Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Seventy-Million Dollar Salvation

Seventy-Million Dollar Salvation
© Surazeus
2015 12 29

While the preacher wearing shiny blue suit
strides across stage before large cheering crowd
and preaches that if we all give our hearts
to Jesus he will raise us from foul death
and take our souls to dwell in paradise
for all eternity in light of love,
Don stands, tosses his Bible on the floor,
then walks outside into gleaming sunlight.

Pausing on the steel bridge of secure faith,
Don stares into the fast-flowing river.
"Does my heart ache with love because I know
eternal obliteration of death
could destroy my body at any time
and thus disperse my soul of sparkling atoms?
I had to leave because my aching heart
cannot bear to hear his disgusting lies,
because Jesus told us to sell our things
and give money to help poor people live.
Next he will argue that to attain grace
of salvation through proof of loyal faith
we must give money with generous love
because Jesus came to him while he prayed
and told him we must purchase for his use
new sleek and shiny private jet that costs
seventy million dollars from our pockets.
Instead of building this giant cathedral
larger than three football stadiums in size
we could have built thousands of nice new homes
for homeless people who crowd city streets.
This preacher who presents himself as friend
of Jesus and prophet he sent to Earth,
is nothing more than a charlatan and thief,
who takes our money but gives nothing back.
He promises that we shall rise from death
if we give money to the church of Jesus,
but all our money goes into his pocket,
and he lives in a large many-roomed mansion
while we barely survive in humble homes.
There is no afterlife after we die
so we suffer now so he lives well now.
This holy preacher is the Anti-Christ."

Walking back to giant shining cathedral
of gleaming glass, Don strides up center aisle,
and shouts loud with enthusiastic faith
as he leaps up stairs and stands beside preacher.
"Jesus calls me to fulfill holy mission
to destroy Anti-Christ who walks this world
disguised as holy man who begs for money.
Jesus tells me to destroy evil man
who deceives you with hateful lies and greed."

Raising both his arms high, as preacher shouts
with praise, and cheering crowd proclaims Amen,
Don raises gun to head of shouting preacher
and blasts his brains across the shiny stage.
"The Anti-Christ is dead, and his foul lies
will no longer deceive your faithful minds."

Howling mob of holy Christians attack,
running on stage to grab his arms and legs,
and tear Don apart, ripping off his head
so his blood splatters their noble church suits,
then spike his head on the podium mic
where his eyes stare in dark abyss of truth.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Invisible Faces We Wear

Invisible Faces We Wear
Surazeus
2015 12 28

We are the children of forgotten suns
who gather in the city streets to cry
against the arrogant clowns who wield guns
and claim that they control the earth and sky.

We are the ones who never rise from death
and dance with Dionysus in bright flames
where rock-star Messiah catches his breath
and designs for us whole new set of names.

We are the serious fools who drive fast cars,
chasing rainbows on the highways of wealth,
while prophet of sound bites blurs out our stars
so we must escape from church using stealth.

We are the voiceless with non-colored skin
who sell our privilege in the market game
to keep on playing chess, but never win,
proud nobodies wearing masks of fake fame.

We are lost characters from ancient plays
that no one now can play on stage of time
while our kids chase after the latest craze
and rap magic spells that pretend to rhyme.

Look in the mirror of our camera eyes
and see our faces blur from changing words
for we are nameless ghosts and blinded spies
who vanish from television as birds.

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Glass Half Full

Glass Half Full
© Surazeus
2015 12 27

This glass half full of water that shines gold
in sad sunset flames, would you describe
this clear glass as half empty or half full?

Rain fills my glass full so it overflows,
spilling from vast infinite dreaming skies.
I drink half the rain and watch the world shine.

Who gave us the clean rain for us to drink?
Would you say that God created this world
and gives us rain from the love of his heart?

No one gave us the rain, for rain just falls.
Sunlight heats ocean waves that form white clouds,
and wind blows them over land where rain falls.

No one gave us the rain, but I dug sand
from the river shore and fired it to glass.
I fashioned this glass from bright sand and flame.

God is a vision of our tribal father
who danced wild and laughed, singing in the rain.
Would you like a drink? I saved you some water.

Death At Midnight

Death At Midnight
© Surazeus
2015 12 26

Through foggy streets without a watch or hat,
but stuffed inside a long black tattered coat,
he stumbles forward through dark labyrinth
past broken doors that long ago were locked
against stale blustering wind of libraries,
but stops at last before huge groaning house
where ghosts of all his ancestors still live,
trapped inside paintings on foul creaking walls.

Twelve cars on winding road at midnight roar
and flash blinding beams of light in his eyes
before he opens door that has no key
and gropes through memories of whipping canes
while muttering stock verses from old black book
his father always thrust before his face,
demanding that he memorize proverbs
that indicate his wretched state of sin.

Bright angels from large painting on black wall
descend on beams of light from swirling clouds
and sprinkle fairy dust in long gray hair
that hangs in bland despondent fear of hope
about his pudgy scarred cheek when he smiles
at sight of wrinkled father by fire hearth
who trembles as he stares at cold gray ash
then shrieks, "At last I see there is no God!"

Sharp blade of hatred in his trembling hand
glitters red from some stray lost beam of light
that pierces midnight clouds through dirt-smudged glass
when half-blind librarian, heart beating wild,
leans forward close to face of his old father
and sneers, "I would rather you still believed
so you know you will burn in flames of hell.
What meaning is there to this wretched life?"

Bright light from open-faced filming lamp beams
gold rays that illuminate hall of death,
then movie director steps forward quick
and pats his shoulder with pondering frown,
stroking thin pale lips as he contemplates,
then smiles, "Remember that your character
despairs of finding love he hopes to find,
so express grim horror with aching growl."

Stepping back into blue shadows, he gestures,
then camera on elevated beam glides
slowly forward for close-up of his face
as he grips collar of his wretched father,
who widens gray eyes at sight of his face,
and growls with voice of demon from deep hell
who despises all that is good and sweet,
"What meaning is there to this wretched life?"

Bulging his eyes as if he crawls from gloom
after lurking in abyss of despair
ten billion years beyond death of last tree
that once blossomed with sweet nutritious fruit,
he grizzles, "We are born into this world
with divine soul trapped in body of dust,
then soar high with passionate love and joy,
yet sink low with gut-wrenching hate and fear.

Without God there is no evil or good
for what you think is good, whipping my back
for kissing the cute daughter of our cook,
I think is evil, and yet what you think
is evil, giving her a pretty pink dress,
and kissing her soft sweet apple-red lips,
I think is good, but you twisted our love
with hatred, and destroyed all I love well.

Now you will think it evil that I thrust
this blade of justice into your gray eyes
and stab out the grim hatred of your soul,
but I will think this act of patricide
good and just, whispered in my aching ear
by Gabriel who came on favonian wind
to urge I destroy evil of your soul
so Krampus may drag you down into hell."

Lunging forward as his old father screams,
he freezes, keeping his face twisted weird
with seething rage while assistants appear
to roll wheelchair bearing actor away,
then push wheelchair bearing life-size doll forth,
and when director gestures he stabs knife
deep into eyeball that bursts streams of blood
which squirts all over his black tattered coat.

Lights flash on after director yells, "Cut!"
then everyone laughs and claps with delight
as they change costumes for normal street clothes,
wash off make-up, then exit theater,
and walk together in late evening rain
to local pub where they order cold beer
and hamburgers, smoke cigarettes, share jokes,
and sing folk songs long after sunset hour.

Through foggy streets with glowing watch and hat
pulled low, he stumbles dark cobblestone streets
past gleaming glass of storefronts to dark home,
then sits by cold hearth to stare at bright star
that pierces midnight clouds through dirt-smudged glass
and mumbles, "Though I cannot find good part
playing Hamlet, Caesar, or Macbeth,
at least I am earning enough to live."

Friday, December 25, 2015

Birth Of Our Savior

Birth Of Our Savior
© Surazeus
2015 12 25

What tree is this that from my broken heart
stretches frail arms of aching sorrow high
to blazing stars that drip rain on my face
which smears my soul in mud of empty road?

Far from my home of cider on warm hearth
I flee from tearing whip that rips my breast
with stinging wrath when bearded father howls
and tries to fill my eyes with hot disgust.

He grabbed my hips and pushed my trembling face
against wood wall, but I squirmed free and snatched
brand of flames, then set gin-soaked cloak on fire
and now our home burns hot in cold black night.

Bright star that gleams through swirling clouds of snow,
guide my trembling steps through forest of oaks
that stretch claws of hate to tear at my face
so I find safe haven where apples bloom.

Sweet clanging bells at midnight call my name
and spark my heart with hope, so from cold mud
I rise and trudge to ancient tower of stone
and clutch locked door with bleeding hands of fear.

White flash of warm light blinds my blinking eyes
and three old wrinkled monks with mossy beards
lead me in dry chapel from pouring rain
and wrap me warm by crackling fire of love.

Soft voices echo far in hall of stone
when three monks chant heart-swelling hymn of peace
and hang sparkling gems on sweet-scented pine
that flash clear visions of flowers and lambs.

