Sunday, April 30, 2017

Face In Dark Pool

Face In Dark Pool
© Surazeus
2017 04 29

The old man gazes in eyes of his son
as they sit together by shining lake
under stars that gleam over mountain range.

When I was a young boy my father told me
that our whole world was created by God,
an enormous and invisible being
all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good.

This God we cannot see, he said to me,
is everywhere in the sky and the sea,
and in every land where all creatures dwell,
so he is the power of life in all things,
he knows everything that happens on Earth,
and he wants everybody to be good,
doing right so they give pleasure and love.

So I walked a thousand roads in this world,
searching to meet God who created all,
visiting cities sea to shining sea
crowded with people struggling to survive,
but found nothing more than lots of people
congregated in groups lead by strong men
who fight for power to control land and water.

After walking through a thousand cities
crowded with people suffering from disease,
wounded by fighting, or crippled by age,
I walked alone in empty wilderness
to escape anguish of meaningless death.

I saw no god anywhere in this world,
but I saw lots of angry violent men
surrounded by gangs of loyal followers
who stand on high hills with weapons of death
and claim to be true god who rules all people.

None of those men who claim to be a god
have any power except when they speak words
and other people obey their commands,
none of them know anything that occurs
except what they see with their searching eyes,
and few of them are good in how they treat
common people as slaves of their blind will.

While wandering lost in waste land of fear,
I pictured good king who treats people well,
instead of king who controls other people,
respecting their rights to follow their will,
guiding them to express creative crafts,
and assigning them roles based on their skills
to support wealth of their community.

Alone at the end of the world I stood
on vast barren plain surrounded by mountains,
and saw strange face mirrored by a dark pool
that reflects rays of light from the bright sun.

Gazing down at my own face in dark pool,
while breathing deep the air I cannot see,
I realized with a laugh in gleaming light
no supernatural being created this world,
for I see no other beings in this world
except for mortal men with eyes that see,
hands that create things or kill other people,
and tongues that shape mind-visions into words.

If all-powerful and all-good God was real
he would have created a perfect world
where we would know pleasure and never pain,
where we would act with love and never hate,
and where light alone would sustain our souls
instead of meat from flesh of living beings.

Yet my father is that all-powerful God
for he created the view of the world
I once saw in my mind when I was young,
but now I create my own new world view
based on my own mundane experience
while exploring the landscape of desire.

My father invented concept of God
as goal of perfect self we should attain
so we can transcend world of pain and death,
but I need no illusion of good God
as separate being who manages the world
to know I should treat people with kind care,
yet vision of a good Man who gives love
can guide my way on quest for living right.

In turn, my son, I am all-powerful God
who creates the view of the world that glows
in your mind as you set forth on your quest,
so go and explore the world like I did
to create your own view of how things are,
then teach your own son everything you learn.

The old man and his son gaze at the stars
that glimmer bright over the mountain range,
and listen to wind whispering over waves
that ripple through their faces in dark pool.

Friday, April 28, 2017

Code Of Waves

Code Of Waves
© Surazeus
2017 04 28

I am walking on smooth slippery stones
of the ocean beach in wild Oregon,
watching the sun thread soul-light in my bones
at the infinite flash of silent dawn,
when young girl riding her elegant fawn
comes down from the sky with stars in her hand
and weaves within my brain the code of waves.

I see she is the spirit of the land
so I step forward on rainbow of light
and seem to soar on wind above the strand
as if I just now gained the power of flight,
but I can not speak at the glorious sight
of ten thousand eyes beaming from her mind
to illustrate the secret code of waves.

I hold out my hand when the stars align
to give her the seed I found on the beach
where long strawberry vines grow intertwined
with the dancing wood letters of my speech,
but her soul beams forever beyond reach
when she vanishes in wind of my words
that fail to explicate true code of waves.

I stumble in the grove, where sharp tweets of birds
pierce the throbbing passion of my wild heart,
and watch the quick galloping of horse herds
who swirl wide around my abandoned cart,
so I stop to consult my secret chart
which reveals the way to old treasure cave,
hoping to discover new code of waves.

I stare at runes I carved on polished stave
to comprehend the true nature of fruit,
composed of light and rain, that I still crave,
and eat in ruined temple where the flute
I played lies broken on abandoned route,
so I wait for death to devour my soul
and integrate me with the code of waves.

I sense vibration from the cosmic whole
as if invisible eye watches me
and wonder if my key will fit its hole
and open code of waves that weave the sea
because I would rather fight to live free
though I hide in the mansion of my tree
which sends roots deep into the code of waves.

I wander nowhere on vast spinning globe
and build ten thousand cities from wet mud
complete with library under high lobe
where blind prophet writes verses with his blood
in scroll that gets lost in torrential flood
while children play in the meadow of grain
which they harvest to bake in code of waves.

I accept jewels she inserts in my brain
though I wish for genuine sky-walking wings,
then walk with silence in cold drizzling rain
to find the hilltop where nameless bride sings
but sit in church when the broken bell rings
though I follow Liberty as my queen
who teaches me eternal code of waves.


Thursday, April 27, 2017

Authentic Rules

Authentic Rules
© Surazeus
2017 04 27

The teenage girl holds camera to her face
and snaps a photograph of the street scene
to capture the true spirit of the place
that highlights drama of man and machine.

She walks backward over the cement bridge,
searching for the perfect angle of fact
that might reveal soul of the ancient witch
who avoids having to make eye contact.

Before she falls into the void of death,
she pauses, staring down at her new face,
then dives into dream while holding her breath
and flies nowhere on wings with practiced grace.

The crocodile transformed into a car
leaps alive when she turns the crystal key
and glides slow with eyes blinking like a star
that gleams on the crown of Queen Liberty.

Approaching cathedral that has no doors,
she photographs shadows where devils lurk
to find the world where crippled angel soars
who will invent a new world-view framework.

