Friday, March 23, 2018

Shadow Of Her Face

Shadow Of Her Face
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

Sitting alone by the stream in the woods,
the girl who shimmers like mist on the lake
writes the name and story of every person
who ever walked alive on spinning Earth
on every leaf that falls from the oak tree
to drift away on the stream of lost time.

I hear her singing in the silver mist
and though I walk in curves around old trees,
following the siren spell of her voice,
I float somewhere in the flash of sunlight,
yet never see the shadow of her face,
so I kneel by the river of lost souls.

Fragments of memories float on the stream
of ceaseless change, each leaf discarded mask
of people who died before I was born,
so I assemble stones in winding spirals
to map the way home from the Underworld
that guides my journey back to glowing hearth.

She is not there, the woman with no face,
singing at the hearth I built with my hands,
where she was sitting when I left to join
army of warriors to defend our land
against invaders hungry for our fruit,
so now I sit alone with smiling skulls.

I stare into the sky at swirling clouds
that flash white lightning in the pouring rain,
and shout at God my father said was there
to ask why he does nothing to restore
peaceful paradise of our garden home,
wondering if he speaks in the gusting wind.

I feel the fire of the sun in my heart
urging me with rage to wrestle the wind,
so I howl at the blind indifferent rain
as I fall into the abyss of despair
and wake at dawn to the chirping of birds
so I laugh when understand why not.

I stare at trees sprouting from river shore,
intent on reversing the flow of time
but rivers continue to flow down hill,
and sunlight continues to beam my face,
and apples continue to sprout from blooms
and I continue to look for her face.

When I accept that she vanished from time,
I walk nowhere along the winding stream
to find young woman with long flowing hair
who twirls and sings among the apple trees
and falls gasping into my gentle arms
so we kiss for a thousand years in rain.

Two Little Birds In Grass

Two Little Birds In Grass
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

Two little birds hop in the dry spring grass
and peck to find lost memories in my heart.
Late afternoon sunlight of the March day
glimmers gold on the white trunk of the tree
that watches me through the window and waits.
The dark shadow on the wall is not me.
To dream the history of the universe
I finger the wrinkles on my left hand
since no fortune teller can understand
the way afternoon sunlight knows my name.
I lose so I refuse to play the game.

The book on the coffee table reveals
the map to the lost memories of my heart.
No wind blows in the late afternoon light
that shimmers over veneer of my face
I hide with the mask I carved from dead tree.
I follow the bees to find honeycombs.
The dark shadow on the grass is not me
so I touch the air that swirls from my eyes
and I float away into voiceless skies
the way afternoon sunlight shows my soul.
I will disappear into the White Whole.

One little bird in the grass flies away
at the whisper of memories from my heart.
I want to wash my soul with the sunlight
so I stand in the grass a thousand years
to watch trees sprouting from palm of my hand.
I ask the shadow the name it conceals.
Each leaf that falls from the indifferent tree
becomes one shard in the puzzle of me
but in the flow of water I still hear
the ancient song of the first flash of light.
I can teach myself the spirit of flight.

I will the little bird to return home
at the flutter of memories from my heart.
The gold sun I thought would forever shine
fades slowly into nothing of white blooms
that never dream of me on hands of trees.
I become the shadow that fades away.
I look at my hand in the lightless house
to read the fortune I already know,
that I dissolve into the sun-drenched yard
and grow as flowers who will watch you live.
You will feel me with you in the sun glow.

Metapost On Face Book

Metapost On Face Book
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

The latest poem that I wrote about nothing.
What I am doing now that is too weird.
Photos of nature where I am exploring.
What song bird is now living in my beard.

The cool movie I am watching tonight.
What awards my children at school have won.
How I will transcend the mystical light.
What I think about sitting in the sun.

Long crazy-eyed rant about politics.
How I transformed into an atheist.
Why I am really an old moon-eyed Strix.
Wondering if I am on a secret blacklist.

Buy my new awesome book of poems for sale.
The bad accident I barely survived.
How I handle my privilege of being male.
The facade of calm success I contrived.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Spirals Of Engendering Quarks

Spirals Of Engendering Quarks
© Surazeus
2018 03 22

Why the sun explains how time flashes pure
as silver rain bombastic for the show
beyond the pretty devil who, demure,
guides me to kiss her in the morning snow.

Naked as sunlight on water at dawn,
she explains how seeds explode from black skies,
transforming dirt into fruit of the swan
who cracks the mirror of my ice-blue eyes.

Curious about where the sun was born
I explore field of flowers wet with dew
to drink honey mead from the curving horn,
reluctant to reveal where apples grew.

Broken door falls from the tree made of bones,
allowing me to forge the key of death
from angels who try to escape from stones
with serpent eggs that hide the shibboleth.

I calculate comedic formula,
extracting from our universal truth
the wretched joke of our particular
how I evolve from messiah to sleuth.

How weird that nothing fills my empty brain
in writhing strands of hot electric sparks
that generate virtual worlds in the rain
since we are spirals of engendering quarks.

Unemployed In Green Land

Unemployed In Green Land
© Surazeus
2018 03 22

Standing still on the corner of the street,
and holding leather briefcase in left hand,
Michael watches busy people walk fast
with far-away looks in their staring eyes,
and he watches cars and trucks speeding past
as their engines emit vibrating roar,
and the giant ball of fire in the sky
illuminates glass towers and asphalt streets
with stark intense light of pulsating heat.