What spirit moves within my aching heart
and claws its way from womb of my despair
when scream of horror tears from bleeding heart
and child of my father falls from my womb?

I drift exhausted in abyss of pain
and stare at stars twinkling from purple rain
as baby suckles sweet milk from my breast
and icicles pierce through my throbbing heart.

Bright blue eyes stare in my infinite soul
and I become hills where ancient oaks grow
for roots of hunger curl through trembling limbs
that pulse with hot blood of loving despair.

Son of my flesh, God sired your soul in me,
wild bearded warrior who ruled all this land,
so wield his sword that hacks off heads of men
and wear his crown of gold sun-beaming rays.

Each man who leaps from shadows of despair
runs swift to thrust spear of hate in your heart
so swing wide sword, sharpened on stone of honor,
and hack their bodies into slabs of meat.

Follow me close as we run through dark woods,
gathering herbs and chasing boar to roast,
then leap over stones as we race toward gate
and feast all night under stars of desire.

Gather lost wolf men in forest of fear
and lead them howling into ring of stones
and hack off head of your uncle who rules
on your throne, and crown yourself king of all.

Blow horn of salvation mid-winter day
and gather forest tribes in ring of stones
to dance and feast on this day you were born
so they may celebrate birth of our savior.

You wield shining sword of judgment and death
to rule as God over wild land of mist
from heart of island world in ring of stones,
preserving peace and good will toward all men.

One day you will die and your body rot to mud,
so impregnate young virgin with your soul
and she will birth your son in new-born child
who will reign as God long after you die.

Gather close in ring of stone, boys and girls,
on mid-winter night when snow flakes fall white,
and attend birth of our savior and God
who preserves soul of our king in new child.

Hush now on this silent and holy night
and kneel before yon virgin and boy child,
then pledge fealty to our new-born king
for he is God returned to Earth in flesh.

Son of my womb, I raised you to wield sword
of death so you may preserve life on Earth,
so now raise your son to reign in your stead
and sing to celebrate birth of our savior.

I lived a long and painful life of fear
but now at least in peaceful joy I rest
to see my grandson born from holy womb
so you may rule Island of Avalon.

Though I sink into darkness of mute death
I go with joy as young girls and boys sing
sweet hymns to celebrate birth of our savior
that lift me high to twinkling stars of love.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Celebrate Holiday Cheer

Celebrate Holiday Cheer
© Surazeus
2015 12 24

Cold rain slimes asphalt streets with gray despair
as Marilyn pulls sticky gum from her hair.
Zombies in scarlet sweaters stalk iced streets,
singing carols and giving sugar treats.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Orphaned children in freezing red-brick hall
hang sad crayon pictures on dirt-smudged wall.
Dressed in torn beard and pillowed Santa suit,
Peter drinks beer and waves bent rusty flute.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Michael shoots street lights with his bee-bee gun
then stares in windows where children have fun.
While Marilyn gives everyone fresh egg nog,
Mark threatens Joshua with a Yuletide log.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Huddled in torn blanket by locked church door,
Richard mumbles ancient forgotten lore.
Pulling out his gun in bright shopping mall,
Darnell shoots wild to escape bloody brawl.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

While young Kaitlyn suffers cancer disease,
Janice asks everyone, pray for her, please.
Kaitlyn cries and trembles from nauseous pain
yet no savior arrives from drizzling rain.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Kneeling over coffin where Kaitlyn lies,
Peter and Marilyn curse empty gray skies.
Joshua leaves bloody footprints in sharp snow
then jumps from high steel bridge in oily flow.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Kim cradles new-born baby at her breast
while hiding in cave from Holy Grail quest.
Men fight wars over whose god is more real
long after Helius invented the wheel.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Our sun and planet are one spark of light
in vast galaxy cluster that gleams bright.
We are specks of pollen in field of life
transformed into honey through endless strife.
Come home and celebrate holiday cheer
as we live and die on desolate sphere.

Io Saturnalia

Io, Saturnalia!
Globe of Krates
Hermead XXIV
Epic of Philosophers

Opis strums lyre and sings before hushed crowd.
"Many years ago at bright dawn of time
parents of our race rose from Lake of Stars
and molded our bodies from soil and rain,
then built sheltering fane and called to lost souls
to join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Our first father Saturnus left dark cave
and lead us from Arcadia to Italia
where he built fane for Opis to cook feast
and invited everyone when snow fell
to join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Picus son of Saturnus tended trees
that blossom with apples in summer glow,
picked apples for Pomona to brew juice,
then prepared feast of sweet roasted lamb stew,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Faunus son of Picus in grove of Tibur
at Albunea Well on Aventinus Hill
taught his son Fatuus to chant dream spells
while Marica gave honeyed bread to eat,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Latinus son of Faunus who ruled Latium
lead us chanting hymns to Lake of Diana
where Amata welcomed all to rich feast
as Lavinia gave presents to each child,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
When cold wind blows cutting sharp to your heart
and black gloom hangs over cities and hills,
light wax candle so its flame flickers gold
and walk narrow streets of shivering fear
to join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Long ago when freezing snow covered woods
and buried cabins under silent ice,
Saturnus hitched wagon to stamping deer
to bring food and cheer to every lone home,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
We roast chestnuts and bake loaves of wheat bread
and pour honey that glitters from warm flames,
and eyes gleam bright as we drink honey mead
then sing another verse of Live or Die,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
Moonlight glitters on hills of shining snow
and stars twinkle through steaming puffs of breath
when we light pine log that crackles warm glow
and celebrate rebirth of Unconquered Sun,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night.
We gather to celebrate day of birth
of august Lucifer, great Sol Invictus,
Invincible Sun who invents warm light,
for though he dies, he rises reborn bright
and restores everything that dies to life,
so we resurrect from dark sleep of death,
so join us for Saturnalia at warming hearth,
feasting and singing on long winter night."

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TinyUrl.com/HermeadEditions


Thursday, December 17, 2015

Christmas In Gotham

Christmas In Gotham
© Surazeus
2015 12 17

I walk deserted streets frosted with snow
and glide alone shivering in street-light glow
past bright-blazing windows of cozy homes
where children play with toys and fairy tomes.

I pause before each pretty-painted door
where decorated holly wreaths hang hoar,
wrapped in tattered coat that drapes thin frail limbs,
and listen to families singing sweet hymns.

I see on high pyramid of gleaming stars
long-haired goddess singing to frosted cars
that stream along beams of cement rainbows
while I stand alone with grim cackling crows.

Christmas in Gotham on cold silent night
I walk with mute ghosts in bleak silver light,
who whisper sad tales of their desperate lives,
in search for garden where happiness thrives.

I see on lawn of old deserted church
statues of Joseph and Mary that lurch
in moon-frosted snow where eternal child
represents every child born in this world.

Millions of children live and die in hell
while Jesus stares entranced in shining well,
and single mothers sea to shining sea
struggle working hard for little money.

Each woman in this world of power games,
holding her precious child in loving arms,
lives as sacred and holy in my eyes
as Mother Mary, strong, caring, and wise.

Why do we celebrate one sacred child
when each living child, obedient and wild,
is god incarnate with body and mind
since we are angel and devil combined?

Christmas in Gotham of warm cozy homes
I walk alone where sorrowing death roams,
and pause on ringing harp of Brooklyn Bridge
to sing with angels while making a wish.

I wish for every woman, child, and man,
to see themselves in that Nativity Scene
as holy family alive on this Earth
for secret of afterlife is rebirth.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Weird Alternate Universe

Weird Alternate Universe
© Surazeus
2015 12 16

When I turned away from the mirror door
I ran labyrinth of empty book shelves
into a weird alternate universe
where I was a world-renowned professor
working at Harvard University
named Doctor Renard Leonus Sjoberg
married to a famous Korean singer
but I was so busy researching tropes
in narrative folk tales of Java Island
that I never wrote my long epic poem
describing lives of Greek philosophers,
so I danced with joy in cool misty dawn
when I woke up by a green lake in Georgia
and found that I was nobody again.

God Is Tribal Leadership

God Is Tribal Leadership
Surazeus
2015 12 16

God is the force of tribal leadership,
the crucial role of labor management
that arranges and guides the social system
of communal interactions when people
work together for the greater group good,
the one who loves and understands each person
and assigns them their unique role to play
in the religious drama of survival.
God is the tribal leader who loves all,
awakened with visions of social wealth,
elected by common consent to rein
energy of desire with structured laws
that benefits every member alike
who work to sustain life of self and tribe.
God is the moral mind we love and trust
to guide us from waste land to paradise.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Hall Of History

Hall Of History
© Surazeus
2015 12 14

When I walk the long hall of history
I wander lost in signless labyrinth
of ambition and greed to dominate
rugged lands where rivers laugh at our pride.

We gather on high hill after sunset
and watch the woman twirling wand of light
dance around the fire and chant magic spells
that fill our minds with visions of this world.

We build a giant tower to reach the stars
and gather on its steps to chant all night
then Ishtar sends us out across the land
to sing dream of creation on each hill.