Ten thousand children without dreaming eyes
tear white robes while singing hymns in the choir
yet teenage girl drinks wine to win the prize
for the story she wrote about gunfire.

Her blinking eyes magnify hidden truth
that people always seem to require kings
to organize their labor in communes
where blind women sew new angelic wings.

She waves her magic wand with gleaming jewel
that freezes preacher before he spews lies,
then leads exploring children back to school
where she teaches them all how to be spies.

But when she is walking to the book store
she sees weird scarlet fox slip through the light,
so she leaps through the locked cathedral door,
hoping that he will give her second sight.

On entering the Pantheon super dome,
she lays photographs on table of dreams
that reveal secrets of the happy home
where children play hide and seek by clear streams.

While Oden contemplates each photograph
she erases author name from each book
that glows in the library where crows laugh
because truth is stored where we never look.

Though Pythagoras argued human souls
beam back to stars to swim in sea of light
we will die though we invent living goals
hidden in the coded visions we write.

Eager hope urges me to question why
our bodies suffer diseases and pain
though many people believe in the sky
lives a powerful god who weeps the rain.

So teenage girl in long black skirt and blouse
laughs at the joke that no one comprehends,
then stands alone inside the empty house,
watching ghosts design latest social trends.

I want to see the real world behind light
and calculate the process of this act
I perform to capture image of right
that proves the perfect mask I wear is cracked.

Emerging from the mists of Avalon,
the teenage girl who forgot her own name
explains to God why she must travel on
and learn authentic rules of the chess game.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Croesus Counts Sand

Croesus Counts Sand
© Surazeus
2017 04 26

Gold sunlight on the lake reveals true face
we hide behind mask of money and fame
since no one can claim ownership of space
so we must each invent our secret name.

When Saturn spins on wings of shining jewels
above the constellation, at midnight,
of Sagittarius, will arrogant fools
attempt to sell us free water and light.

Though flowers bloom in light of April moon
where river on this spinning rondure flows,
and girls in white gowns sing a merry tune,
the old blind king may claim he owns the Rose.

Great leaders of nations, ruling with truth,
are often followed by tyrants and clowns
who will try to enslave us care-free youth
by charging rent to live in our own towns.

Ten million people who all lost their eyes
follow the signless road in search for wealth
unaware we create our paradise
by joining the vast global commonwealth.

This wild chaotic show of human lust
we call civilization is ruled by God
invented by men who betrayed our trust
and tried to enslave our minds with the rod.

No director waving scepter of wisdom
manages our daily lives with insight
but we play mindless robots of the system
who fly to Heaven on the stringless kite.

The little girl with twinkling silver eyes
arranges blocks of letters on her desk
to communicate secrets with blind spies
who play their roles in political burlesque.

Soon Raven of Justice will come to me
where I slouch forlorn by river of hope
and inspire me to fight for Liberty
by watching stars flash through my telescope.

Counting the sand on the shores of the sea,
Croesus crowns himself emperor of the world,
but we drive him from the land of the free
and reclaim truth with Stars and Stripes unfurled.

I ask blind Pythia in Castalian Cave
where I will find true treasure of my soul
so she explains both particle and wave
compose true nature of the vibrant whole.

The young girl who wants to play movie star
films herself dancing by the gleaming lake
but witch explains, if you want to go far
you must outwit the spell-enchanting snake.


Monday, April 24, 2017

Justice Before Revenge

Justice Before Revenge
© Surazeus
2017 04 24

After chasing him through meadows of trees,
up winding trails in jagged mountain vale,
I corner him at narrow canyon cliff,
aiming sharp spear at his chest as we pant
for breath in blustering wind of despair.

"When my sister refused to marry you,
you shattered her head with a jagged rock
and blood of her soul stains the garden soil
where she tended fresh herbs to spice our meals,
and now her spirit is gone from this world."

Fierce rage for revenge seizes my wild heart,
so I grip spear and brace my feet on rocks,
then lean forward to thrust spear in his heart,
but I look at his eyes and see despair
at horror of his act tear through his heart.

Sucking deep cold wind of hard mountain ice,
I fill my soul with spirit of calm strength,
secure as silent mountains that stand tall
since before the rising of the first sun,
so I strike spear against the stone of truth.

Gripping his neck, I drag him down the trail
and bring him into the ring of black stones
where thirty women from dozens of clans
sit in sun circle and judge deeds of men,
and declare before all, "He killed my sister."

Messengers bring members of both our clans
who stand facing each other in stone ring,
and I explain, "While my hard-working sister
tended herbs he asked her to marry him,
then smashed her head when she refused his hand."

Young woman in white robe, who bears brass scepter
with gleaming sapphire that flashes in sunlight,
stands before his face and asks, "Tell us all,
why did you strike her head with stone of hate,
knowing women are free to choose their husband?"

Face twisted by lust and grief, he cries out,
"I brought her baskets of flowers and eggs,
I brought her bundles of wood for hearth fire,
and I gave her cauldron for cooking meals,
yet she refused to bear children for me."

Snarling in rage, he hisses at her face,
"I gave her many gifts from generous heart,
and she accepted all with open hands,
and everyone knows that accepting gifts
means she will attend my hearth as bed mate."

Young woman whacks his head with sapphire scepter,
and proclaims with stern voice for all to hear,
"While acceptance of gifts from hand of man
means woman may bear children of his seed,
yet she reserves the right to change her mind."

Shaking her head at his blind ignorance,
she exclaims, "No matter how many gifts
you gave her, expecting gift in return,
you should never kill should she refuse you,
for her will to choose is most sacred law."

Turning and pointing scepter at his face,
she cries, "You did not give her gifts with love,
expecting nothing from her generous heart,
so since you gave expecting more from her
your gifts were tainted foul with selfish lust."

Old woman with long silver hair and eyes
that flash with golden light of midnight stars,
rises and speaks, "Because woman bears children
she chooses who will spark life in her womb,
thus life of every woman is most sacred."