"Though I worked as an accountant for banks
for twenty years, processing new home loans,
today I am unemployed in Green Land.
How strange it seems that I once raced along
with intently focused activity
of ten thousand people in this huge city,
determined to play vital role
as one tiny cog playing my secure part
in this grinding economic machine
to earn enough money so I can eat.
Now that I have been fired from my bank job,
extracted from my part in the machine,
I stand still and useless on the bright street
like the gear cast aside on factory floor,
no longer turning on schedule of time,
motionless amid the motion of business.
I stand on still point of the turning world,
as if I were the axle of the wheel,
but the axle is central to its motion,
and I was never core to the machine,
so now I am the axle and not the gear?
I think the mayor who must run this city
functions as the axle connecting wheels,
though maybe he must be the steering wheel,
but are we humans parts of some machine,
mindless robots performing functions well
in communal societies of action?
As office worker in large company,
I was but one part of some giant whole,
yet we humans are autonomous persons,
complete individuals in ourselves,
so now that I am separate from the whole
I can move on my own independent track
and devise private reasons to exist.
I always helped people get loans to buy
new homes where they can care for families,
but now I feel useless without my job.
What function that contributes to success
of my personal growth with stable income
do I want to perform in game of life
that fulfills my sense of purposeful worth,
rather than what society demands?
How foolish I sound, searching for my purpose,
like those self-help gurus who earn their living
spouting bromides at flashy seminars
that fool morons into giving them cash
in return for phony steps to success.
Yet why should I apply my energy
to perform any good function at all
that maintains engine of society
which milks our labor for the billionaires,
choosing instead to sit on the street corner
or under shady tree in city park
and do nothing with my hands or my mind?
The only result is that I would starve
and my body dissolve back into dust
when I refuse to perform any part
in the ruthless economic machine
that produces food to feed everybody
who chooses to cooperate for pay,
for anybody can play my small part.
Like Buddha I can sell all my possessions
and meditate under the fruitful tree
far from the business zone of cityscapes,
and listen to the river sing all day,
except that I will feel bored in one hour.
My mind spins active as the cranking piston
that twirls the axle so it turns the wheels
which motivates me to perform my role,
zooming along the highway of production.
Each person plays their role along the way
of transforming minerals of the Earth
into food or machines that aid our lives,
so though I want to leave Great Babylon
and meditate like Ezekiel by the river,
yet I want to eat, sleep safe, and watch movies,
so I must participate in society.
I would go mad sitting alone all day,
my mind inventing movies I would watch,
so I must work to live safe and eat well.
Although I will need to sit by the river
for one week to balance my energized mind,
yet I will return to play the money game
after I regain stoic calm of purpose."

Walking from the city over the bridge,
Michael sits meditating by the river,
dreaming the history of the universe
from First Flash of Light to the Flaring Forth
when life evolved from the sea of the world,
then returns and searches for a new job.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Simplicity Of Sunlight

Simplicity Of Sunlight
© Surazeus
2018 03 21

The simplicity of sunlight on dirt
explains without complex theology
that the universe is indifferent
to whether or not I exist, so I
write my name in the dust as the cool breeze
from the infinite sky of glowing light
erases it from the world chronicle.

I feel sunlight flicker on water waves
that pierce my soul with threads of Helium
forged by the sun that billows waves of light
which swirl into this sphere of surging soil
nourishing our bodies through natural flash
of chemicals spiraling into our brains
so I glow with pulsing atoms of love.

I see my reflection in flashing water
so I reach out and touch its gleaming surface
that ripples away across the vast sky
where the sun shimmers heat against my skin,
then stand and stretch my arms to touch the clouds,
and shout against the memory of cold night,
"I am Helios, son of the glowing sun."

Nothing but sunlight beating at my face
answers my anguished cry of self-awareness,
so I watch white clouds appear from the air
and spiral huge from cold buffeting wind,
and I dream particles of light and wind
flashing together in cool drops of rain
that drench the hills with beating of my heart.

I lift my face up to the flashing sky
and drink the rain drops falling from the sun
to feel its emanation fill my flesh
with urgent passion of delicious hope
that sparks visions of the First Flash of Light
expanding to spiral in galaxies
which shimmer in the cells of my wet flesh.

I dream creation of our universe
recorded in every drop of blue rain,
and though these mindless elements of force
swirl around me, indifferent to my life,
I feel their potent energies shock swift
to weave thick web of neurons in my brain
which mirrors network of vast galaxies.

Like footprints of birds on the sea beach sand,
I write the name and deeds of every soul
who ever woke from dream on spinning Earth
to record world chronicle before wind
of death erases memory of existence,
so I sing the visions of life I dream
in simplicity of sunlight on water.

Old Professor Of Literature

Old Professor Of Literature
© Surazeus
2018 03 21

Surrounded by dozens of family friends
and former students he taught many years,
the retired professor of literature
relaxes in stuffed armchair by the hearth
and puffs tobacco in curved wooden pipe
while contemplating movie of his life.

"I taught the arcane art of literature
and writing poetry for forty years
at this ivy-league university,
founded by my ancestor, Thomas Dudley,
to generations of eager young students,
teaching them the power of creative writing
to present visions on nature of life.
Yet after all this work teaching young minds
I retire in obscurity of fame,
unknown and forgotten by society,
as if I were some old leather work glove
discarded after years of faithful service."

Sipping glass of Rioja wine from Spain,
the eminent doctor of literature
gazes around at eyes watching him speak.
"Rather than suffer anguish and distress
at my failure to achieve success,
with people proclaiming art I create
expresses complex concepts about life
and therefore proves the genius of my mind,
I make it part of my life narrative
that people cannot recognize my greatness
because their ideas about great art
are simple and out-dated modes of thought.
I cannot control how people view me,
but I can control actions I perform
and words I speak to express point of view,
and above all I can control the art
I create through the gestures of my hands,
organizing words in lithe sentences
by typing letters on computer keyboard
that capture well the visions in my mind
so readers see the same visions I dream
that analyze flow of cause and effect
through dramatic process of human actions
which narrates great arc of historic games
that prove complex ontology of truth
I designed from my research into facts.
As the poet I create visions of life
that accurately describe human nature
in relation to the world we perceive.
Ignoring the opinions of the crowd,
who clamor for the simple narrative
where good people fight and defeat bad people,
I tell stories of people, who are both
good and bad, exploring nature of life
to understand force of cause and effect
that results from chemical interactions
of atoms forming geometric structures
through process of construction and destruction
so we can establish rules of morality
defining what actions are good or bad
that guide our behavior in situations
that threaten the existence of our souls."