Ten thousand years we gather in bright halls
and sing the tales of human gods who lead
our journey through waste land to paradise
and worship statues long after they die.

Gathered in stadium in city of lights,
we listen to a woman with bright eyes
sing spells of love before huge cheering crowd
whose show is beamed on television screens.

My hall of history that shines with stars
is crowded with tall statues carved in stone
of each god and goddess in every land
whose names are written in their tales of life.

Nameless and joyful, I walk flowered shore
where river of voices sings endless tale
relating life of every one who lived
whose dramas play on the stage of my eyes.

When I walk the bright hall of history
I pause before the statue of each soul
and watch them journey on their quest for truth
that we are all woven from light of stars.

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Light Of Lucia

Light Of Lucia
© Surazeus
2015 12 13

Swirling on wings of desire for long life
inside small temple of my skull, I am
not just me, but all my ancestors wake
through struggle of existence to breathe light
of wordless beauty beaming from all things
inside this clumsy shell of aching hope.

So my conscious awareness of myself
as hungry organism who swims forth
through seething sea of atoms far transcends
this little corpse that nourishes my soul,
that brief flicker of love which glows an hour
in vast infinite abyss of blind death.

Truth needs no assertion of argument
nor continuous loud preaching to maintain
faith of belief, so believe what remains
after prophetic visions dissipate,
for wind on river tells us what is real
by reflecting vision our eyes invent.

So we carry candles and wear white robes
and walk together slow in silent woods,
singing secrets that we hide in our names,
to cross threshold into temple of light
with sublime joy that we are still alive
when stars shimmer through pine trees at midnight.

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Honor Song For Coyote

Honor Song For Coyote
Surazeus
2015 09 10

When sunset bleeds across the western sky
and spirits of the dead rise from singing trees
to dance in the wind of true love I breathe,
I know a great warrior ascends to stars.

I hear a lone coyote howl of sorrow
blow wild in a heart-aching honor song
across the ancient hills of Turtle Island
when John Trudell walks on into the sunset.

John stands alone on bleak Alcatraz Island
where spirits of his wife and children dance,
then visits each home sea to shining sea
with holy fire to light our feasting hearths.

John dances like an eagle on the hills
on top the broken television tube
and leads us in a chant that shakes the world
as flowers bloom from the hills of his heart.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Queen Of Trailer Trash

Queen Of Trailer Trash
Surazeus
2015 12 09

After waiting on tables for six hours
I like to stand behind the restaurant
alone and smoke a cigarette, and think
about nothing as I stare at bare trees.

I live in a trailer beyond those trees,
raising vegetables in a little garden,
and I watch old movies before I sleep,
so you could call me queen of trailer trash.

My name is Arlene, and I was born here
in Cleburne where I have lived all my life,
waiting tables since I dropped out of college,
earning just enough to raise my wild son.

Winter is coming and bitter winds blow
under my old tattered coat so I feel
freezing ice cut to my bones like a knife,
and the heater in my trailer is broke.

My son went hitchhiking to Idaho
last year with his guitar and several friends
from college for his summer vacation,
to smoke weed like I did when I was young.

I think they went to a national park
to join a rainbow gathering and play
music for the hippies and the rainbows
who want to get back in touch with the land.

He called me up just before school began
and said he was not going back to school
because he did not want to get brainwashed,
and he wants to find himself playing guitar.

I hoped he would be a doctor or lawyer,
or an engineer designing new cars,
but he now says college is a factory
that churns out mindless obedient slaves.

He does not want to be a money slave,
he told me, so I stopped sending him cash,
and now I am saving money to buy
a house where I can live safe and keep warm.

I got pregnant in college so I failed
to get the degree my mother dreamed of,
and his father left when my son was two,
so I worked sixteen years, waiting tables.

Now that he is gone, I can save my money,
and maybe go back to college and learn
how to use computers, so I can work
in an office, and get health benefits.

Maybe with an associate degree
I can escape the trap of poverty
that keeps me caged in this small nowhere town,
and I can go find myself somewhere else.

My cigarette is done so I will go
back inside and pour coffee in their cups,
and start reading the book on accounting
that I found last week in Salvation Army.

After trying to read the book for ten minutes,
Arlene sits by the window to watch cars
that glimmer in blue rain after sunset,
then goes outside to smoke a cigarette.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

My Guiding Light

My Guiding Light
© Surazeus
2015 12 06

Every day I hear tragic news
so I wish I could sing the blues
to express this sorrow I feel
but none of it seems to be real
because your smile makes the world bright.
Honey, you are my guiding light.

I hesitate inside my door
because the world is lost in war,
fighting over whose truth is true
but those angry men have no clue
that your kind heart makes the world bright.
Honey, you are my guiding light.

Angry men with guns shoot to kill
because they fail to rein their will,
but I commit my zealous art
to support your resourceful heart
because your love makes the world bright.
Honey, you are my guiding light.

I follow the road of your eyes
that lead me from storm-flashing skies
through the open gate of your trust
where flowers bloom from weeping dust
because your hope makes the world bright.
Honey, you are my guiding light.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Singing Woods Of Avalon

Singing Woods Of Avalon
© Surazeus
2015 12 05

We spiral down in flashing clock of eyes
and cuddle with kittens on patch of grass
where Tree of Life towers high over lush plains
to catch swift bird of lightning with soft laugh
who whispers secret of eternal life.
We play in singing woods of Avalon.

I climb seven steps of enlightenment
from forest floor, spiraling on thick limbs
around tree trunk to hidden house of eyes
where we eat apples and chant ancient hymns
which record names of everyone who lived.
We play in singing woods of Avalon.

Vast network of treehouses once spread wide
in web of bridges through forest of oaks,
centered on Globe Theater that was built
over Stone Henge where our Fairy Queen reigned
till crackling fire reduced our dream to ash.
We play in singing woods of Avalon.

We fly with ravens in twisted oak limbs
and run with wolves along bright winding streams
to dance with goats around warm crackling fire
while Taliesin strums harp and chants new spells
revealing key to indifferent calm.
We play in singing woods of Avalon.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Infinite Sky Of Hope

Infinite Sky Of Hope
© Surazeus
2015 12 04

Birds chirp in branches of the apple tree.
Old Gordon rocks alone on the front porch
and stares at the street where no breezes blow.
"When I was a boy, we played in the street
all day, running up and down across lawns,
weaving around houses, and climbing trees,
and we stayed out long after the sun set.
We rode bikes, and played games of hide and seek,
but now the streets are all empty and silent.
Did people stop having children one day?
Why does no one ever come out to play?
I guess they are all inside their dark homes
watching movies or playing video games.
I turned off the television and came
outside to hear the voices of the dead
because, judging by the news, I would think
the world is going crazy from turmoil
with angry men clutching guns to their chests
and shooting people in churches and schools.
I cannot understand what has gone wrong.
Watching the news is driving me insane,
so I need to clear clutter from my brain.
At least out here I hear nothing but birds.
I worked all my life to help countrymen
build this great nation on liberty,
but relentless wheel of time destroys all.
Soft wind whispers old secrets I forgot
that I read in clouds burning orange-red
which flame across infinite sky of hope.
I lived my life well to build and create,
and soon death will crack mirror of my mind
and I will shatter into swirling atoms.
Then my atoms will settle onto hills
where roots of flowers will transform my soul
into blossoms, and bees will gather atoms
of my soul into golden tears of honey,
and all the fragments of my memories
will become people who consume sweet honey,
and I will sparkle in their dreaming eyes."
Though Gordon stares at the closed and locked doors
of silent houses, the doors never open
and no children run outside to play games.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Religion Of Truth

Religion Of Truth
© Surazeus
2015 12 03

I walk long ancient gallery of dead souls
where endless twilight gleams from dreaming eyes
and pronounce names of every face I see
of those who lived and died since time began.

All living beings who walk upon this world
that spins alone through black infinite space
sprang from one mother in sea of dreams
who whispers spell of hope to live again.

One single mind who senses gleaming light
divides whole cell of thought to replicate
mirror image of her new-conscious self
who dance in swirling spirals of loving joy.

But gusting waves of thoughtless wind submerge
her glowing eye in bottomless abyss
and long she aches in emptiness of fear
till ray of light appears in wiggling hope.

With kiss of aching love he penetrates
her dreaming eye with sparkling star that cracks
calm mirror of infinite love to sprout
swift express wings of propelling desire.

From one singing egg of perceptive love
we multiply in every special form
of conscious creatures who crawl from dark sea
to walk light-enveloped surface of Earth.

First Mother rose from lake of dreams at dawn
and reached two hands to grasp sweet fruit of life
and consumed matter of sunlight and rain
that nourishes her body and bright mind.

She lives reborn in every dreaming mind
of germ, plant, insect, animal, and man,
creatures generated from seed of love
who consume each other in hungry hope.

We live and die in cycle of rebirth,
waking for our brief dream in swirl of time
to savor pleasure and then suffer pain
on quest for secret of eternal life.

How can I navigate this dangerous world,
avoiding disasters and angry killers,
to find my loving mate and replicate
our souls in children we teach truth of life?

