On A Sunday Morning
Surazeus
21 February 2010
RIP Rachel Wetzsteon 1967-2009
Handful of cornflakes and granola
in a clean white porcelain bowl
with apple sauce and cow milk
satisfies a deep aching hunger
in my soul when I remember how
I need not milk a cow at dawn
in a rotting barn of wood and mud
or peel corn husks in a factory
or deliver boxes of these foods
on vast network of asphalt roads
for these things are done by people
who sing in joy to work so free
while I relax on Sunday morning.
I do my part in machine of commerce
to produce goods with my labor
rewarded with dollars of energy
I spend to grease engine of money
that splutters on highway of power
till fresh fuel in billions of dollars
fills gas tanks of glittering banks
so I stay under blankets an hour
but a magic sprite outside window
taps glass so I grumble and rise
and look down at old street below
where I see a woman in a jacket
walking among wind-blown petals
who pauses and writes in a book
while I rub eyes on Sunday morning.
Where are you going in blue light
of dawn without your phone or purse
but ghost of Rachel Wetzsteon flows
on fluttering wings to Sakura Park
and guides a thousand invisible souls
still dreaming in light before dawn
who flow on silver light from windows
of apartments to swirl in great spiral
of souls over shining city of light
and pages of books flutter with voice
unheard under clamor of car radios
if we hover on verge of becoming more
than we were meant to be at birth
so let your soul be scattered in wind
for each memory of your lost hope
is written on soft petals of a flower
that dance alone on a Sunday morning.
My top hat towers above my head
pronouncing my great money power
as I stride Wall Street of Manhattan
to rule my empire of steel numbers
who dance in calculations of wealth
but two women grab my arms tight
and make me sit on a plush couch
in salon surrounded by mad poets
and weird painters with bright eyes
then Gertrude and Alice pluck my eyes
and put them rotating in glass sphere
because Robin Hood in leather jacket
arrives on rumbling engine of a motorbike
and points to planes among clouds
shouting you destroyed cities of glass
and sent a million souls to heaven
screaming in light of a nuclear flash
so I drink wine on a Sunday Morning.
Who are you poet of broken hearts
sweet Rachel weeping saltless tears
whose face shines inside steel hearts
of bankers and insurers and brokers
who look from windows of towers
and see you floating in river stream
clutching flowers like sweet Ophelia
confused by rejection of kind Romeo
when Hamlet married Juliet in Ohio
and raised three children who play
video games and soccer and guitars
so kneel in church of forgotten poets
and gaze at painting on dais wall
Young Martyr by Hippolyte Delaroche
for I long to kiss her soft rose lips
before she transforms to a dragon
as I drink coffee on a Sunday Morning.
I am in love with my bride Melusine
as I float on my back in shining water
gazing up at emptiness of blue sky
glad I was not a royal passenger
on French frigate Meduse that wrecked
on Bank of Arguin near Mauritania
nor was I stuck on Raft of Medusa
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
and had to leap into swirling waves
to escape sharp knives of hungry men
nor had to swim all night in dark deep
till God decided to create dawn light
nor stood dripping in jungle heat
and staggered groping in hot light
till old bearded man in a white robe
took me to cool shelter of a Zawiya
where men will spin on angel wings
chanting as they seek soul of Allah
so I write visions on a Sunday Morning.
I see your noble savior Jesus Christ
in face of that man considered insane
staring from portrait of a kleptomaniac
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
showing your savior lost within himself
who saw visions of angels and God
with eyes staring past veil of death
at infinite face of holy Mother Maria
who was raped and beaten and abused
by a drunk husband whose farm failed
so he left on quest for Holy Grail
sacred knight appointed by fairy queen
but where did he get lost in despair
hungry and staggering in cold rain
so he stole fruit from a market stall
and ran into woods of laughing ravens
but police locked him in a jail cell
and mocked his prayers for salvation
so now your lost sacred priest king
is locked alone in asylum for insane
where I am not on a Sunday morning.
Every morning for a thousand years
I see Rachel Wetzsteon walk alone
and sit in an empty gazebo in a park
surrounded by crowds of children
and mothers talking on cell phones
but she only hears with sea shell ears
rustle of a cherry tree and soft tune
of aching flutes in mountainous Peru
then she stands and takes my hand
whispering come back to true cave
and I will teach you how to fly high
but forgets to tell me till we are lost
in labyrinth of her heart in paradise
that we will plummet like Ikarus
back inside rusty locked gates of Eden
so we meditate on cluttered dreams
at Zen mountain monastery to laugh
and hide neuroses on a Sunday morning.
None of this means anything to me
because a million girls are not free
and though I love everyone on Earth
I give you all my purest love alone
and once you returned my love true
but now you never look in my eyes
and turn away when I want to hug
and give me a quick unhappy kiss
when I want to merge our souls
in passionate flash of aching desire
but I will not kill myself over this
for though this situation of dry bliss
is perfect except for sleeping desire
I will not destroy years of achievement
for an hour of passionate pleasure
so I preserve love on a Sunday morning.