Pausing to puff tobacco in his pipe,
the professor listens for nodding murmurs
attesting to the truth of his assertions,
then continues contemplating the mystery.
"We want to replicate our genes in children
who will live beyond the death of our bodies,
so we stay alert for dangerous forces
in nature, animals, or hostile people
who threaten to enslave us to their will
to exploit our labor for their own gain,
or kill us to obtain land where we live
and control resources of food and water
we manage to sustain life of our souls,
so we fight to defend our way of life
against people who threaten our existence.
All things are structures of material
that we manipulate to produce food
which sustains chemical process of life,
so we design machines from wood and metal
that assist our work of producing food
so we can feed more children of our bodies
who dwell inside protective walls we build
that forms haven of strong base citadel
where we manage the business of production
and plan more actions to control the land,
harvesting resources that we all share,
and organize all people in one project
where each person plays their vital role
to process functions of civilization
and educate our children to improve
good government of growing populations
who strive together within one world view."

Late evening sunlight slanting through the windows
illuminate the roofs of Cambridge town
as the professor of world literature
eloquently explains his firm world view.
"My failure to achieve success means nothing,
for I am but one lone individual
who dreams the vast and complicated world
from the limited view of my two eyes,
expressing one aspect of the diamond world,
so we all share the visions we perceive
and aggregate our views in one world view
that constructs complex ontology
to generate virtual model from words
that reflects the truth of our universe.
I hoped that I could, through my deep research,
design new ontology that explains
all opposing concepts scientists devise
in one grand theory of our universe
which could predict in simple formula
all functions of historical events.
I feel that I did succeed in my program
to present whole ontology of truth
because I see this grand vision of time
glowing complete in model of my mind
which organizes historical events
in one complete narrative of our lives,
but no one else will acknowledge my vision,
so my world view will vanish at my death
like the frail soap bubble that pops in air."

Gazing at the first star that twinkles bright
through the window of his home nearby Harvard,
the professor knocks ashes from his pipe,
and sighs like wind blowing from Rocky Mountains
just as his wife enters the room and smiles,
inviting them all to the dinner table.
Rising from his stuffed armchair by the hearth,
the old professor of world literature
lingers by the clear window of his soul
to gaze at the moon behind ragged clouds,
feeling the emptiness of his proud words,
then follows them in to eat the roast beef,
and they laugh as they talk of everything
while the world spins in the infinite void.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Tuning Of Fifty Violins

Tuning Of Fifty Violins
© Surazeus
2018 03 20

At the tuning of fifty violins
in the gymnasium of the middle school
the single note vibrates the universe
for a thousand years of timeless desire.

Invisible wind flowing over stones
and swirling between the wood trunks of trees
sings with ancient voices from the blue sky
that explain where I should go to survive.

I hear enchanting cry of aching hope
and kneel on the plain under shining clouds
to watch the woman walking in the wind
who sings one endless word across the sky.

Approaching me among the purple flowers,
the singing woman who voices the wind
glows bright as the sun haloing her head
and spreads her arms wide to embrace the world.

She stands above me in the flashing wind
and sings vibration of the universe
in ringing melody that burns my heart
with aching flame to become everything.

Transcending body of this nameless ache,
I spread across the sky in sunset flames,
and countless stars flash through my freezing eyes,
enchanted by the woman singing high.

She pulls me deep inside her aching heart
and we become the spinning world of wind
at lust of surging waves that flush our minds
when I begin to sing the word she knows.

We sing together under twinkling stars
and flowers blossom from our tingling skin
so kisses that caress my aching heart
influence me with spirit of the light.

Then deeper in the darkness of her song
I float on sweet vibrations of the mind
when surging time of endless relevance
bears me beyond the melody of death.

I wake from dream of ancient memory
when one incarnation of my deathless soul
was conceived in the field of flowers and stars
to hear the children stroke their violins.

I see my child in the large orchestra
slide arching bow across vibrating strings
to tune the aching love of ancient souls
who wake inside our minds with ringing tunes.

For a thousand years of timeless desire
the single note vibrates the universe
in the gymnasium of the middle school
at the tuning of fifty violins.

Vigilant For Predators

Vigilant For Predators
© Surazeus
2018 03 20

Whenever I walk down the city street
heat rays from the sun penetrate my skin
and weave electric energy of light
tight within the fabric of my frail being.

I move among people, tense and alert,
watching for danger of sudden attack
because all my ancestors who survived
never relaxed into dreamy contentment.

Their constant state of tense heightened awareness
that some misconstrued as paranoid fear
was realistic assessment of human nature,
expecting the worst from cruel predators.

I remain vigilant for predators,
hoping to avoid becoming their prey,
because I want to escape crushing death
and live well before I die of old age.

Sometimes the predator will be disguised
as the good person who cares about me,
but if they always take and never give
their cruel greed lies exposed to my eyes.

Though my heart fountains with generous love
if someone attacks me in word or deed
I can protect my heart from getting hurt,
defending myself without hurting them.

Though people try to hurt me with their greed
I am reluctant to hurt them in turn,
deflecting their attack with graceful wit,
and hurting them only if they persist.

I savor give and take of generous love,
exchanging pleasure in fulfilling trust,
so I avoid people who try to hurt,
and seek the company of those who heal.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Blue Of Infinite Time

Blue Of Infinite Time
© Surazeus
2018 03 19

When I cover my face with the gold mask
of the famous poet, I would confess
family-borne angst as virus of despair,
and drink ginger ale brewed from blood of truth.

Walking in the blue of infinite time,
I toughen my heart against mocking jokes
that charge me up with honest energy
to fight cruel insults with indifferent grace.