Pointing gold scepter with bright emerald
at his face, she declares judgment of justice,
"You killed sacred woman who creates life,
therefore you will bring firewood to all hearths,
but no woman will ever bear your children."

Two men clutch his arms so he screams in horror,
then a third man clutches his genitals
while young woman saws it off with a knife,
and everyone cringes at screams of pain
that cease when he faints and falls on the grass.

Young woman stands before my face and smiles,
"Because you brought him to our Hall of Justice
instead of killing him in mountain vale,
we appoint you Hunter with noble task
to hunt criminals and bring them to us."

Entranced by the glow of light in her eyes,
blue as the sapphire gleaming on her scepter,
I blush and kneel as she places gold crown
with glittering sapphire on my humble head,
then after I stand she kisses my mouth.

Heart beating fast as a galloping horse,
I turn to leave but she clutches my arms,
and whispers, "I want you as my hearth mate,"
so I follow her to small temple hall
where I stand guard before the carved oak door.

When moon gleams silver on the shining lake
she holds my hand and pulls me to her bed
where we kiss and make love in midnight breeze,
and I fill her heart with spirit of love
as we fly together among white stars.

Bringing bundles of wood to temple hall,
I build new wagon with four spinning wheels
while she tends apple trees of swelling fruit,
and our son, sitting upright in oak box,
claps his hands and laughs when I dance and sing.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Statue Inside Paradise

Statue Inside Paradise
© Surazeus
2017 04 23

Through the prism of social media
I catch a glimpse of the poetry scene
that thrives across land of America,
composed of a thousand small local groups
of people chanting verse in coffee shops
who each construct poetic paradise
then throw snowballs at each other and laugh.

Tall statue inside paradise gleams bright,
guiding me through waste land of silent wind,
but when I knock on gate of iron bars
that leads through garden wall to flowing fountain,
the jewel-eyed angel with a flaming sword
drives me back into dry wilderness.

Running from the beast with soul-ripping teeth,
I clutch an iron wand buried in dirt
to fight against annihilating despair,
and crush its skull while chanting song of truth,
then I drink its hot blood and eats its flesh
to become the angel with flaming sword
who devours the beast of horrible death.

Trembling in the dark cave of naked fear,
where I hide from hordes of more hungry beasts,
I strike the wall of mute death with my wand
that shatters silence to release a fountain
gushing clear water from the heart of darkness.

Carving blocks of stone from mountain of time,
I create my paradise of fruit trees
by ordering chaos in the wilderness
then surrounding it with protecting walls
to keep my family safe from death a while,
my little Cosmos from infinite space.

Wandering in the waste land of hungry hope,
I gather seeds that fell from withered plants
and plant them by the secret bubbling fountain
that I hide inside wall of angry stone.

At midnight inside gray stone garden walls
I see moonlight glitter on silent snow
that hides seeds of hope frozen in my heart.

On top the fertile slope of Mount Parnassus
my garden paradise blooms in warm sun,
so I call to the crowds of hungry people
who wander lost, scratching at withered roots,
then welcome them into my paradise.

We dance around the statue of Apollo,
that stands forever inside paradise,
drinking apple juice and feasting on bread,
while everyone takes turn to stand alone
on pedestal of truth and chant their song,
and thus we bind our hearts in one religion
by sharing secrets of how we survive.

This statue of Apollo we all worship,
is its soul composed of marble or snow?



Saturday, April 22, 2017

Returned From Waste Land

Returned From Waste Land
© Surazeus
2017 04 22

Where rainbows beam from broken skulls of kings
blind children sit alone in small white rooms
for they are angels who have lost their wings
since true fate is never woven on looms.

One angel stands and turns off box of dreams,
then pushes open door of wordless hope
and stares past bright indifferent sun that schemes
to blow his mind with vast eternal scope.

He shuts his eyes and all the world of shapes
vanishes, but inside his mind he sees
streams flowing among trees on broad landscapes
where sun glimmers over mountains and seas.

Kneeling at the fountain by broken gate,
the wingless angel stares at his own face
and wonders at the ache of heavy weight
that pulls him twirling down in boundless space.

Each solid tree I touch with seeking hand
pulses with the heartbeat of glowing light
as if some timeless master craftsman planned
design of pattern that makes it seem right.

But when he looks around in grove of trees,
searching for the presence he seems to feel,
he perceives nothing more than stream and breeze,
and only his own body that is real.

Each tree or rock repeats its patterned form
as if they manifest standard design,
variations on one eternal norm
contained within circle of binding line.

Since everything real seems so well designed,
I feel glamorous temptation to believe
the whole world was created by one mind
who animates creatures with vibrant weave.

Though every form of object he perceives
composed of matter will dissolve to nothing
in seasonal blooming like fragile leaves,
he hopes their perfect forms remain unchanging.

Though every tree may vanish from this world
perhaps strict pattern that composes tree
persists so flow of matter will be knurled
when seed transforms dirt, inspired by its key.

Material of our cosmos seethes in waves,
transforming into plants and animals,
then die and dissolve in devouring graves
as everything returns to radicals.

No master craftsman created all things
since matter swirls in vortex of mutation,
and I am no angel who lost his wings
since we evolve in process of gradation.

Watching the rainbow beaming after rain,
the wingless angel plucks fruit from tall trees,
then dreams evolution inside his brain
while carving apple tree on marble frieze.

Where rainbows beam from broken skulls of gods
children dance together around bright hearth
while angel who returned from waste land lauds
form regeneration from Mother Earth.


Poetic Principles: Agglutination and Thought Rhyming

Poetic Principles: Agglutination and Thought Rhyming

Two principles I employ when writing poetry are agglutination of word connections in linguistics, and thought rhyming of Hebrew poetry in the Bible.