Surazeus
21 February 2010
RIP Rachel Wetzsteon 1967-2009
Handful of cornflakes and granola
in a clean white porcelain bowl
with apple sauce and cow milk
satisfies a deep aching hunger
in my soul when I remember how
I need not milk a cow at dawn
in a rotting barn of wood and mud
or peel corn husks in a factory
or deliver boxes of these foods
on vast network of asphalt roads
for these things are done by people
who sing in joy to work so free
while I relax on Sunday morning.
I do my part in machine of commerce
to produce goods with my labor
rewarded with dollars of energy
I spend to grease engine of money
that splutters on highway of power
till fresh fuel in billions of dollars
fills gas tanks of glittering banks
so I stay under blankets an hour
but a magic sprite outside window
taps glass so I grumble and rise
and look down at old street below
where I see a woman in a jacket
walking among wind-blown petals
who pauses and writes in a book
while I rub eyes on Sunday morning.
Where are you going in blue light
of dawn without your phone or purse
but ghost of Rachel Wetzsteon flows
on fluttering wings to Sakura Park
and guides a thousand invisible souls
still dreaming in light before dawn
who flow on silver light from windows
of apartments to swirl in great spiral
of souls over shining city of light
and pages of books flutter with voice
unheard under clamor of car radios
if we hover on verge of becoming more
than we were meant to be at birth
so let your soul be scattered in wind
for each memory of your lost hope
is written on soft petals of a flower
that dance alone on a Sunday morning.
My top hat towers above my head
pronouncing my great money power
as I stride Wall Street of Manhattan
to rule my empire of steel numbers
who dance in calculations of wealth
but two women grab my arms tight
and make me sit on a plush couch
in salon surrounded by mad poets
and weird painters with bright eyes
then Gertrude and Alice pluck my eyes
and put them rotating in glass sphere
because Robin Hood in leather jacket
arrives on rumbling engine of a motorbike
and points to planes among clouds
shouting you destroyed cities of glass
and sent a million souls to heaven
screaming in light of a nuclear flash
so I drink wine on a Sunday Morning.
Who are you poet of broken hearts
sweet Rachel weeping saltless tears
whose face shines inside steel hearts
of bankers and insurers and brokers
who look from windows of towers
and see you floating in river stream
clutching flowers like sweet Ophelia
confused by rejection of kind Romeo
when Hamlet married Juliet in Ohio
and raised three children who play
video games and soccer and guitars
so kneel in church of forgotten poets
and gaze at painting on dais wall
Young Martyr by Hippolyte Delaroche
for I long to kiss her soft rose lips
before she transforms to a dragon
as I drink coffee on a Sunday Morning.
I am in love with my bride Melusine
as I float on my back in shining water
gazing up at emptiness of blue sky
glad I was not a royal passenger
on French frigate Meduse that wrecked
on Bank of Arguin near Mauritania
nor was I stuck on Raft of Medusa
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
and had to leap into swirling waves
to escape sharp knives of hungry men
nor had to swim all night in dark deep
till God decided to create dawn light
nor stood dripping in jungle heat
and staggered groping in hot light
till old bearded man in a white robe
took me to cool shelter of a Zawiya
where men will spin on angel wings
chanting as they seek soul of Allah
so I write visions on a Sunday Morning.
I see your noble savior Jesus Christ
in face of that man considered insane
staring from portrait of a kleptomaniac
painted by mad Theodore Gericault
showing your savior lost within himself
who saw visions of angels and God
with eyes staring past veil of death
at infinite face of holy Mother Maria
who was raped and beaten and abused
by a drunk husband whose farm failed
so he left on quest for Holy Grail
sacred knight appointed by fairy queen
but where did he get lost in despair
hungry and staggering in cold rain
so he stole fruit from a market stall
and ran into woods of laughing ravens
but police locked him in a jail cell
and mocked his prayers for salvation
so now your lost sacred priest king
is locked alone in asylum for insane
where I am not on a Sunday morning.
Every morning for a thousand years
I see Rachel Wetzsteon walk alone
and sit in an empty gazebo in a park
surrounded by crowds of children
and mothers talking on cell phones
but she only hears with sea shell ears
rustle of a cherry tree and soft tune
of aching flutes in mountainous Peru
then she stands and takes my hand
whispering come back to true cave
and I will teach you how to fly high
but forgets to tell me till we are lost
in labyrinth of her heart in paradise
that we will plummet like Ikarus
back inside rusty locked gates of Eden
so we meditate on cluttered dreams
at Zen mountain monastery to laugh
and hide neuroses on a Sunday morning.
None of this means anything to me
because a million girls are not free
and though I love everyone on Earth
I give you all my purest love alone
and once you returned my love true
but now you never look in my eyes
and turn away when I want to hug
and give me a quick unhappy kiss
when I want to merge our souls
in passionate flash of aching desire
but I will not kill myself over this
for though this situation of dry bliss
is perfect except for sleeping desire
I will not destroy years of achievement
for an hour of passionate pleasure
so I preserve love on a Sunday morning.
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