Brushing wind-blown hair from her flushing cheek,
the goddess of the sea channels green waves
through her eyes to fill abyss of my heart
with infinite love her soul generates.

Each thought about nature of Earth and Man
flashes epiphany through formal clues
how action calculates cause and effect
I capture with formula from word spells.

Drifting half-asleep one moment of why,
I see the face of the one I once loved,
so I snap awake and open front door
to see the ghost of blue infinite sky.

I think you have the kind and loving heart
that will not let you hurt those who hurt you,
but you must speak to deflect their sharp words
and shield your heart with calm indifferent grace.

Predators stalk the world, thirsting for blood,
so the innocent who love generous peace
must fight the fighter to defend their right
to drink the water of infinite hope.

My father photographs exotic birds
and races cars he built from bones of wolves,
so I note every sign along the way
that leads bold fools to the castle of skulls.

The Muse who gushes visions through my brain
speaks only arcane riddles I invent
that no one reads, so no one will receive
breath of infinite blue that mirrors you.

The owl with eyes gold as the windless lake
reveals true stories that we tried to hide
through hope exacerbated by desire
to rule as incarnation of your dead god.

I have traveled twenty-two thousand miles
across the continent of Onatah,
searching for Arcadia in my heart,
which far across the Eastern Sea calls me.

I stop in the door to balance the light
changing moods dialed by weather of my hope
to flick through channels that conceal the truth
in metaphors packaged by hands of jokers.

I cannot solve the puzzle of your face
assembled from ennui of each lost place
so I let the order of chaos flow
in gold honey dripping from Tree of Life.

Are we now halfway through the labyrinth
where faces in the ancient gallery
appeal for me to wear each one in turn
till I dream everyone who ever lived?

Huddled in the grove after snow melts brown,
the blind poet scribbles verses on leaves
that blow away in the indifferent wind
so lost people can see map he conceived.

I follow sweet song of sirens in rain
into the true blue of infinite time
when I sense ghost of her words in my brain
concealed by riddle of my paradigm.

Mind Writhing In Stone

Mind Writhing In Stone
© Surazeus
2018 03 19

The mind writhes in the superstitious stone,
teaching me how to see outside my head
the secrets of death written on quartz teeth
in alphabets invented by blind fools.

Removed from the water of flashing light,
I name the wind that fills my heart with truth,
wondering what I shall tell children of love
cracked from the glass mountain of contrived words.

At hard shadows two pairs of matching eyes
express the void that ripples with clear water
to arouse the mind writhing in the stone
from memory of atoms forged by the sun.

Oblique shadows of words I never speak
drown shapes of flashing atoms with real light
making visible the painting of faces
to reveal the subject I am not void.

We walk with everyone in the wide realm
of continuous creation to touch
seeping darkness that fills my soul alone
full of water that never speaks my thoughts.

I would eat grits but cracked enamel bowl
white as the moon that knows my secret fear
casts shadows hard as stone across my eyes
to split darkness from the indifferent sun.

Flat on my back in the boat of the moon,
I float over the abyss of my heart,
sinking in clear vacancy of my eyes
flooded with dreams only seen by moonlight.

I master the flashing thoughts of my brain
by breathing wordless wind from restless seas
to blow sorrow through the flute carved from bone
I retrieved from the dust of my dead mother.

When white lilacs last in the dooryard bled
starlight from the eyes of angels who trudge
wingless to work all day in factories
I mourned the drinking of money like blood.

Ever-returning spring breaks through my heart,
spiraling vines of moody power to bind
flashing atoms within limits of math
to surf murky waves of horror with Death.

In the silent swamp of my aching heart
the shy bird warbles spells of lost desire
to show me the way through cities of hunger
when I carry the corpse of Fallen God.

Following the orb that sails in blank heaven,
I walk in silence the transparent night,
and linger in the lustrous light of nothing
to remember friends whose names I forgot.

I hang their pictures on my chamber walls
when sea wind blows petals of lilacs slow
in swirls of memories that blank my mind
writhing in the stone that cracks mirror eyes.

The bird in the swamp this time will not sing
for the dead king dumped in swallowing mud
of relentless time that transforms our bodies
to slime of the sea from which we evolved.

The mind writhes in the stone with thirty eyes
crystallized through flow of dark energy
surging from soil of the Earth to my bones
which expand to enclose millions of stars.

I see all this when I gaze at the quartz
shimmering rainbow colors from every atom
that fluctuates between our body flames
to solidify pulsing chemicals.

Back from the Underworld of broken souls,
who wander wordless in the nameless city,
I parade through town, wearing the mask
I carved from ice, to reveal nothing false.

Now that you see the real me in fake words,
scattering light to glow blue through my eyes,
you will write dreams based on the formula
learned from the mind writhing in the stone.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Ghost Of Memory

Ghost Of Memory
© Surazeus
2018 03 18

The rain that explains why we are alive
splatters the windows of the lonely house
where no one talks about shadows of light
or the cold that hides in the empty books.

The heavy heart that sleeps all afternoon
forgets the turning of relentless time
which cracks every cell in the organism
who relies on mirrors of flashing words.

If I could sit quietly on the couch
all day and never buy or sell my words
the snap of angel wings disturbing wind
would never blow sand off the patient beach.

The shadow of the concept I ignore
is always walking towards me from the sky
down every hill where no one ever roams
to bring the treasure someone promised me.

She knows the secret you can never spell
in letters of contempt on walls of dust
because the leaves that fall from angry trees
clutter the ground of forgotten desire.

The voice that never whispers any song
twists backward every wrong long suffered why
if we must try to speak words no book keeps
alone on the bridge that goes nowhere far.

I cannot hide the secret I ignore
so every flower pressed forgotten in books
reminds me of the one who walked away
to keep the shadow of my numbing heart.