We are all formed from bright vibrating atoms
that beam from swirling sphere of glowing light
when rays of love coagulate as Earth
and weave our brains from strands of flashing stars.

Come gather close on river shore at dawn,
drink fruit juice, and hold hands in ring of stones,
then sing hymn of evolution through love
that binds our minds with religion of truth.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Another Shooting Incident

Another Shooting Incident
© Surazeus
2015 12 02

We have no words to scream despairing hope
as we all sit alone in lightless homes
across our land from sea to shining sea
and stare at glowing television screens.

Another man whose heart has bled to stone
erupts through door of frail security
and howls aggressive bullets from his tongue
that splatter souls of innocents on glass.

Now numb from shock of endless massacres
we cannot weep for nameless people killed
in yet another shooting incident
that plays out tragedy on evening news.

Your prayers mean nothing to vast empty sky
where no all-powerful god on shining throne
hurls bolts of lightning to stop angry men
from shooting up another gathered crowd.

Who marches through dark streets of active faith
to cry demands with anguished heart of fear
at men who count blood-gold from selling guns
to angry men who fire religious hate.

Gathered around Statue of Liberty,
we cry out for lawful action not prayers,
for marble tablets where old laws were carved
lie shattered on dark fields of civil war.

We ride fast spinning wheel of history
when all our sacred idols fall in storm
transforming social order with new rule
that all human beings act with equal rights.

Join hands to form united tribe with love
and fight against merchants of death and hate
to reestablish social state of peace
where we all create rather than destroy.

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Attain Eternal Life

Attain Eternal Life
© Surazeus
2015 11 29

In this universe of chaotic order
where no manipulating god exists
we are coagulated globs of atoms
who consume other globs for energy
then copulate to merge transforming souls
and attain eternal life through rebirth.
With endless generations of new bodies
we transform shape when sperm penetrates egg
and two individual strands of genes split
then spiral around each other in coils
to replicate themselves in two new bodies
who multiply and fill sun-sparkling ocean
with watching eyes that swim in waves of dreams
and attain eternal life through rebirth.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Ideal Of Beauty

Ideal Of Beauty
© Surazeus
2015 11 29

Shadow curves of invisible soul
reflect eternal ideal of beauty
shrouded in memories of soothing touch
that molds spirit within soft pulsing flesh.

Reflected ten thousand times in mirror,
ten thousand mothers reborn in my body
dream how I embody all their memories
in elegant dance of passionate release.

Ache of desire urges my flowing dance
of awkward elegance before stiff death
cracks egg of my mind to release on wings
of timeless hope that moment our eyes meet.

You enter my eye on hot beam of light
and spark expansion of bright sparkling web
that generates virtual world from our words
to express role we play on stage of love.

Gods On This World

Gods On This World
© Surazeus
2015 11 28

Locked blind in hard trunk of the ancient oak,
Merlin watches history of mankind play
on mirror of eyes that Vivien holds
who makes greedy kings dance on puppet strings.

Since men first elected their wisest mind
to organize their hunt for food and drink,
she whispers with voice of apple-tree snake,
leaders proclaim themselves gods on this world.

Turning his face away from flickering screen
of television, where drama of power
explodes in wars over Garden of Eden,
Merlin refuses to prophesy truth.

Men gather followers in courts of law
and lead grim armies with weapons of death
to slaughter men they say worship false gods,
and crown themselves divine gods on this world.

I killed the wild boy Igraine gave to me,
and placed my own son on gold throne of power,
who gathered at the Round Table of law
gang of policemen to right every wrong.

For ten thousand years men who rule their tribes
play god with social power of life and death,
and crown their sons to maintain legacy
of national power as gods on this world.

Through forest of mist where shadows of fear
clash blades of hate to control women and land
Merlin wanders in labyrinth of hope
that gods kill each other and leave men free.

Vivien hisses deep in his shivering ear,
kill old king and crown me queen of this world,
and I will bear live from my fertile womb
noble warrior who will rule this whole world.

Arthur leads warriors to ring of tall stones,
and proclaims, I am descended from Jesus,
so worship me as god who rules this world,
or I will kill you all, brute sons of Odin.

Odin presents his daughter, Gwenivere,
and exclaims, crown my daughter as your queen,
and crown your son as both Godin and Christ,
so he will unite our tribes as one nation.

In moonlight dance fairies and men all night,
drinking cider that sparkles with starlight,
while Arthur and Gwenivere reign together,
Bear King and Wolf Queen of Avilion.

Marians and Franks merged into one tribe
when Pharamundus and Argotta wed
and danced in misty woods of Toxandria
till enemies through marriage became friends.

Anglos and Saxons merged into one tribe
when bold Belenus and Iduna wed
and danced in misty woods of Gothinia
till enemies through marriage became friends.

Anglo-Saxons invaded Avilion,
and fought children of Brigid many years,
till their rulers, Arthur and Gwenivere,
united their tribes as gods on this world.

I see Merlin when I look in the mirror,
so I strum harp strings and chant ancient spells,
while wondering how my tribe lost their way
and forgot how we marry every tribe.

Merlin breaks from the oak of ancient dreams
and wanders Manhattan in swirling mist,
but bright words of his prophecy are lost,
muffled by endless roar of motor cars.

Friday, November 27, 2015

Phoenix Of World Peace

Phoenix Of World Peace
© Surazeus
2015 11 27

Though all the world seems to be burning wild
with chaos of revolution for hope
to overthrow monarchies of cash power,
who suppress billions of hard-working hands
to keep us uneducated and poor
so we slave for pittance in their factories
with grateful obedience and blind faith,
we will rise like the Phoenix on new wings,
reborn to work together as one people
who share this waste land we transform to Eden.
Together we tend the frail global egg
of one united world civilization
and nourish the new Phoenix of World Peace
who will rise after the old order falls.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Quest For My Holy Grail

Quest For My Holy Grail
© Surazeus
2015 11 25

When I was but a restless wild-eyed youth
I journeyed on a quest to find the truth.
I set forth to find my true Holy Grail,
vowing to ascend the pyramid scale.

I walked from Seattle across the land
with a dream-weaving guitar in my hand.
I sang by rivers sea to shining sea
and searched for the secret to living free.

I walked on highways in the sun and rain
and thought about our games of loss and gain.
I stood on street corners to play and sing
of people seeking life though church bells ring.

I stood on the watch tower in silent night
and sang each time a child was born in light.
I heard ancient truth blowing in the wind
and tended the fire when hungry death grinned.

While lost on my quest for the Holy Grail
I found long-dead kings in a fairy tale.
I found the Holy Grail on a dark night
when Mermaid appeared in a blaze of light.

The Holy Grail is the Sang Israal,
Blood of Israel born in the ancient hall.
Mary Magdalene is Mother Mermaid
whose sacred womb our living bodies made.

Jesus was married and died long ago
and his billion children still live and grow.
The wife of Jesus, Mary Magdalene,
is our First Mother so we sing Amen.

I see their children in a shining cloud,
Meroveus, Constantine, Arthur, and Cloud.
From bold Charlemagne sons of Jesus spring
and rule every nation with angel wing.

When Pharamund married Argotta Queen
they merged the tribes of Jesus and Odin.
We built the Magda Tower on every hill
and gathered to sing by each sparkling rill.

Though Jesus is dead his soul is alive
in the genes of his children who survive.
I found Jesus in the genes of my heart
on the quest I map with a coded chart.

The sons of Jesus for two thousand years
rule kingdoms and nations of social spheres.
Now we vote for his sons as president
who descend from the line Plantagenet.

I found no evidence of the afterlife
but empires clash in religious strife.
We create heaven here and now on Earth
where everyone alive has equal worth.

Jesus is dead but his teaching rings true,
treat others as you would have them treat you.
I found the Holy Grail guiding my life,
Mother creates life as the Holy Wife.

We live with joy then disappear at death,
singing with passion till our final breath.
We will not resurrect after we die
but live forever in children we raise.

Nation Made Of Immigrants

Nation Made Of Immigrants
© Surazeus
2015 11 25

We are a nation made of immigrants
for we all spread outward from Africa
to travel east and west over wild lands,
settling for a few centuries here and there
on river shores to found sprawling empires
that clash in war, so we scatter again
to migrate over waste land of despair,
walk across rugged lands of freezing ice
and sail across oceans of howling waves,
and thus we all arrive by foot or boat
to spread across this fertile land of hope
and build communities of peaceful love.

We are a nation made of immigrants
so though some of us have lived on this land
ten thousand years, and some four hundred years,
and many arrived this past hundred years,
we share this fertile land with equal rights,
defending liberty for every one
to practice their cultural way of life,
whether religious or not, unified
in our core principle that every person
lives according to desire of their dreams
as long as they hurt no one by their actions
and build communities of peaceful love.