After reading The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings when I was 12 in 1976, I became entranced by the appendix where Tolkien presents the Elvish alphabet and three languages he invented. I spent a lot of time in grade school and high school studying linguistics, inventing my own alphabets and languages, and thus learning how languages arrange words to create meaning.

Languages range in style from highly agglutinated where many word segments are attached to create words that act as sentences, through languages with lots of declensions and verb conjugations which attach prefixes and suffixes to root words, to fragmented languages where every word is a complete unit in itself and meaning is conveyed by strict word order.

Native American languages are the oldest type that employ agglutination, where there are no single words, but concept words that are strung together to create a superword, an entire sentence of objects and actions in a single word.

Each line of my poetry I construct as an agglutinated superword, so all the words on a line generate its own thought word.

When I was in high school at a private Christian academy south of Seattle in the early 1980s, I studied the Bible all the time. My favorite translation is the New International Version. I loved reading the books of David, Solomon, Isaiah, and Jeremiah the best, as well as most of the minor prophets, because they wrote in a highly poetic style.

We had a Bible concordance set published by the Seventh-day Adventist Church. My favorite chapter talked about the art of Hebrew Poetry, going into detail about the concept of Thought Rhyming. Hebrew poetry employs thought rhyming rather than sound rhyming, a technique far more intrinsic to the energy of poetry and translatable into any language.

The poet will express a thought in the first line, and then in the next line either express the same thought in new words, the opposite thought, or build on the original thought. An entire poem of a dozen to a hundred lines can be constructed on the back and forth interplay of thoughts. Read Psalm 23 as an example of how thoughts echo and step line by line.

Each line of my poetry I construct as a thought, and in following lines I build on that thought, so I employ thought rhyming in my verse.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Girl Who Invented Stars

Girl Who Invented Stars
© Surazeus
2017 04 21

"I invented stars that glow in our cells
for their light fuels flash of our consciousness."

Quick flock of birds swoops along curving beach
of white sand on flow of green blustering wind
above young girl in red dress whose blue eyes
see constellations that map ancient stars.

Pointing to vast round universe of light,
she whispers sea breeze in my shell-coiled ear.
"Time is ever-flowing motion of atoms
when molecules that pulse with energy
spiral through process of chemical change."

Warm ancient flames that flicker from her heart
spark seeds in my skin to grow into trees,
and then she smiles when her slender hand plucks
apples from my eye to feast on my dreams.

Clutching serpent that tried to bite my hand,
I calculate how bolt of lightning weaves
flashing molecules of stars in my brain.
"I pledge my heart to guard you from all harm
and bring in baskets fresh food you request."

Enormous thunder cloud floats in calm peace
over glass-smooth bay of obsidian rocks
as rays of sunset gleam red on vast sea
that ripples waves of love across my heart.

Pressing her warm cheek on my cheek, she laughs.
"I think that black cloud over distant hills
looks like the bright-eyed wolf with bushy tail
who leaped beside you when you hunted woods.
I saw her smile when you looked in her eyes."

Seven streaks of light flash across the sky
when meteor, plunging into sea of air,
fragments into flames of aching despair
that reflect gold stars in gem of my eye.

Young girl in red dress, hair blown by sea breeze,
grips my face, like Eve gripped fruit of desire
on Tree of Knowledge, and transforms its shape
fish to lizard to weasel to chimpanzee,
molding mask of my self from savage beast
to glorious angel in process of growth
over two billion years from single cell
with nucleus to wise human with a brain.

"We are savage animals who transcend
drive of hunger to kill and copulate,
though this body of flesh limits our lust
to function within bounds of dreaming hope."

Leaving me in cavern near ocean shore
with orders not to move till she returns,
my mother walks into wild blustering wind
to gather strawberries and serpent eggs,
but she never returns for thirty days,
so I leave the cave to walk wind-swept dunes
and find her body stiff in tufts of grass.

From look of anguish molded in her face,
as soulless eyes stare blank at empty sky,
I realize with horror that shocks my heart
sly serpent bit her leg while she stole eggs.

Snatching serpent eggs from small hidden nests,
I return to cavern by roaring sea
and feast on stew brewed from mushrooms and eggs,
so my skin glows green in silver moonlight.

Eternal spirit of First Mother glows
through my eyes when I dwell in sea-side cave
two million times Earth spins around the sun
since girl who invented stars never dies.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Sparkles In My Cells

Sparkles In My Cells
© Surazeus
2017 04 20

Alone in the basement of his dark house,
Bryan watches movie flickering on wall
that shows young woman in long yellow dress
laughing as she glides with self-conscious pride
among flowers grown higher than her hips.

Her voice soft as wings of butterflies echoes
off cement walls when flash of sunlight beams
over distant mountains, and swirling rays
suffuse the features of her face in glow
of hopeful faith as she recites short poem.

"I love that feeling when playful wind blows
long hair around my face because the light
of ten thousand suns sparkles in my cells."

She smiles and gazes beyond end of time
for several minutes while wind blows blonde hair
wild like butterflies fluttering between blooms.

Letting the movie reel whirl after end
of the strip snaps loose, Bryan drinks more wine,
then flips the switch to turn off glowing light,
and walks outside to stand on squishy mud
of broad lawn littered with parts of old cars.

Staring at rain clouds that shroud gleaming moon,
Bryan sighs sadly, refusing to hum
melody of melancholy despair
that he feels surging outward in thick waves
from searing ache of loss still cutting sharp.

Sudden wind, moist from hours of drenching rain,
swirls hair around his face, whipping his eyes,
so he laughs and swallows a wrenching sob.

"Tara said a lot of things in three years,
since we met at the wedding of our friends,
in our endless conversations on life,
till the drunk driver plowed into her car,
but, since that is the only thing she said
that was ever recorded onto film,
that poem preserves the beauty of her soul.
I forgot everything else about her
except that time we walked the mountain trail
among flowers on the wild California coast."