You are not the concept still in my mind
so every second your true soul transforms
beyond the ghost who lingers in my eye
inside the glow that hides your polished mask.

The rich spirit still flashes in your eyes
that I recall feeling there years ago
but like the seed that sprouts into the tree
you grow beyond the ghost of memory.

Code Of Thought Rhyme

Code Of Thought Rhyme
© Surazeus
2018 03 18

In the brutal competition of words,
bumping each other on the stage of fame,
blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
to slash conceptual silence of the game.

We twist thoughts unwoven from burning brains
to weave tapestries of language disputes
clacking puzzles of cripples in day rains
since clowns howl while banging on broken lutes.

Disassembled world view of modern truth
glitters scattered on cold cathedral floor
while priests take confession in mirrored booths
and choose who enters academy door.

Last of the Parnassians in the Waste Land
broadcasts fascist propaganda on the radio
to rail against usury of the Black Hand
while stuck on the lost island of Calypso.

Follow me through the labyrinth of myths
where funhouse mirrors reflect Masks of God,
forged in the fires of Hell by the blind smiths
who trick you into voting for the fraud.

The spotted owl in the dead Tree of Life
moon-eyes my soul to transcend aching flesh,
reincarnated by my startled wife
who weaves flashing atoms in spirit mesh.

How can you say we mock the verse you spell
when vision conjured by the words you choose
dissipates in mist from the tragic well
where Melusine taught us misguiding ruse?

The nothing you express in aching song
your friends praise with fake trinkets as awards,
but when the true voice vibrates from your tongue
cacophony is all your poem records.

You sing together in dissonant choir
while shouting social justice at the crowd
to lead angry mobs who attack the liar
and crucify the king who once reigned proud.

Avoiding the pyramid of false fame,
where haughty word priests rule schools of mute bards,
we climb holy mountain of the spell game
to prophesy through changing Tarot cards.

When the thunder in the empty sky speaks
riddles about the wizard with six hands
we sail nowhere in the Argo that leaks
to the island where skulls sing in white sands.

So if you map your way through maze we build
you may yet find the key of secret truth
that might unlock the tower where love was killed
before you get caught by the holy sleuth.

The tower of song with lofty parapet
where we compose weird spells of prophecy
conceals the entrance to the star-swift jet
we fly to mountain of true honesty.

The trick to orchestrate astrology
to change fateful flow of cause and effect
is how we engineer ontology
designed by the world-shaping architect.

By slanting truth in beams of divine light
we conjure world view from puzzle of dreams
assembled by our messiah in midflight
while falling from blasted tower in swift streams.

The flashed hallucination in my eye,
dreamed in the half-sleep of aching desire,
retrospects the ghost who wants to know why
our memories play tricks through the signifier.

The process of social change realigns
people into teams with their own world views
who each develop strange secretive signs
that incite conflict through mistrust of clues.

The candor you express in honest poems
conceals arrogance behind contest hoax
while the blind troubadour of lies who roams
sea to shining sea steals all your lame jokes.

Blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
through brutal contests of mock or be mocked
to battle over word chairs and awards
in tower of prophecy where truth is locked.

Your poems are weeds on the huge mountain slope
that wither in the silent sun of time
when spells are carved in ruined church of hope
to reveal truth in the code of thought rhyme.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

No Matter Who Won

No Matter Who Won
© Surazeus
2018 03 17

The love that makes my heart run like the horse
of the apocalypse through thundering storm
urges my quest through the labyrinth of myths
to find the mask that suits my spirit cry.

Once I map the sacred angelic course
through vast museum of idea and form
I carve dreams on ten thousand monoliths
to shelter our souls from indifferent sky.

That faith that blinds my eyes to facts of life
conceals the ancient vision of desire
that fuels competition to rule the globe
till I see the vision of the White Whole.

The wisest and strongest emerge from strife
when our messiah becomes our vampire
who explores galaxies in swift space probe
while I practice to play the laureled role.

Her face appears in the puzzle of truth
when I assemble fragments of lost dreams,
weaving ontology for new world view
that solves the riddle of the laughing sphinx.

If you vote for me to play the world sleuth
I will design the power games of streams
and build ringing harp from wood of the yew
to chant code revealed by words of her jinx.

I guard books of spells in library hall
which I composed from the light of new stars
flaring forth from the first flash of her eye
conceived from our love in tower of mirrors.

She paints my face on the hidden church wall
the moment I invent engines for cars
we drive on highways to achieve the high
of honest heroes who rule waves of rivers.

I bring new message from the blind mad king
that each person should follow their own dreams
and marry for love in the game of thrones
before Death flies from shadow of the sun.

On street corners I strum guitar and sing
ancient memories of lovers by cool streams
who ride horses and eat apples of bones
because we all die no matter who won.

Pepin Guards Her Garden

Pepin Guards Her Garden
© Surazeus
2018 03 17

Chasing sunlight along high garden walls,
while three girls in long gowns play harps and flutes,
the young boy with long red hair and green eyes
leaps on branches of the apple tree,
and crouches quiet like the mountain cat
to watch two cats stalk mice that eat grain.

The tall stout woman with long flame-red hair
straightens her back from picking herbs and berries
and whistles, gesturing he come to her side,
so he leaps down and scoops up the young kitten,
who looks at him with eyes gold as the sun,
and skips to her side as she wipes her brow.

"Wild Pepin, you playful sprite of the woods,
the spirit of your mother, Begga, glows
bright as the sun in your eyes, so you play
free as the butterfly among the flowers,
like she did, but now is the time to work,
so help me gather strawberries for supper."

Pepin sets the kitten down in the grass
and giggles when she leaps into the basket.
"I will gladly help you, Aunt Geretrudis.
My father, Ansegus, said he would bring
new white horse from the herd for me to ride,
so I am going to fly fast as the wind."