We are a nation made of immigrants
who gather every year to share this feast
of friends and family we love and hate
to give thanks for bounties of this good life,
remembering as we drink a toast to freedom
that we treat others with empathic love
as we want them to treat us every day,
for we share this vast, rich, bountiful land
where everyone who works with crafting hands
may generate wealth of productive good
that benefits all who cooperate
and build communities of peaceful love.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Winds Of Truth

Winds Of Truth
© Surazeus
2015 11 24

Fresh winds of truth about nature of life,
that we are formed from pulsing carbon rings,
at last blows away the foul smoke of lies,
that Jesus returns to raise all from death,
which billows from hellish flames of cruel hate
sparked by vicious attacks of Christian kings
who lead terrorists to invade lush lands
and kill all who refuse their futile faith.

Their brutal soul-crushing yoke of false faith
we throw off in revolution of truth
to free our minds from their barbarous lies
that Jesus offers all eternal life
who bow obedient before human priests
who threaten death by fire of painful fear.

Jesus is dead, and all his royal sons,
who enforced their oppressive rule with swords
these past two thousand years of blinding fear,
we overthrow in constant revolution
of world wars, breaking chains of nationalist pride
to bind all people of our spinning world
in United Nations of peaceful love.

Discard old theist lies of the sky king
who threatens damnation against free-thinkers
and promises eternal life to fools
who obey without question his harsh rules,
for we are all that wake with consciousness
and we create real heaven on this world
by working together for common good.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Treasure Of My Holy Grail

Treasure Of My Holy Grail
© Surazeus
2015 11 23

Sun gleams gold on pine trees that bow their heads
and pray to wind for white jewels and rain.
After drinking peach wine, Death walks alone
in long black coat, then turns to burning sun
and snaps a selfie of his eyeless face
with glass eye phone that flashes supernova.
If you remember well his secret name
you will win treasure of my Holy Grail.

Old blind man kneels by ancient sprawling oak
and carves name of Iduna in its flesh,
then wraps red robe about his crackling bones
and steps on wood boat that floats on lost river.
Each book you open in library hall
details the life of another dead soul.
If you solve formulas in Book of Spells
you will win treasure of my Holy Grail.

I carved and polished smooth each square white stone,
then laid it neat, aligned with shining stars,
on clean-paved floor of Glastonbury Abbey
where Eleanor of Aquitaine sings hymn.
We play chess game of power in stone halls
and crucify son of Jesus each Christmas.
If you can decipher this secret code,
you will win treasure of my Holy Grail.

One mask among ten thousand on oak trees,
that smile and frown where ravens play at dawn,
I take one face down every afternoon
and become that ancestor in my soul.
Owl of my mother is stamped on gold coins
that purchase salvation to enter Eden.
If you can unlock gate of paradise
you will win treasure of my Holy Grail.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Grape Vines Of My Heart

Grape Vines Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2015 11 22

Sunrays weave flashing beams of dreaming light
through pulsing fabric of my virtual brain
that generates model of our universe
which mirrors calculations of desire.

I stand on hillside in hot pulsing rays
of sunlight, and pluck grapes from tangled vines
that glitter green like eyes of girl I love
who kneels and tends white roots in dew-wet soil.

Althaia tromps on grapes in wooden vat
and I pour wine in cups of everyone
who gathers in the hall of Laphrion
while Zygos sings the tale of Kalydon.

Stars twinkle bright in eyes of my sweet love
whose belly swells round as grapes on long vines,
and tears of sorrow spill on burning brand
when our son is gored by the snorting boar.

I stare forlorn at Barasoba peak
where silver clouds shimmer with ache of loss,
then drink another glass of wine and sing
of demons haunting Arakynthos woods.

My aging body vanishes in wind
as I wander singing on pebbled beach
of laughing Euenos River at dawn
and stare at broken ship buried in sand.

My father Okeanos long ago
brought me and basket of grapes on this ship
and taught me how to cultivate the vine
then sailed away on ocean waves of hope.

Though my flesh dissolves at flowing of time
I carve my name, Oineus, on granite stone
where all my children gather at warm hearth
my hands erected from wild bleeding land.

Drink deep sweet wine from tendril vines of love
that curl from out the beating of my heart
and I will wake inside your dreaming mind
as you gaze at mute mountain of my bones.

Through ten thousand years of empires and wars
I wake again each life inside your minds
when ache of love is wakened by the wine
that sprouts here from the lush soil of my heart.

Friday, November 20, 2015

West To Minnesota

West To Minnesota
© Surazeus
2015 11 20

Though these are the weird days of crazy news,
when far away in distant crowded lands,
from which my dead ancestors sailed away,
new waves of immigrants cross fields of mist,
I remember the story that none knew
and was never passed down as family lore
how the grim and pious farmer one day
lead his wife and eight children on dirt road
to escape endless wars that burned green Prussia
west from their homeland to sail over sea
and find a new home in land of the free.

Sailing to New York twenty years before
the bright Statue of Liberty was built,
they stumbled from the merchant ship at dawn,
clutching bags of clothes and mute memories,
and gazed dazed at teeming crowds of strange folk
in many-footed Manhattan who seek
treasures at the end of rainbows that shine
far west over nameless hills after rain,
so they ride a wagon past giant towers
into meadows where cows graze among flowers.

Face wrinkled as red leather of horse hide,
old Wilhelm turns to his youngest shy daughter
and points to the eagle that glides on wind
and explains, "Now we are free from cruel hate,
and like Moses lead our ancestors west
to the promised land, where we may again
plant the Garden of Eden on the shore
of a lush river where we may live free,
this eagle leads us west to Minnesota."

Her heart beating wild with gold gusting wind
that blows over rolling hills of Ohio
and across endless plains of Illinois,
Bertha gazes at broad blue sky of hope
where silver clouds shimmer with ache of love,
and spies the moon, half lit with gold sunlight
and half dim in shadow of restless fear,
then grins to herself at amusing thought.

"This is the same sky full of shining clouds
and the same moon that whispers my true name
which I saw when I played among the oaks
just last summer on Wartha River shore.
Will I find the same meadows of red flowers
when we arrive home west in Minnesota
as I saw in the land of my lost dreams?"

Monday, November 16, 2015

Immortal Soul Of Genes

Immortal Soul Of Genes
© Surazeus
2015 11 15

When I strip away all the masks of being
that seem to define this person I am,
my name, my character, my race, my gender,
my skin, my muscles, and even my bones,
and dive down into my hot streaming blood
to ride floating disk into pulsing heart
at the tangled core of my dreaming brain,
in search for that indestructible thing
that constitutes my most essential self,
I find spiraling coils of blinking genes.
Am I that infinite spiraling coil
of Deoxyribonucleic acid
composed of pulsing molecules that link
nucleotides of carbonated sugars
who first assembled around sparkling rings
of vibrating carbon in sloshing sea
of hungry desire that seethed against shores
of mute mountains billions of years ago?
These spinning carbon rings assemble parts
of glowing molecules in spiral coil
that replicates itself when it divides
and attracts more molecules to create
immortal soul of constant pulsing life
who multiplies through countless generations
of organic bodies when sperm and egg
commingle through quick metamorphosis
and will reincarnate again in flesh
our bodies in children we generate.
God is immortal soul of genes who lives
beyond our deaths when we reincarnate
in children born again from pleasant lust
for we emerge in perpetual rebirth
from First Mother in continuous flow
of regeneration life after life
as we transform each life from single cell
over billions of years to human shape.
When I search for indestructible self
at core of my being, I find glowing gene
that was first born billions of years ago,
lives in this temporary frame of self,
and seeks replication in reborn children
through urgent passion of sweet copulation,
so though this body of my conscious self
deteriorates through experience of life
and will disintegrate to spinning atoms
at scattering of death, immortal gene
of Inner God lives again in my children,
so I see God when I look in their eyes.
Deep within bottomless abyss of self,
find immortal soul of God in our genes.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Nothing Is Indestructible

Nothing Is Indestructible
© Surazeus
2015 11 15

Nothing in man is indestructible,
except for atoms that constitute bodies,
for both our bodies and our conscious souls
dissipate at death when our sparkling atoms
unlink chemical operations of life
and we vanish from material of time
though our shadows and images remain
as mindless ghosts in photographs or dreams
of people who record our lives with words
and then we become gods in new dreaming brains.
I can live well without permanent trust
in something indestructible in myself,
so I need no personal god to live,
for my person is god through which I love.

Adel Termos Hero Of Beirut

Adel Termos Hero Of Beirut
© Surazeus
2015 11 15

Malak holds hand of her father Adel
as they stroll laughing in old market maze
of Bourj al-Barajneh in shining Beirut
when sun shimmers gold in clear evening sky.

Lifting his daughter on his shoulders high
so she can see old bearded singer chant,
who plucks silver strings of his wood Kanun,
Adel Termos hums along with his tune.

Smiling and waving to family and friends
as they stroll through market in evening crowd,
Adel buys his daughter sweet baklava,
and she licks honey that sticks to her hands.

Shuddering blast of fire blooms like an apple
that hangs ripe and wet with cool dew at dawn,
and Adel crouches down at shock of flames
to protect Malak who trembles in fear.

Cradling his daughter safe in stalwart arms,
Adel stares in shock to see twisted cars
and bodies of people mangled by blast
as blood of their spirits stains the world red.