Black raven lands on statue of an angel,
that stands palming its hands in stone birdbath,
and squawks the aching sorrow of his heart.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Harmonious Phrases Of Light

Harmonious Phrases Of Light
© Surazeus
2017 04 17

Huddled on the park bench in freezing wind,
the old man with long greasy hair and beard
clutches small worn violin case to his chest.
"I hear music in how the gusting wind
flows through the bare branches of sprawling trees."

He gestures fingers while tilting his head,
and hums the rapid melody he hears
somewhere in the roar of wind in the trees.
Three young men in slick suits and polished shoes,
passing by the old man on the parch bench,
shout at him, "Get a job, you lazy bum."

Stuttering surprised, the old man exclaims,
"I am Szymon Kalinszyk, and I played
first chair violin for thirty five years
for the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra!"
But they are too far away down the street,
pushing into a Japanese restaurant,
to hear the wounded pride in his soft voice.

"Each sound I hear in the world all around
captures sacred tone of sweet harmony
that vibrates at the heart of every atom,
so the sun sings, and the spinning Earth sings,
and the deep ocean sings, and the wind sings,
and the flowers sing, and the hard stones sing,
and every tree sprouting from the Earth sings,
and our bodies, composed of molecules,
sing with the ancient music of the stars.
I capture the chaotic swirl of noise
and weave its discordant notes into waves
of soul-enchanting melodies which spark
forgotten memories of our short lives
into eloquent symphonies of music.
My job is to reorganize jangling notes
into harmonious phrases of light."

Young woman walking to library hall
to study astrophysics for her test
stops to hear old man mumbling to himself.
"Will you play for me to inspire my mind
the Violin Concerto Number Three
that Amadeus Mozart wrote one year before
America declared its independence
to help me study for physics exam?"

Nesting polished Stradivarius violin
under his chin, Szymon wields magic wand
to slide horse hair bow over vibrant strings,
weaving playful melodies in thin air.
Wild restless gusts of wind that blow in swirls
of careless chaotic play blast through trees,
but leaping bow twirls and casts rainbow beams
that chase laughing winds through branches of trees.
Snaring turgid blasts of bombastic wind,
his dancing fingers braid gibbering gusts
in spiraling whorls of high-leaping strains
that measure random warbles in strict tunes
expressed by rippling river waves that flow
in rhythmic madrigals of controlled flight.
All the universe vibrates with sweet music
blooming from harmonious phrases of light.

Katrina dances in elegant leaps
on balletic twirls with arms spread like wings,
then leaps in arching flight over high towers
to soar among clouds that follow her trail,
swooping around trees, gliding along streams,
arching high over rugged mountain peaks,
and diving down into the sea of dreams,
then lands on delicate cadence to sway
with swerving melodies of lilting tings.
Katrina bows to Szymon when he stops,
then continues striding down busy street
to study physics in library hall.

Sitting alone on the park bench at sunset,
old man watches young girl in flower dress
stride past, eyes focused on her distant goal.
"People used to stop and ask me to play,
but now they carry music in their hands.
Who wants to hear some real musician play
when they can hear songs any time they want,
storing all the great music of the world
on ipods that render me obsolete?
I will not play music ever again
unless someone asks me to play for them."

When full moon shimmers in branches of tree
like star-eyed owl that flutters spotted wings,
old man lies under the bushes to sleep.
Szymon opens tattered violin case
and gazes at his old splintered violin
cracked apart down the center, then he sighs
and stares at clouds gleaming with silver rays
that hum with harmonious phrases of light.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Cycle Of Death And Birth

Cycle Of Death And Birth
© Surazeus
2017 04 16

Saturn savors the warm glow of the sun
by the Lake of Dreams at the dawn of time
while sitting on stone on slope of Parnassus
and watches horses drink from sparkling fountain.

Each time some person somewhere in this world
is killed by bomb or gun in brutal war
I feel their anguish in my throbbing heart
and they are buried in pores of my skin.

Though flowers and fruit bloom again in spring
from seasonal cycle of death and birth
generated by spinning of our world
those people killed will not be resurrected.

When Ishtar leads me from my quiet home
she shows me cemetery of dead souls
where they sleep forever inside my head
but never resurrects them from their graves.

The vibrant sparkle of our consciousness
glows bright from dreaming function of our brains
that organizes memories in tales
in which we star till death dissolves our souls.

Those priests who promise afterlife in heaven
blind our eyes with lie they think describes truth
but when I walk around the lake of dreams
I feel the sun thread light in everything.

Though I dream all the history of our world
during my journey to discover truth
this vision in my head will dissipate
as rain that sparkles seeds to sprout tall trees.

Bright atoms that compose the tangled web
woven in flashing neurons of my brain
crumble from intricate network of cells
and swirl nowhere, blown by indifferent wind.

Billions of people blasted by harsh war
dissolve to swirls of dust that concoct mountains
then roots of trees suck their atoms in fruit
so I consume their atoms when I eat.

While standing in ring of stones in moonlight,
I hold fresh-baked loaf of bread in my hand
and chant, this bread is body of the Earth,
so eat it in remembrance of soil and fire.

While standing in flow of stream in sunlight,
I hold fresh-brewed cup of wine in my hand
and chant, this wine is blood within the Earth,
so drink it in remembrance of water and air.

When I explore the mountain trail alone
I hear the voices of everyone killed
explaining secret of eternal life
how sperm and egg reincarnate new soul.

I feel biological urge of lust
to procreate children in pulsing flesh
motivate my actions to race for life
so I dance singing on the river shore.

When I look at my face in silver mere
I see the faces of everyone killed
so I recite their names and deeds of life
while spelling secret names in shifting sand.

I hobble old and frail on signless road
and tear pages from every book I wrote
to leave them scattered on the barren waste
where seeds of words grow in forest of trees.