Holding the basket hanging from his arm,
Pepin grins when the kitten boops his cheek
as he leans down to pick strawberries from vines.
"When my father rides with King Sigebertus
they protect sacred gardens of our tribe,
so I will help him guard land of Austrasia."

Geretrudis smiles and shakes her head sadly.
"We are the children of Meroveus,
descended from our father Jesus Christus
and his tower bride Mary Magdalena,
who fight each other to rule the whole world
where the scepters of Caesars once held sway."

Gasping for breath as she works in hot sun,
Geretrudis gazes up at the sky.
"I stay out of that brutal game of crowns
played by the clever sons of Melusina,
who kill each other to play Christ on Earth,
preferring to tend my garden of herbs."

Hair whirling around her face in the wind,
Wulfetrudis runs into garden grove.
"Some strange man leaped over the garden gate
and twirled bright sword that flashes in the sun,
shouting for Ansegus to come and fight,
and killed seven guards who tried to arrest him."

Running to hide in the secret treehouse,
shrouded by leaves that flutter in the breeze,
Pepin and Wulfetrudis crouch in shadow,
and gasp to see Geretrudis twirl hoe,
leaping as she fights the man with the sword,
then bonks his head hard, so he backs away.

"I am Gundewin, wizard of the thunder,
and I search for the children of Ansegus
to chop off their heads and feed them to dogs,
like Ansegus did to my own six children,
leaving their corpses to rot in the mud.
Reveal this evil killer for my justice."

Laughing as she crouches, ready to fight,
Geretrudis leaps, striking at his head.
"No man named Ansegus lives in this garden.
We are humble nuns and the brides of Christus,
dedicated to growing fruits and herbs,
and caring for children orphaned by war."

Snatching the bow and arrows of Cupido,
that he plays with while hunting in the woods,
Pepin aims slender arrow at his face,
then pulls the string taut as the howl of wolves,
and twangs the bow when Gundewin attacks,
shooting the arrow straight in his sword arm.

Shrieking in pain, the warrior turns and runs,
clutching his arm that spurts blood on the grass,
and escapes from the garden of sharp arrows,
shouting he will return to seek revenge,
but runs away before more arrows fly,
then they all cheer, astonished at good luck.

Pepin leaps from the tree and hugs his aunt.
"I know you avoid brutal game of crowns,
but because we are Merovingian
we are vulnerable to brazen attack
so you need me to guard you with my bow,
fighting war to protect your honest peace."

Geretrudis gazes in his green eyes.
"Your spirit is strong, Pepin Heristal,
and someday you will help your noble kings,
divine sons of King Jesus and Mermaid,
rule his kingdom that flourishes on Earth,
so I appoint you guardian of my garden."

Wulfetrudis kisses his cheek and smiles,
and they return to tending garden herbs
while the kitten in the basket leaps high
to land on his shoulders while he bends down,
and Pepin laughs with delight to feel paws
as the kitten curls on his back and purrs.

Surfing Seattle Rainbow Soul

Surfing Seattle Rainbow Soul
© Surazeus
2008 09 08

Long brown shaggy hair of a reborn Celtic shaman
hangs over blue-green eyes of skinny hungry poet
slouched shivering in small dark basement room
who pulls long green tattered wool coat tighter
around his shoulders as he stares at wall of illusion.

Moonlight glitters through small broken window
where gold spider watches him eat can of beans
but he stares past spider at leaf-bare trees
where black ravens flutter wings in purple mist
that hangs forever over hills and towers of Seattle.

Blank pages of thick sketch book gleam white
as he holds fountain pen poised low to write
while Muse of History whispers songs in his ear
streaming a swift flow of images and visions
in complex patterns of human civilization process
but his pen hovers over paper not writing a word.

Stuffing Marijuana buds in small clay pipe
he flicks lighter and inhales deep sweet smoke
of cosmic spirit that fills his lungs with heat
of ancient souls and his eyes sparkle stars
that weave faces morphing many generations
of ancestors when his mothers and fathers embraced
and flashed creation of life in each new child
who squirmed from womb to become a new soul.

Three hours he stares at blank white page
watching a thousand generation of his ancestors
sprouting faces like grapes on line vine of soul
and tries to remember name and feelings of each
as they appear and blossom and flash out eyes
like fireworks of spirits exploding from his mind
and he sits silent in cold basement watching flow
of their blood fill his brain with pool of light.

I am each of you and you are all of me
he mumbles and takes a deep cold breath
because spirit is Latin verb that means
he breathes so a spirit has a body of flesh
then he touches his chest and feels his heart beat
so he stands and takes guitar in his hands.

Hungry poet walks outside into cold mist
and walks empty silent street past large homes
to Red Square to stand by statue of George
at center of University of Washington campus
after midnight then strums out-of-tune strings
and sings making up verses from memories
taking a deep breath and exclaiming visions
in restless tumble of concepts falling from his heart.

Nobody but moon and a flock of ravens hear
so he stops and watches ghosts of lost souls
a hundred years of students streaming past
then he opens wallet and takes a small square
of paper with image of Yin and Yang and eats
placing small stamp of Vitamin A on his tongue
then he walks an hour past ten million years
slow swimming through liquid memories of love
as snow begins to fall on empty black streets.

Stepping slow with long legs of a giant
hungry poet floats on elegant eagle wings
and transforms into a lion wearing coat and boots
and watches stars bulge huge as purple flow
of tower lights shimmer gelatin eyeball brain
over lake of dreams and he smiles as flame
of dragon mother burns in his belly of  desire
and he says with voice outside his glass skull
I am not I am because glass tower wing
helps me fly over Seattle for I am a raven
with owl eyes tall white-wing angel of heaven
for I am all things of this universe in my head.

Ripples of waves from dreaming human souls
flow around me in sea of whispering voices
he says and watches voices become red raven
that lifts off iron gasworks and becomes eye
of his first mind that he holds in his open hand
so he opens book sitting on high round hill
breast of Earth and draws stream of milk
that flows from his fingers in black death blood
ink forming words in slithering snake scribbles.