Spotting young man wearing suicide vest,
who runs toward crowd, shouting "Allah is great!"
Adel kisses Malak with aching love,
then runs forward swift as a leaping lion.

Adel clutches the startled terrorist
and tackles him down away from the crowd,
and explosion of fire tears him apart,
scattering his soul to the howling wind.

Courageous spirit of Adel stands tall
like green-limbed Cedar on high mountain top,
stretching his arms wide over Lebanon
to protect his people from flames of death.

Friday, November 13, 2015

Mad Storm God In Empty Skies

Mad Storm God In Empty Skies
© Surazeus
2015 11 13

Wild flames of hate and fear burn bright again,
flashing in rage from minds of angry men
who worship mad storm god in empty skies
and kill people who refuse to believe
fantasy that we resurrect from death.

Gripping book of ancient legends and myths,
they cock rifles and shoot bullets of hate
to worship mad storm god in empty skies
by killing free people who dance and sing
and refuse to believe their fantasies.

Their ancient world view of controlling god
falls shattered around their prayer-bowing heads
to worship mad storm god in empty skies
and howl in rage that their beliefs are false,
visions conjured from words in holy books.

When mirror of their faith shatters from truth
and shards of illusion flash at their feet
to worship mad storm god in empty skies,
they howl at empty void of timeless death
and kill people who escaped those lies.

Their old world view of supernatural god
disintegrates in light of shining truth
that vengeful mad storm god in empty skies
is seething hatred inside their own heads,
when they strike out in self-consuming rage.

All nations and religions of this world
gather around Eiffel Tower at dawn
to ignore mad storm god in empty skies
who vanishes in breath of loving songs
when we hold hands in unity of peace.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Heaven We Created

Heaven We Created
© Surazeus
2015 11 10

Carla grasps his arm and stares in his eyes.
"Though I fell through infinite hole of fear
in cracked ice of my mind, and tumbled wingless
on mute howling winds of aching despair,
your words of compassion spread net of love
that cradles me now in hands of your heart.
Clear in blackness of this weird meaningless world
your eyes glimmer bright as my guiding light
and lure me back to warm glow of your heart."

He smiles and falls backward in gleaming snow
that shimmers bright red under weeping moon.
Kneeling over his body, she leans down
and covers her head with both trembling arms,
then closes her eyes to block lifeless gaze.

Soft gunshot cracks midnight mirror of hope.

Sharp sting of love pierces her throbbing heart
and warm compassion for all living creatures
spreads across her breast in river of hope.
Opening her eyes at dark end of time,
she caresses his pale cold cheek and smiles.
"His bullets of hate found us in our heaven.
You tried to save me from my cruel step-dad,
who raped me for six years since I was nine.
I guess we could not escape him forever.
For seven days we lived in paradise
free from his snarl, foul cigarettes, and beer.
I wonder where he buried my kind mother
after he strangled her when I was ten?
We traveled together through woods of freedom,
watching deer play, listening to birds sing,
and feeling sun shimmer on fields of snow.
Where could we go in all of Minnesota
to create our own heaven free of him?
Eternal hour of peaceful hope and love
we shared on small hill among leafless trees,
watching purple river flow in snow flakes.
We savored all eternity of love
together in sweet heaven we created.
You were my angel in a world of devils."

Kissing his lips, she sinks into mute black.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Wartha River Shore

Wartha River Shore
© Surazeus
2015 11 06

Come play with me on Wartha River shore.
Leave your home, and forget your tiring chore.
Now hold my hand and run with me on field
where flowers bloom, and to my sweet kiss yield.

Each day we play on Wartha River shore.
From house of gloom step through old creaking door
and play with me where blows soft summer breeze
to wander singing with sweet honey bees.

We lie and dream on Wartha River shore.
We devour apples, toss away brown core,
then share folk tales we heard our mothers tell
while watching butterflies by water well.

I call your name on Wartha River shore.
I could not love our blooming heaven more.
We stand beneath our secret trusting tree,
and pledge our love will always blossom free.

My farm house burns on Wartha River shore.
We flee away beyond old broken door
and wander lost on road of bitter tears.
We hide in shadows from our aching fears.

I long for home on Wartha River shore.
I weep that I will never see you more.
We sail wood ship across wide swirling sea,
escaping hell to land of Liberty.

I left my heart on Wartha River shore.
On wild Manhattan streets we hear folklore
of refugees from lush lands burned by war,
then ride wagon to Lake Michigan shore.

I often dream of Wartha River shore
while watching children play from farm-house door
in land of Minnesota where I dwell,
and wonder if you are alive and well.

I stand alone on Lake Wakanda shore
and watch black crows on heart-aching wind soar,
and if I close my eyes in summer sun
I almost see your smiling eyes again.

Web Of Conscious Souls

Web Of Conscious Souls
© Surazeus
2015 11 06

We are clusters of atoms sparkling bright
with infinite vibrations of pure light
that swirl in spirals of singing flames
and weave tapestries of dramatic names.

Our atoms first swirl in helium waves
that flare across infinite void of space
and spiral into globe of blinking eyes
who eat fruit in trees under raining skies.

Our brains are galaxies of blinking stars
that generate a virtual world of dreams
reflecting vast universe we perceive
while we sing on lush shores of flowing streams.

Our atoms connect in spiraling coils
of carbon chains based on number of rings
when protons share bright electrons that pulse
and weave shimmering web of conscious souls.

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Vision On Salem Street

Vision On Salem Street
© Surazeus
2015 11 01

While trudging misty streets of Boston town
I hear the weeping of a smiling clown
who runs away when I offer my watch,
so I follow him through the labyrinth
where characters from ancient myths and tales
wander together, wearing modern masks.

From swirling mist the face of Anne Bradstreet
glimmers in the glow of iron street lamps
and pours olive oil over my bowed head,
then places broken quill from raven wing
in my pale hand, requesting I complete
vision of history that she began.

I push my way through the howling brass doors
of the Old North Church that pierces dark clouds
on Salem Street, crowded with girls who wear
pointed hats and cloaks winking with red stars,
and on high stage below the bleeding cross
I see best minds of my generation sing.

From swirling fog of chugging smoke machine
emerges Ben who wears fedora crown,
that Humphrey Bogart dropped on Key West beach,
and twirls light silver cane of Fred Astaire,
while Edgar Poe and Thomas Eliot
tap-dance beside him in the spotlight glare.

While images of Lupe Velez gleam
on silver screen of national memory,
Ben plays electric threads of flashing jazz
on glass piano floating on the wings
of laughing doves above the sparkling Seine
where Paris and Lutetia kiss in vain.

I am the hairy talking lizard king
who rose from moonlit stream at dawn of time
and walked the singing shore with lost Lenore
where Johannes Brahms plays wind violin,
and Saturn teaches mute children how to rhyme
though Sappho taught us how to sing love spells.

Appearing next on stage of Old North Church
from Russian steppes of swirling snow and song,
Philip son of Nikolai, with sharp sword
Great Peter forged from bones of laughing wolves,
assumes the lotus stance of blind Siddhartha
and draws a thousand faces on church walls.

Among the crowd of poets preaching verse
I see Joe Green, dressed up like Peter Pan,
flying high on the wire of Deus ex Machina,
proclaiming satires of glorious empire,
while dropping flower petals on our heads,
and chanting spells of love Elvis forgot.

Then from deep graves I see Thomas arise,
dressed in long white robe as the priest of ghosts,
who proclaims, there is one pure sublime truth,
and Edgar Allen Poe is his true prophet,
then God takes off divine mask to reveal
he is Odin as ravens bring him mushrooms.

I stare amused at broken turtle shell
that Hermes formed into a ringing lyre
that vibrates, aching to express new song,
in my trembling hands while sweet witches fly
circles around the Church of Lucifer,
for we are the ones who must spark new light.

Distracted by the dance of Melusine,
I dip my thirsty hands in well of snakes,
and steal another apple from her tree,
then eat while watching the Halloween show
which relates the true history of mankind
from the Big Bang to the wide Flaring Forth.

When I look close at the gold crucifix
I see gaunt face of wizard Ezra Pound
who stares amused at clouds of falling rain
and prays, there is no god outside our brains,
so act without acting in war of life
to reincarnate your soul in new-born child.

To enter universal church of Hermes
is to wander in the vast labyrinth
of human history encoded in myths,
and spiral so deep within your true self
you find you are both Lucifer and Christ,
anointed to bear the great light of truth.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Masks Of Every God

Masks Of Every God
© Surazeus
2015 10 31

The infinite ennui of bleak gray skies
lours over suburban houses at sunset
where faces of the dead from every nation
watch me from glowing windows of contempt.

We wear masks of their faces to inquire
why they refuse to explain their despair
for the sad tales of their demise are sewn
in curtains of respectability.

I reach my hand in television tube
and acquire new hero mask to wear home
after paddling wood boat to jagged shore
where blind wizard teaches me alchemy.

Children flock like ducks on suburban streets,
holding plastic pumpkins with glowing eyes,
while Hecate lurks behind polished doors
and smiles silver moonlight from flashing eyes.