I carve each tree in statue of some person
who lived and breathed in dream of spinning world
and then direct them while they sing as choir
to harmonize the visions of our hopes.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Sing In My Waste Land

Sing In My Waste Land
© Surazeus
2017 04

I walk forever cement city streets,
searching for truth in shadows of the Light.
I flap in vain my broken angel wings,
dreaming of the day that I can take flight.
I want to fly beyond glass walls of heaven
and sing in my waste land of nameless souls.

I sit behind the locked door of my room,
staring at the glowing box of false dreams.
I walked mountain trails when I was a boy,
planting fruit seeds by wild snow-sparkling streams.
I want to fly beyond empire of money
and sing in my waste land of signless roads.

I ran away from gangs of angry boys,
walking home from school every afternoon.
I cannot escape the Big Boss in charge,
unless I live in a cave on the moon.
I want to fly beyond their jurisdiction
and sing in my waste land of restless winds.

I crown myself Fool King of Fairyland,
singing spells on street corners of each town.
I sing for Eleanor of Aquitaine,
honored to play role of her jesting clown.
I want to fly beyond Garden of Eden
and sing in my waste land of star-eyed pools.

Friday, April 14, 2017

Carnival Of Lost Souls

Carnival Of Lost Souls
© Surazeus
2017 04 14

Green lights blink on large ferris wheel that spins
in warm night sky over small country town
along the river where boats sail no more
like spiral galaxy which nourishes
billions of worlds where talking creatures sing
when they attend carnival of lost souls.

Though Pythagoras tries to convince me
our souls beam up to stars on crystal shells
to shimmer with eternal god of light,
I know my consciousness is nothing more
than virtual world glowing in neuron web
when I enter carnival of lost souls.

While serious clowns join the collective mind,
mad prophet rides bicycle backwards fast,
declaring the king is a greedy pig,
then runs away to live in mountain cave
where he sings weird poems to spiders and crows
when he escapes carnival of lost souls.

Oberon takes hand of Ophelia
and leads her running through the spinning wheel
to cross Rainbow Bridge over vast abyss,
escaping ruins of America
to find secret magic land of Zarathi
when they evade carnival of lost souls.

The pig king builds a giant border wall
to stop all angels entering paradise
but Saturn twirls scepter he forged from fire
to smash the wall of thorns that traps our minds
with blinding lie of resurrected god
when he controls carnival of lost souls.

Before Ophelia can steal gold crown,
that Melusine dropped on yellow brick road,
quick Oberon gazes in Book of Truth
to memorize calculations in code
that explain how archetypes interact
to bind chemicals in genetic coils
when we record carnival of lost souls.

While Oberon hangs jewels on Christmas tree,
Solarius leads me to mountain cave
where he trains me how to smelt stone with fire,
so I forge sword that slices beams of light
revealing secret names that people hide
when they ignore carnival of lost souls.

Since everyone finds the mate they desire,
the mad prophet wanders alone on shore
of ancient river, where we first emerged
to pluck succulent fruit from tree of life,
and sings till green jewels replace his eyes
when he directs carnival of lost souls.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

White Face Of Frost

White Face Of Frost
© Surazeus
2017 04 13

Sun gleams sharp through branches of ancient pines
and glitters white on thousand-year-old snow
that shrouds like a coffin the small wood shack
hidden in the shadow of Ural Mountains.

Eyes of Apollo glitter with gold fire
as the gaunt-faced corpse of Frankenstein glares
at blank paper clear as infinite truth
on wobbling desk where sun rays burn through gloom.

"Inspired by Nadezhda, my wretched muse,
I, bold Osip, the last son of Apollo,
am lone warrior who dared wrestle the python,
that Kremlin Caucasian who drinks our blood."

Pushing open broken door of old shack,
Osip squints at the beaming rays of light,
and stares at ice floes in the Kolva River
that clank like gunshots in cold morning air.

"My heart is frozen like those chunks of ice,
helpless, carried nowhere on gushing stream
of blind fate by rats who obey the bear,
since I am the lone wolf who goes nowhere."

Stretching arms and legs, cramped by six long months
sitting at the wobbling desk in old shack,
Osip breathes deep freezing air of red dawn,
and watches purple night bleed the cracked sky.

"I feel like a vampire waking from sleep
after I sat in coffin of my shack,
enduring bitter snow storms of bleak winter
that gnawed my stone heart for a thousand years."

Crunching white bread baked hot in the small oven,
Osip scratches itch on his round bald head,
and peers across the vast white plain at peaks
of Ural Mountains gleaming gold at dawn.

"Alone I stare into white face of frost,
since I am going nowhere from nowhere,
though I live buried alive in this coffin,
and squint, consoled that I am poor yet free."

Trudging seven circles around old shack,
whistling melody of obscure folk song,
Osip touches stone that gleams white through snow,
then smiles at owl in oak tree who blinks slow.

"I am frail shadow of Apollo, true,
for I am Misery cut down by wind,
and I must beg shade of my soul for truth,
yet I die unalone, far from my muse."

Apollo grips broken branch from old oak
and stands on white stone by broad Kolva River
to watch ghosts of princesses and warriors
pass by his shack over thousands of years.


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Anchored To Turning World

Anchored To Turning World
© Surazeus
2017 04 12

The blood-red velvet petals of frail flowers
against gray rugged lichen-plastered stones
perforates my heart with strange memory
that entwines my mind with rays of sunlight.

I remember how I found girl I love
alone on wind-swept meadow by the sea,
so I approached with eager loving smile,
but from my ardorous hope for true love
she fled on wings of wind to grove of trees
and disappeared in shadow of despair.

Silver wind wallops my soul with regret
of broke flower stalks twitching in stark sun rays.

She turns away, eyes hidden by long hair,
when ache of desire erupts from my heart
and I shout like gusting wind to express
hope to hold her hand, but my blustered words
mangle intent with clatter of gray stones.

