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
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."


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
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
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
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.