Each star and planet in universe is a brain cell
in mind of God who is aware of itself alive
through dreams that bubble in all our brains
so I program brain vision code in spoken sounds
I craft in word perfect lines of secret thought
to remember everything my ancestors knew
and experienced from conception to conception
in each new generation of my deathless soul
in gene coils I spring beyond death in new child
who looks back at me for a moment then turns
and explores future as I fade into black past.

Stoned on acid skinny freezing hungry poet
walks empty streets of Seattle all night
going circles nowhere around Green Lake
past houses of turtle shells where angels sleep
then stops before round red brick hall
of Seventh-day Adventist church and smiles
whispering I thew apple seed of religion away
while others kept theirs locked in glass jars
so now my faith grows into giant apple tree.

Then he steps inside bright-lit Seven-Eleven
and buys apple juice smiling like a Buddha
as he sways surfing silent on rainbow wave
then glides outside into falling snow of soul
and drinks cold juice walking on galactic road
becoming a tall bearded king with a sword
guarding a small stone castle in oak woods
while staring at a van with white lights
glide past and disappear into red dawn.

Looking up at gray dawn sky of clouds
he becomes a lizard as he sits on wood steps
and sees ghosts of giant dragons soar slow
a million years ago souls photographed forever
in cloud patterns of rippling stipple steel wings
then he puts both hands on his frail skull
and wonders at throbbing brain so full of dreams
that watches itself perceive words take shape
as things that throb and swell outside bounds
of concepts in fluid accentuations of desire
to push outside limits of time-flow existence.

I am still point of this turning universe
he grins and ignores ghosts of dead poets
Homer and Ovid and Du Fu and Li Po and Virgil
and Valmiki and Dante and Shakespeare
and Milton and Blake and Ginsberg and Dylan
who scatter words that sprout into flowers.

Sitting like Buddha on stone bank steps
stoned poet watches Seattle spring to life
at dawn as skeletons emerge from houses
to walk with serious intent to work all day
in office and store and factory and warehouse
to make and market and distribute and sell
a thousand things transforming stone and tree
into machines and clothes and food we eat
thousands of people swirling in restless tide
while he sits still dreaming awake all day
watching without words as they pursue hopes
and chase invisible dreams looking far ahead.

I will not die for your sins this time around
he chuckles and stands towering high to smile
then glides slow on owl wings past glass doors
back to basement room where he lies down
and stares at endless shifting spirals of light
that become huge elaborate crystal palace towers
and sleeps a thousand years dreaming of You.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Infinite Variations Of Dreams

Infinite Variations Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2018 03 16

Through infinite variations of dreams,
calculating the spiral of the circle
that descends to the bottomless abyss,
regressing through process of evolution
to the First Flash at the big bang of light,
we express every possible desire
to replicate each new face in the mirror
so we know why we flare forth into life.

The oblong symmetry of every object
spreading outward in curves of limitations
reveals the infinite circle of mind
dreaming through the eye of every woke brain,
weird wisdom revealed by swift Uriel
who sings that no straight line is found in nature
since every unit in the universe
curves round as the sphere of the great White Whole.

The word in the window written in light
flashes faces on television screens
to dramatize the tale of every god
who walks the spinning world in human form,
incarnate of our most conscious ideal
to show how we achieve enlightenment
and every one of us become messiah
who proclaims oracles in cave of dreams.

One person out of every million souls
awakes at strike of lightning in the brain
to see the vision of transcendent truth
we can achieve if we fight against death
when angry men try to control our fate,
for we must seize the scepter of great wisdom
and fight to rule the kingdom of our mind
or slave in the factories of the dead god.

From the singularity of my eye
soul seed expands into the Tree of life
and sprouts sprawling Kabbalah stem of brains
when spiraling galaxies nourish worlds
that bubble with alchemical solutions
linking carbon rings in coils of our genes
to transform fish to mouse to chimp to man
to angel surfing waves of light in saucers.

Dividing the circumference of the circle
by its diameter, I calculate
infinite spiraling curve of the Cosmos
as ratio of expanding universe
that flowers from the White Whole of my brain,
so when I eat apples in the green rain
while riding my horse on the sunlit plain
I know the true shape of the world I see.

Walking the silent mountain in bright snow,
I sense watching me the eye of the crow
who knows my secret name that I forgot,
so I show her the sacred book I bought
which should reveal chemical formulas
that generate my conscious mental buzz
so I remain alert to dangerous threats
and hide my fear in witty epithets.

I climb the mountain of Parnassus far
beyond the field of weeds where poets fight
over who wears the laurel crown of fame
Apollo dropped when he got bored of riddles,
and here alone I sing about the star
that weaves our bodies from hot beams of light
composing atoms to mirror the name
expressing quest for knowledge in lost puzzles.

I map the history of the world in zones
to reconstruct great demons from their bones
when wise dragons once walked upon the Earth,
singing the secret of spirit rebirth,
for we were wee mice skittering in the trees
when tall white-feathered angel dinosaurs
gathered in palaces of giant gems
till wind ground them all down to grains of sand.

I dip my hand in the sand by the sea,
and in each grain I dream the universe
that flashes through the sunlight of its eye,
for the First Flash and the Flaring Forth shine
in every molecule of the White Whole
that sparkles in the neurons of my brain
to beam virtual model of reality
through infinite variations of dreams.

Dead Angels Sing

Dead Angels Sing
© Surazeus
2018 03 16

The word in the window, the laughing cloud,
pavement of the signless road to my heart,
without the door to the shadowed room, locked
against the agony of broken wings.
I stop my ears to hear how angels sing
but numbers crash in waves on stoic rocks.