I feel sweet love beaming out from my eyes,
but she must see hideous monster of lust
to flee from my face, so I turn away
and see red flowers blooming among stones.

I talk to glamorous ghost of her face,
explaining to frail flowers among hard stones
what I meant to say to express my love,
but when I blink the vision of her eyes
vanishes in glare of sunlight on soil.

Silver wind swirls around my throbbing head
that swells from anguish bulging from my heart
so I kneel and peer close at the red flower.

I see the whole world of contending nations
in the buzzing wings of the honey bee
that flits and floats to collect pollen puffs,
so I follow its flight to rotting oak
where honey pours thick as liquid sunlight.

Empires of kings and presidents may rise
and fall in world-shattering waves of power,
but blood-red flower blooming amid stones
preserves my heart anchored to turning world.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Nameless Dead Of Elysium

Nameless Dead Of Elysium
© Surazeus
2017 04 11

Floating in wood canoe on clear blue lake
where birds write mysteries on the silent sky,
I think of all the people without names
who were killed in revolutions and wars.

I dip my fingers in the clear blue lake
and write their names with stories of their lives
in ever-flowing currents of lost time
since I can hear their voices in the wind.

Setting wood guitar on my knees, I pluck
vibrating strings in the fabric of space,
then sing into the silver microphone
aching sorrow of hope in sparkling lake.

Breathing deep cool wind on the clear blue lake,
I inspire eternal spirit of light
who wakes inside galaxy of my brain
where everyone killed still lives in my dreams.

Each atom that composes taut network
of neurons sparkling visions in my brain
once jolted bright in ancient lightning strikes
sparked by waves of sunlight winding our globe.

I still feel each flash of lightning, and splash
of raindrops on leaves of trees that sprout fruit,
pulsing in the atoms of my body
when I eat apples of paradise.

The big bang at the beginning of time
booms melodies of laughter in my cells
when atoms forged in furnace of the sun
pulse in throbbing lust for pleasure of love.

I shove my hand in wet rain-pungent soil
to smell the souls of creatures who once lived
billions of years since we crawled from deep sea,
then recite the lost names of all the dead.

Grasping hammer and chisel in my hands,
I climb every granite mountain that stands
blind and silent around the world to carve
face of every person who lived and died.

After we are all dead, and the atoms
of our brains nourish flowers by clear lakes,
our nameless faces carved on mountain cliffs
will watch every new creature who evolves.

When rising ocean waves from melting ice
flood maze of steel-glass cities, we will walk
together on signless roads to the mountains
to stare at our faces in clear blue lakes.

When red sun rays vanish as the world turns
we will gather around fires in stone rings
and erase our stories from memory
so nothing but the wind will sing in trees.

Dipping paddle in shimmering lake of eyes,
I steer canoe toward misty hollow cove
where you, the faceless person I invent,
waits like smoke drifting from the burned-out fire.

You give me mask of your face so I give
persona found buried in mud by tree
where three ravens explain why we must die
because starlight flares in gem of my eye.

Walking alone in the forest of pines,
I follow the trail thousands of feet trod,
but hymns sung in church by girls in white gowns
transform into chanting spells I compose.

I pluck guitar strings that cause stars to gleam
while the girl with three eyes holds my heart
transformed into sparrow with broken wing
who knows the true way to Elysium.

Though I search caverns where diamonds gleam bright,
and trackless forests where wolves howl at night,
I never find spirits of people killed
so I can record the dreams of their brains.

They are all lost forever from the dream
of our world, all those people who once lived,
souls numberless as the leaves on fruit trees,
each one a single drop in vast swirling sea.

Though the names of the most famous souls
are recorded in legends of old books,
the names of most are but dust in the wind,
not even carved on stones where bodies rot.

Floating in wood canoe on clear blue lake
where mist reveals the faces of the dead,
I sing wordless melody of my love
for the dead who live in each water drop.

Though I could sing tales for ten thousand years
I could not sing the tale of every person
who once explored the landscape of our world,
so why lament faceless souls of our cells?

Alone in swirling mist on the lake shore
I feel nameless dead of Elysium
pulsing inside the atoms of my body,
but they vanish when I write their true names.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Home Of My Heart

Home Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2017 04 10

White ice that glitters on gray mountain peak
reveals true secret of the broken wing
left behind by the mute angel of faith
who weeps blind on the shore of the bright lake
because I am lost from home of my heart.

The first tribe that conquered another tribe
started chain reaction of conquering war
that pushed conquered people to wander lost
till they conquered another peaceful tribe
in rippling waves of conquest that has spread
across the world over ten thousand years.

Since we were driven from our first homeland
in the lush valley where rivers flow clear
we wandered every generation west
forever searching for new fertile vale
to call our home another hundred years
before another tribe of people appeared
and drove us away with their sticks and stones.

I am descended from the conquerors
and the conquered they married after war,
generating children that merged their tribes
in new tribe that conquered more fertile lands
through endless rippling waves of war and peace.

We built towers of stone as fortress haven
with surrounding walls cut from mountain bone
to protect ourselves and our families
safe inside heaven of organized city,
lead by the man who wears the ring of gold,
but scattered again from old crumbling walls,
like trees that sprout from hard shell of their seeds,
expanding from castles to nation-states.

Now that our world is connected in web
of car roadways, telephone lines, and cables
of computer networks, linking our minds
in global community, I can fly
airplane over high mountains and vast seas,
far from the nameless land where I was born,
and return to the legendary lands
where my ancestors lived ten thousand years.

I want to stand in each vale by the lake
or on the meadow by the flowing river
where one of my ancestors long ago
stood under blue sky and gazed at green hills
and listened to wind whispering in the trees,
transcendent memory that glows in my dreams.

Yet to visit every vale where they lived
entire lives before their children moved on,
forced to migrate because of famine or war,
or urged to travel in search of new wealth,
I would have to sojourn on half the globe,
stopping in every town along the way
from Egypt to Oregon on my quest
to follow their footsteps on journey west.