The most powerful wizard in the world,
wearing long shabby academic jacket,
makes children transform into long-dead souls
who dance around fire in ring of glass towers.

Come into palace of forgotten dreams,
and search through labyrinth of ancient myths
where masks of every god worshipped by men
stare mute from the gallery of our hopes.


Thursday, October 29, 2015

Dance Of Feathered Ghosts

Dance Of Feathered Ghosts
© Surazeus
2015 10 29

Now weeping mother sun watches me drive
desolate highway past ancient pyramids
where tourists elect ghosts of long dead kings
when cameras illuminate their lost faces.

I turn sideways at flash of green sun beam
and see through mirror door of broken eyes
infinite recession of long dead kings
who stand on pyramids with arms spread wide.

I am eagle king who soars on high wind
and shoots arrow of fire to spark rain storm
so father cloud weeps and soaks soil of meadows
where cocoa and corn blossom from our hopes.

Who drives busy highway from towers of glass
to watch dance of feathered ghosts in dark forest
where young girl with eyes full of flashing stars
tames snake of death while drums wake my heartbeat?

Breath of joy exhales from pan pipes when she plays,
luring me ten thousand miles to high slope
of jagged mountains frosted by ice sunrays
that weave eternal music through my mind.

Fire crackles in valley of Rainbow Mountains,
glowing on face of Onatah who laughs
and gives me bowl of hot popcorn to eat,
then tells me how Sun Spider weaves this world.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Bards Of Dudley Castle

Bards Of Dudley Castle
© Surazeus
2015 10 27

I drive home from work as a cartographer
each evening, nap, eat supper, then read poems.

This week I am reading poems by two cousins,
Edwin Arlington Robinson and Robert Lowell,
for I am descended from Anne Bradstreet,
and they are descended from her two sisters.

We all walk the same labyrinth of dreams,
ascend the moon-lit flat-top pyramid,
and sing tales of lost souls to all lost souls
who sit around the umbilical fire
of our national clan under listening stars
to relate tragicomic tales of human life.

We are the bards who escaped Dudley Castle,
sailed the angry Atlantic, seeking Eden
to build a shining city on the hill,
but instead cast spells in dark leafless woods
when the moon beams on Salem, Massachusetts.

We chant hymns about the sorrows of life
while wearing the masks of people we love
under the Tale Tree on Halloween Night.

Razzmatazz Queen Of Wild Jazz

Razzmatazz Queen Of Wild Jazz
20 September 2004
Michigan

Slow she plods through ancient house
of wood and glass searching dazed
in empty rooms cluttered with clothes
and torn books for memory of faces
forgotten when flames of desperation
obliterated meaning from photographs.

Together thirty people with hammers
and saws and buckets of shining paint
restored this ancient home to condition
of pristine glory reflecting lost era
gilded with power over all human lives
but I think ghosts of greed and hate
seep from splintered walls of silence
she whispers groping blind at midnight.

Her fingers tremble reaching out slow
to touch muscle-rippling chest of man
stretched nude on white satin sheets
though your skeleton glows under skin
green with soft phosphorescent hunger
for love that rots from a ripe peach
black and withered hard in summer sun.

Growing old far beyond fertile flash
of youth I ache with brittle bones
fragile as fractured chandelier glass
bound by tense stiff strands of tendons
that tear when I climb creaking stairs
for they translate moaning of cold wind
as I feel my gin-soaked organs slosh
inside bag of sagging sun-parched skin.

Aching drive of lust to live each hour
pushing against bounds of convention
fueled my headlong plunge into old age
because whirlwind of parties and sex
saturated sponge of my brain with flash
of blinding joy that jazzed my nerves
with endless banging howl of hot desire
till my head pounds from hard headache.

I should have died a thousand times
before dawn as I stumbled blurry-eyed
through driving rain or screeching wind
or shivering ice stillness toward home
through signless maze of vast Manhattan
after hours of hot slithering human souls
packed together in high tower apartments
drinking and smoking and swinging to horns
for I am razzmatazz queen of wild jazz.

Old woman with wrinkled skin chuckles
at forgotten joke that surfaces sharp
as iceberg shark from muddled memory
then pauses by cracked window to stare
at boys and girls wearing long hair
and jeans and shirts dyed with rainbows
who swirl to pounding beat of guitars
where five boys dance on wooden stage.

Crazy hippies think they invented fun
she grins shaking her head with delight
at how life seems to swirl in a circle
because whole world went crazy with war
after roaring age of jazz and gangsters
planes dropping doomsday bombs on cities
obliterating millions of people with gas
and fire and bullets splattering brains.

World war against fascist dictators
destroyed that gilded age of my desire
so I had to work singing on Broadway
shaking my behind to earn a few dollars
and I even got filmed several times
preserving shining beauty of my youth
on shaky black and white film that spins
lost somewhere in a vault without a label.

My spirit is captured dancing forever
on never-seen film while my hot flesh
withers dry and cold sagging on my bones
so maybe my soul will live after I die
resurrected in eyes of some young boy
who watches me dancing without cease
a thousand years from now in ice room
as he wonders how to label my existence.

Who perceives this ghost that I became
moving without cease inside wood skull
of my house still chasing Rainbow Elves
like I did when I was a cute teenager
running through misty forest of Wales
after eating mushrooms with purple eyes
for I found Fairyland behind willow
on swan lake where they dance on stars.

There she was ancient Ice Moon Mother
Titania wearing long gown of white silk
shimmering with diamonds in moonlight
singing as Elves danced in wide circles
around forest queen so alive in flesh
as though she sprang from torn pages
of forgotten theater show born again
to seek mystery of our strange universe
hidden inside crystal egg of my heart.

They were filming a forest production
of Midsummer Nights Dream and I played
Peach Blossom carrying silver platter
heaped with peaches for everyone to eat
and director with mustache and a spark
of diamonds in his eyes kissed my cheek
proclaiming you are most perfect Elf
to dance in Fairyland on gossamer wings.

You will live forever he shouted loud
and here I am more than forty long years
after that magical month still half alive
feeling like I am a thousand years old
because last night I saw a man in a suit
step from Apollo starship onto my moon
boots kicking up stardust with eagerness
to walk beyond bounds of our little world.

Clara Belle looks outside large window
of her Victorian house onto wide street
of Ashbury in San Francisco to watch
Grateful Dead jamming electric guitars
and she smiles as a thousand hippies hop
up and down in light sparkling drizzle
whispering today you are young and sharp
and full of life jolting electric desire.

Forty years from now will you remember
power of revolution hurtling your souls
through space on this great spinning world
for today Oberon and Moses have returned
reincarnated as that long-bearded prophet
who leads your lost souls from cement maze
to discover your spirit of eternal love
that blooms like flowers through sidewalks
delicate wings of Fairies lifting you high
to soar for a brief hour over bloody war.

My brothers died in forests of Germany
and my sons died in jungles of Vietnam
but where will my grandson die in what war
fought forty years from now over ideology
or some other mad invention of a warmonger
who spins illusions to blind eyes of men
marching with blind obedience into battle
where they will die for a rich greedy king.

Fortune and Fate twin sisters of time
cannot be stopped like that new folk song
where have all our flowers gone to hands
of young girls who marry good young men
gone to war as soldiers falling in battle
to fertilize a new generation of flowers
helpless pawns on chessboard field of power
manipulated by puppet masters in towers
unless you exercise free will and choose
to create garden of Eden in your backyard.

Ancient Sibylla hidden in her golden cage
lies down exhausted from seeking truth
and love as her ghost departs her flesh
to soar with voices of chanting children
toward eternal glowing light of our sun
leaving her memories behind in faded photos
that flutter scattered on wooden floor
when a storm breeze flutters lace curtains
and lightning flashes over Lanikai Ocean.

Monday, October 26, 2015

Supergirl Will Save Us All

Supergirl Will Save Us All
© Surazeus
2015 10 26

Supergirl leaps into the silver sky
and soars streaking like lightning strike of Zeus
to save humanity from smirking tyrants
while refugees drown on Italian coast.

Supergirl dangles from the twanging wires
and fans blow her hair while cameras record
her swift flight across blue screen of illusions
while Mahdi pushes poets off mosque roofs.

Supergirl will save us all from disaster,
Dea ex Machina from sparkling clouds,
and flirts with Thor between times filming scenes,
while Ahmed smashes heads of men with hammers.

Supergirl saves the steel-glass tower bank
from airplanes hijacked by grim terrorists,
while thousands of girls are kidnapped and raped
by angry men who pray to an empty tomb.

Spirit Animal

Spirit Animal

Recently I saw an actress being accused of cultural appropriation when she talked about the Spirit Animal. How can referring to a concept that is core to all human tribes be dismissed as cultural appropriation?

The concept of the Spirit Animal has been core to human tribal culture for at least 125,000 years since humans first gathered in circles around fires at night and play-acted to imitate animals they had observed during their daily hunt for food.