Nothing known, hidden in the pageless book
no one ever opens, so windowsills
glow when strangers decide to return home,
but woods divert the way to paradise.
The voice from the sky, who calls my name,
reminds me to learn why the angels sing.

The angel with no hands, the haughty horse
with no eyes, the tree with no apples, sky
with no sun spread deep into my blood veins,
because I find the last seed in the world.
The face behind the mask makes angels sing
based on pictures I scratch in the beach sand.

Cracked mirror on the cliff, indifferent wind,
the man waving a big stick, threatening to crush
my head like the egg of the serpent witch,
so I offer him the poisonous fruit.
Wandering on forever in somewhere city,
I stand in ruins to hear angels sing.

Listless by the window, the word of light,
because the last flight to paradise crashed
into the two towers of Jesus and Satan,
if I will write new Bible for our times.
Nobody can hear the dead angels sing
in the empty church by the shopping mall.

Lost by the laughing sea, the tattered map
stuck in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good
and Evil, the blind clown who rules the world,
the tarnished mask discarded in the gutter.
Who stands in the cathedral door at dawn,
laughing at the fool who hears angels sing?

The apple mottled with blood in my hand,
the crackle of gunfire echoing in woods,
the gleaming sun in the spiritless sky
indifferent to my existence, or hope.
My brain explodes with the meaning of life
when I make believe I hear angels sing.

The blind bard of Ireland with broken harp
sends Aisling to strike lightning in my brain,
so I nurse noble sense of tragedy
to sustain my soul during bouts of joy.
On the machine I tape how angels sing
which plays back nothing but voice of the wind.

The face in the mirror in empty room,
the shadow of her memory on the grass,
the echo of her voice in silent night,
the flame of her spirit snuffed out by rain.
I stare at photograph without her face,
which reveals lost secrets that angels sing.

The tree by the river painting the moon
with blood of children, the bombs blasting homes,
the olive tree burned black, the fluffy kitten
huddling among broken stones and crushed skulls.
I walk among shelves of books in libraries
that record oracles dead angels sing.

The laughing skull of Hamlet by the mirror,
the key that cannot open any door,
the name no one speaks, the silver moonlight
revealing the way through the maze of eyes.
The faceless woman by a coconut tree
refuses to explain why angels sing.

In the middle of nowhere red flowers bloom
from cracked skulls of children killed in world wars,
nine horses graze on hills where apples fall,
and I disappear into book of words.
The oldest woman in the world designs
garden of fruit where the dead angels sing.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Dream Of Our White Whole

Dream Of Our White Whole
© Surazeus
2018 03 15

The vermilion flush of her seashell skin
enchants my heart with the desire to win,
so hard against the tides of death I swim
till I linger on vast Pacific rim,
and gaze into deep abyss of my soul
where I may harmonize with our White Whole.

I dive into swirl of plasma to taste
apples and peanuts I grind into paste,
and aim for the sphere of shimmering light
that lures me across the Cosmos in flight
of aching horror sparkling through my soul
where I merge into dream of our White Whole.

While walking city streets at flash of dawn
I remember when I was hungry spawn
swimming the silver flow of river streams
to rise tall, singing, from the lake of dreams,
through each stage of the foetus of my soul
evolving from the dream of our White Whole.

I compete with ten thousand hungry mouths
over who will eat and wear the power crowns,
fighting through law of the jungle to rule
principles perceived in the foresight jewel
that guides progress of my evolving soul
when I compose psalms praising our White Whole.

I strive so long to control my weird fate
that I fail to hear the lost princess blate
till storm clouds spiral from her aching heart
and flash the spinning universe apart
that designs the puzzle of my flushed soul
assembling to mirror our great White Whole.

While driving my car on the freeway home
I think about quest my ancestors roam,
following the sun west ten thousand years,
then I zoom faster with shifting of gears,
speeding through wild time tunnel of my soul
so I can explore our entire White Whole.

The plaintive notes of the harmonium ring
ebullient through rhythm of angel wing
that lifts me over round Tennessee hill
where rising wilderness mirrors my will
to fill jars with apple juice of my soul
nourishing dominion of our White Whole.

The orders of ocean waves calculate
curving spirit of bright atomic gate
which leads to garden of fruit we create
to contain perfection of loving weight
which gravitates to connect with my soul
all flashing galaxies of our White Whole.

Beyond walls of paradise I explore
everything that exists outside the door
leading to the temple where I write truth
in sacred scripture of prophetic sleuth
who codes in verse the secrets of my soul
we program to replicate our White Whole.

Again in flesh we must reincarnate
immortal spirit our love will mutate
from springing coils of genes that flash our brains
when we kiss under trees in summer rains
which generates new child from my old soul
who sings to harmonize with our White Whole.

Blue Kookaburra

Blue Kookaburra
© Surazeus
2018 03 15

The deep throaty cry of the Kookaburra
haunts the hallways of the shadowed house
where the last candle of truth flickered out
a thousand years before the end of war.

Though my heart is an apple with a worm
gnawing at the core of its strange desire,
I walk across the plain of sunlit grass
to find the last seed on the broken stone.

The laughter of the bird with bright blue wings
follows me across the insouciant plain
where nothing matters but the gusting wind
that reveals the sorrow I tried to hide.

The yellow school bus returns from the moon,
bringing blind angels from the silent hall
where they erase our names from the gray wall,
then parks in the woods by indifferent stream.

The newt with rainbow stripes streaking its scales
emerges from the broken stone of truth
to teach me constellations where lost tales
are woven from the dreams of broken hearts.

Spreading wings, tattered by smooth hurricanes,
they fly above the city where quaint homes
reflect our faces in windows of time,
and gather on the shore of the mute river.

I listen to what the river might say
but hear no names of people I once knew
who wander lonely somewhere far away
because I forgot to draw map of myths.

TBlue Kookaburra with star-glowing wings
laughs at the cracked mirror without a face
who whispers secret codes with river voice
so we know how to fly through maze of lies.