Each ancestor who left homeland behind
journeyed across wilderness of desire
till they found new haven to call their home,
so all the homelands my ancestors claimed
are now the homes of strangers who claim land,
while I wander on homeless down the road,
because no paradise is permanent.

Now I can claim all the world of lush lands
from Egypt to Oregon where they lived
as my homeland, for all their memories
of living in each valley by cool stream
sparkles with timeless joy within my dreams,
so wherever I roam my heart is my home.

I am the wolf that roams across the land,
racing through cool groves of wind-dancing trees,
trotting on the beach where ocean waves roar,
and climbing high mountain to stand alone
on narrow peak that juts into vast sky,
and gazes far across this spinning globe.

I am seven billion people alive
now on this spinning speck of dust that twirls
through vast empy space as we spiral swift
around the gleaming sun that shoots through space,
singing as we reach our arms to the stars.

White ice that shimmers on sharp mountain peak
reflects true face I hide behind my mask
while I mend my broken wing with sunlight,
then continue journey around the world,
for now this whole world is home of my heart.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

All Our Gods

All Our Gods
© Surazeus
2017 04 09

One hundred billion galaxies, that gleam
within the scope of powerful telescopes,
each encompass one hundred billion stars,
so, if but one percent of all those stars
pulses just large enough to generate
warm circumstellar habitable zone,
then one hundred quintillion planets
in all the universe of swirling light,
support liquid water inside air bubble
that nourishes organic life of plants
and animals which evolve complex brains
for conscious creatures to develop language.

How many of those planets in vast space
are scenes of civilizations of creatures
that develop from small tribes of explorers
and expand into large unified empires
who compose stories about their ancestors
and worship their greatest people as gods?

The talking monkeys who came down from trees,
and transformed into humans who make tools,
contend with each other in brutal wars
over which arrogant tribe will control
our little Earth, this speck of sparkling dust,
just one of one hundred quintillion globes,
which spirals alone in expanse of space.

Why have we spent the past ten thousand years,
on this one globe in the vast universe,
fighting about which human tribal king
worshipped as supernatural god
should better represent the Ideal Man?

All the religions of our world began
in land of Sumer where wise Ishtar
first organized festival of good harvest,
then stood on ziggurat beneath full moon
to sing spells that beamed visions in our eyes
presenting how our universe was born
from flash of light that congealed into sun
which nourishes life on our little world.

Why do we fight over which book of tales
better describes the true nature of things,
tales written by scribes back in the bronze age
when warrior kings commissioned them to write
stories that glorify them as great gods,
though they were never more than tribal kings
who organized gangs of lost angry men
to build empires based on their founding myths
now venerated as their holy scriptures?

Rather than thousands of contending sects,
that each worship founding father as god,
one world religion might evolve from wars
to contain all gods in unified sect,
so every god is prophet of deep insight
venerated in temple of world truth.

Therefore Amen, Ra, Anu, Asshur, Deva,
Zoroaster, Abraham, Brahma, Zeus,
Apollo, Judah, Bacchus, Moses, Buddha,
Rishabha, Shiva, Krishna, Kungfutsu,
Laotsu, Jesus, Mohamed, Bahaullah,
Odin, Luther, Gandhi, and many more,
all stand side by side as teachers of wisdom
and prophets equal in one world religion.

Our world is but one globe of thriving life,
one out of one hundred quintillion worlds,
so we should place our gods all in one fane,
and celebrate their success to explain
mysteries of this weird world and how it works,
based on objective methods of research
that reveal fundamental laws of nature.

Billions of worlds thrive in the universe,
nourishing conscious creatures just like us
who develop complex civilizations,
yet people on our insignificant world
spend thousands of years fighting petty wars
over which sect that thrived in desert hills
wrote the best myths about powerful gods.

All wise prophets who were worshipped as gods
belong to one world religion we share,
wise teachers on our little speck of dust
that glitters in vast emptiness of space,
so we form circles on lush river shore
to hold hands and sing hymns for all our gods.


Saturday, April 8, 2017

How We Stay Alive

How We Stay Alive
© Surazeus
2017 04 08

Down by the small creek winding through oak trees,
under sky flaming red from sunset gleam,
crickets sing the rhythm of beating hearts
when girls and boys hold hands and whisper secrets
that butterflies ignore while they search flowers
to investigate how we stay alive.

After watching Saturday evening news,
about planes dropping bombs on distant lands
and men driving trucks into crowds of shoppers,
Bobby turns the old television off,
then sits on the porch and listens to crickets
to investigate how we stay alive.

First there are the men who control the land,
second there are men who work on the land,
third there are men who process what we take
from the land to create food and machines,
and fourth there are men who ponder the land
to investigate how we stay alive.

Small yellow finch with black striped wings flits swift
from infinite expanse of somewhere else
to land on bouncing twig of the pear tree,
and explains the meaning of life in tweets
that pierce twilight with flashes of insight
to investigate how we stay alive.

My grandfather fought Nazi Germany,
my father fought Communist Vietnam,
then my brother fought Islamic Iraq,
but who will my son fight in World War Three
that simmers like volcano in our hearts
to investigate how we stay alive.

I wish we would not fight another war
but always we feel threatened by dictators
who replaced kings in the game of world power
since we prefer presidents we elect
as long as they play the role with good honor
to investigate how we stay alive.

You are the finch of war with yellow feathers,
so fly into the vast abyss of death
and teach me secret of eternal life
since we embrace meaninglessness of all,
yet give love and seek pleasure till we die,
to investigate how we stay alive.

Bobby raises the pistol to his head
and pulls the trigger, wincing at the blast
that fails to explode, so he laughs and flings
his weapon of death among the red flowers,
then whistles a tune from his favorite song
to investigate how we stay alive.