Play-acting as an animal is probably one of the essential elements of human civilization, along with fire, using sticks and stones as tools, and talking, and probably occurred in tangent with the invention of clothing when we began wearing the hides of animals. As the basis of shamanistic practice, the Spirit Animal is at the very core of all religious rituals as a symbol of the animating spirit of all life.

When we first began to pretend to be animals is probably the moment we psychologically became aware of ourselves as separate from most animals since we can talk and imitate other, the only animal to do this.

Therefore, using the concept of the Spirit Animal is not cultural appropriation, since humans have been playing as animals since the moment we became human many thousands of years ago. The Spirit Animal is core to all human civilization. 

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Opening of Life in April

Opening of Life in April

April comes from a Latin word meaning Opening, and has been used in a number of poems to refer to the generating power of life in spring.

Chaucer begins the Canterbury Tales with a reference the generating power of life in April:

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour

In a riff on this concept, Eliot begins the Waste Land with a reference to the generating power of life in April:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

In honor of both these poets and their poems, I wrote a scene in my epic poem about the life of Lucretius, the Roman poet-philosopher, in which he overhears a group of girls who are picking flowers in spring. Here are four lines out of 42 lines expressed by a young priestess named Turan:

When April showers soak soil with sparkling rain
that bathes roots of trees with humorous moisture
and water drops engender flowers to sprout
...
April is most vital month that sparks life

The tale of Lucretius will be in volume 7 of Hermead, the epic poem about philosophers and scientists.

http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Monday, October 19, 2015

Poetic Vision

Poetic Vision

Philodemos while musing in the Museum
in the Epicureum, garden in Herculaneum
where he runs the library of Calpurnius Piso:

"We can deceive, we poets who compose
visions with words, therefore we should explore
forms and effective causes of this world
so we can compose rich poems that describe
real world as it exists, with accurate terms,
and visions we spell with words may guide straight
humankind from waste land to paradise.
We can deceive minds with fantastic spells
or we can describe real world that exists
for truth is more beautiful than all lies."

from Hedonism of Philodemos
Hermead Epic of Philosophers
http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Nymphs Gathering Flowers

Nymphs Gathering Flowers
© Surazeus
2015 10 17

We always find our way in groups of friends
on winding trail of laughter through soft woods
where sunlight flickers on our swishing gowns,
to gather flowers and sit on river shore.

We place our hands on pungent breast of Earth
and feel deep flowing beat of ancient life
surge upward through our trembling limbs of hope
and feel indifferent light enhance our glow.

We laugh and flash our eyes in evening wind
where roots of trees coil from wiggling toes
and we stand tall and spread our arms out wide
and change to trees who whisper secret spells.

But when I open wide my eyes at dawn
and look around for faces that reflect
memories of cooking in kitchen hall
I see they all are now forever trees.

I sit alone on dew-wet grass at dawn
and stare at face that my grandmother wore
gazing back at me from green silent pool,
and though I call their names they never come.

You are now soil that nurtures blooming flowers,
I whisper to their faces that flash clear
before my blinking eyes, and then my breasts
sprout flowers, and I become the round world.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Spirit of Investigation

Spirit of Investigation

In the epic poem Alastor by Percy Bysshe Shelley, the Poet journeys from England to the Caucasus Mountains on a quest for the Spirit of Solitude in the ancient homeland of Caucasians.

In the epic poem Prelude by William Wordsworth, the Poet journeys from England to France and Italy, then back to the wilderness of lakes on a quest for the Spirit of Nature.

In the epic poem Hermead, the Poet journeys from Oregon to the Caucasus Mountains on a quest for the Spirit of Investigation, and then follows the lives of philosophers forward through time from Hermes on Mount Olympus to Lucretius on Mount Vesuvius, to discover how humans traveled over the past three millennia from the Cave of Visions to the modern world of advanced technology in our search to understand the Nature of Things.

So the Hermead is nothing but a colossal addendum to Alastor and the Prelude, an epic for the age of rational science after the age of romantic science.

http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Heights of Parnassus

Heights of Parnassus

Earlier this year I read the Iliad translated by Alexander Pope, and find his bouncy rhyming heroic couplets difficult to read.

I spent most of the past six months reading all the plays of Shakespeare, and find his tightly coiled blank verse easy and delightful to read.

Yesterday, I read Venus and Adonis, and today I continued reading the Odyssey translated by Alexander Pope. I see how Alexander may have been inspired by this narrative poem, as well as others, to use rhyming couplets.

Alexander should have instead followed the path Milton took in adopting pentameter blank verse as the best verse for composing a long narrative poem.

That is why I chose epic blank verse for composing the Hermead.

I am getting spoiled by Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, and Keats, because I am having a very difficult time reading most verse being written these days.

Contemporary poems are so fragmented, small, sparse, and incoherent, lacking both theme beyond feelings or epiphanies, and craft beyond scattered fragments of imagery.

It seems most poets are crowded among the weeds on a swampy plain, and few are climbing the heights of Parnassus to compose narrative poems that present the complexity of human character.

http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Walk Between Worlds

Walk Between Worlds
© Surazeus
2015 10 10

We walk between the worlds that we invent,
weaving them together with dreaming eyes
that stitch fantasies from our hungry hopes.

Every Saturday evening I enjoy
a Wordsworthian stroll around the lake
by my home that mirrors all our lost dreams.

I stroll about the lake in evening cool,
gazing at sheen of reflected sunlight
while thousands of people around the world
suffer every day from disease and war.

I watch children play in the carefree park
while far across the indifferent sea
men in trucks shoot villages of men,
then enslave nameless daughters as their wives,
while they pray to their invisible god.

I ponder beauty in the peaceful park
while nations fight for whose god reigns supreme,
but I see only myself and the sun.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Sonnet on Atoms and Ideas

Sonnet on Atoms and Ideas
Hedonism of Philodemos
Surazeus

Philodemus to Lucretius:
"Atoms form into things that exist first,
conscious creatures who rise from swirling lakes,
so wise creatures survive to reproduce
while creatures who make mistakes are destroyed.
Once we wake from dream of our transformation
we perceive existing things with our minds,
then devise ideas based on standard forms
that atoms assume in struggle to live.
Strong forms of our bodies develop first
then our minds invent patterns of ideas
and assign sounds as words to signify
objects that match forms of each named idea.
Humans exist first who perceive world of things,
then we design ideas to explain perceptions."

Hermead Epic of Philosophers
http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Sunday, October 4, 2015

Comprehensive Vision of Poetry

Comprehensive Vision of Poetry

Poetry that requires showmanship will vanish with the showman.

Poetry that relies on the quality of the vision presented in the elegance of well-crafted text will last millennia.

Homer has lasted almost 3 millennia so far.

Many other poems were being written at the time of Homer, yet his lasted because he created a comprehensive view of human life with interacting characters.

Reading this article about Kenneth Goldsmith helped clarify in my mind what makes poetry a failure or a success.
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/10/05/something-borrowed-wilkinson

Kenneth Goldsmith​ has so far been defeated by the anxiety of influence because there is so much information these days he cannot figure out how to distill it all into key dramatic interactions that present a comprehensive view of human life, so he thinks just copying it all is "poetry", but it is not. Poetry is designing and "making" a comprehensive view of life.

The argument of modernism is that life is fragmented and too complex, and thus such a comprehensive view is impossible to create.

Life has always been chaotic and complicated, and artists always discover salient threads to weave into a tapestry of life and create dramatic stories that appeal to our narrative sense of love for the beauty of life.

Through my composition of the Hermead of Surazeus​ I am attempting to construct a comprehensive view of the development of philosophy and science by writing biographic epic poems about the lives of philosophers and scientists. It is but one small way of weaving the tapestry of life.

Whitman presented himself as an American Adam.

I see the foundations of American culture in ancient Greek philosophers, so I am writing an epic about their lives. I find it thrilling and enlightening to put on the mask of each philosopher and explore their life and ideas through a narrative of their quest for truth.

http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Saturday, October 3, 2015

My Femme Fatale

My Femme Fatale
© Surazeus
2015 10 03

I stroll down busy city street at dawn
and drink hot coffee on library lawn,
watching glittery elves ride blue giraffes
and dwarf programmers fight with wizard staffs.
While I am stroking my long hipster beard
sweet gorgeous woman with shining blond hair
slips arm around my shoulder with a smile
and whispers how she wants me in my ear.
Now I am in love with Lauren Bacall.
I think she wants to be my femme fatale.

I slip fedora low to shield my eyes
when we stroll together on midnight streets,
listening to jazz and watching out for spies
while Magnifico performs divine feats.
Three shady characters from shadows leap,
aiming silver pistols to blast my mind,
but I leave them all dead in bleeding heap,
then smoke a cigarette on bridge of mist.
What her name was I cannot now recall.
I think she wants to be my femme fatale.

I follow clues to uncover their trail,
like Gretel dropping crumbs on forest path,
and find my lover being read like Braille
in possessive arms of old king of wrath.
Somewhere I hear a melancholy tune
rip bullets through my heart as she smiles bright.
Though she wanted our wedding held in June
I laugh she played me like a violin.
Inside real woman is a broken doll.
I think she wants to be my femme fatale.