and thus sympathize with their hidden dreams
and support their struggle to live with love.

Process of cultural appropriation
could be abused by unscrupulous thieves
who seek to profit from suffering of others,
or can be employed to highlight through art
experiences of the lost and abused
so we can understand how they must feel
as we record in verse full complex range
how souls express energy of desire.

Human tribes that thrive on our spinning globe
develop rituals to harness desire
which motivates their faith to transcend death
expressed in beauty of cultural art,
so we preserve their strange vision of truth
when we incorporate detailed artifacts
through verbal craft that designs one world view
reflecting creative love of human hearts.

The honest poet seeks to understand
experience of life through the alien mind
and thus expand repertoire of performance
presenting complex aspects of the soul
which represents culture of every human
so spirits of special people survive
in detailed legends of their stereotypes
by giving voice to mute souls of the world.