Friday, January 29, 2016

The Bundy Bunch

The Bundy Bunch

Here's the story of a man named Bundy,
who was trying to take over federal land.
A bunch of cowboys, clutching hunting rifles,
came out to give him aid.

Here's the refuge for protected wildlife,
where the Paiutes once lived ten thousand years.
All nature lovers and bird watchers are free
to enjoy this sacred land.

Till the one day when the cowboys stole the refuge
and occupied it on a greedy hunch,
claiming that public land belongs to ranchers.
That's the way they all became the Bundy Bunch.

The Bundy Bunch,
The Bundy Bunch,
That's the way they became the Bundy Bunch.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Singing Seamstress Of Lenox Avenue

Singing Seamstress Of Lenox Avenue
© Surazeus
2016 01 27

I work all day in the brick factory,
sewing fancy shirts with buttons and frills.
My back is aching and my fingers sore
as I lean over the sewing machine.

I work twelve hours for two dollars a day
to feed my mama who is sick in bed.
I peek at the cracked window smudged with dirt
and dream of dancing in a field of flowers.

When I leave work after the sun is gone
I go trudging down Lenox Avenue.
I hear hearts of the people beating wild
as they strut the streets on hot Harlem nights.

I stand by the door of the Cotton Club
and listen to the wail of the saxophone.
I sway my hips when Duke Ellington plays,
and sing along with Billie Holiday.

I feel my soul soaring high among clouds
when the angel in the light sings my sorrow.
I work all day in the brick factory,
but I want to sing at the Cotton Club.

I strut the streets on sizzling Harlem nights
and stand on the street under a bright light.
I sing the aching sorrows of my heart
and people toss gold pennies at my feet.

I lean over the cold sewing machine
and dream of standing on the gold-lit stage.
I want to sing the sorrows of my heart
and become that angel in the gold spotlight.

The green-eyed boss in a well-tailored suit
whacks my knuckles and shouts, get back to work.
Stop daydreaming, you stupid lazy girl,
we need five hundred shirts to fill the stores.

My brown eyes are blurred by tears of despair
that I am a seamstress stuck here in hell.
I spark a bolt of lightning in my heart
then walk away from the sewing machine.

I step outside the freezing factory
and blink in the sunlight I rarely see.
I walk Lenox Avenue terrified
like a flower blooming after winter snow.

I stand at the door of the Cotton Club
and stare at my face in the shining glass.
I am no angel with my dark brown face
but I can sing like an angel from the stars.

I push through light and stand on the dark stage
where an old wise man grins and plays piano.
I sing the sorrows of my aching heart
before a silent club of empty chairs.

Cars chug past slow on Lenox Avenue
in sunlight gleaming with careless disdain.
I was a seamstress but I quit my job
since I want to sing at the Cotton Club.

The blue-eyed boss in a well-tailored suit
gives me lipstick and a pretty red dress.
Come each night at six and sing for two hours,
and I will pay you ten dollars a day.

Wearing lipstick and a pretty red dress,
I stand stiff on stage of the Cotton Club.
I stare at people and they stare at me
waiting for me to sing and set them free.

My hands are sweating and my heart beats wild
and all my sorrows steal my voice away.
I search the darkness for the light of love
and sing the pain that sparks my heart alive.

Sweet music of the saxophone weaves wings
and I sing in the field where flowers bloom.
I sing about my mama sick in bed
and how my father worked till he dropped dead.

I open my eyes and look in their eyes
and see all the sorrows and joys we share.
No matter how much pain we have to bear
we are together on this spinning globe.

I glide on the melody of despair
till the joy of singing flushes my heart.
I fly on the melody of true love
that beams wide from the aching of my heart.

I finish my song at the Cotton Club
a lonely angel in the gold spotlight.
The people clap and cheer, and beam back love,
so I bow, flush with joy, and disappear.

I step outside the glowing Cotton Club
and strut the streets on sizzling Harlem nights.
I hear hearts of the people beating wild
as I sit in the park where stars shine bright.

I was a seamstress but I quit my job
and now I sing spells at the Cotton Club.
I swallow all your sorrows with my heart
and sing till joy makes our eyes glow with love.

Monday, January 25, 2016

Sparrow Of Tulip Field

Sparrow Of Tulip Field
© Surazeus
2016 01 25

While running carefree in field of red tulips
long ago in summer days of my youth,
as I played Superman soaring among clouds,
I leaped over a log and whooped with joy.

Floating with arms outspread like angel wings,
I almost felt I could fly like a hawk
and hung suspended in timeless transport
as if I flew between heaven and hell.

Then gazing down at the vast world of hills
I saw below me the nest of a sparrow
so I twisted my body with beating wings
in vain attempt to avoid her frail home.

But force of my feet, pulled down to the world,
stomped three frail blue shells, spotted brown and white,
that splatted yellow beneath my brown boots,
and I rolled tumbling lost in the red tulips.

Leaping to my feet in shock and surprise,
I stared at the eggs my careless boots crushed,
and felt aching sorrow at death I caused
strike through my heart at sight of the sparrow.

Wee striped bird, descended from dinosaurs,
your quick black eyes pierce my sorrowing heart
as you flap your wings and hop to your nest
and sing heart-rending lament at your loss.

Like Robert Dinsmore, who crushed sparrow eggs
with his plow in lush fields of New Hampshire,
I tried to avoid crushing your dear eggs,
but my own careless play caused their destruction.

While the Rustic Bard blamed his careless act
on the inscrutable wisdom of God,
believing some Sovereign Power has a plan,
I see no reason for careless destruction.

I cannot believe in some Sovereign Power
who urges me to crush eggs of a sparrow
as if such wanton destruction were part
of some great design that requires grim death.

My own careless eagerness to fly high
like Superman among clouds of great power
urged my haughty ego to run and leap
with reckless disregard for other lives.

I caused the destruction of precious eggs
and crushed out the frail life of unborn sparrows
whose chirping songs, ringing in apple trees,
wake joy for life in my adoring heart.

These sparrows could have been born to fly free
if I had not crushed them with reckless play,
so I can change fate with careful attention
to understand force of cause and effect.

We are alive, not by some divine plan
of an all-powerful God who designed
a changing world of birth, life, growth, and death,
but by chemical force of molecules.

What all-powerful God, claiming to be good,
would create a world of suffering and death,
instead of creating a perfect world
where creatures live on light and never die?

This world of beauty and ugliness forms
from atoms that link in waves of electrons,
spiraling carbon rings in coils of life,
so we wake to experience pain and pleasure.

Sweet sparrow, I vow to study this world,
and decode nature of substance and process
that transforms in construction and destruction
so I preserve life with empathic love.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Lost in Garden of Phaethousa

Lost in Garden of Phaethousa
© Surazeus
2016 01 23

Three ravens swoop from swirling clouds of rain
and land on twisted limbs of ancient oak
to watch young sorceress in white lace dress
who gazes dazed in pond of sparkling stars.

Phaethousa holds triangle cast from bronze
she used to measure curve of rainbow beam
that leads her path from garden of bee hives
to mirror door that hides her mental maze.

Plucking dead orchid from cracked jar of ice,
Phaethousa sails rowboat across lagoon
past three thousand islands where blind girls weep,
and writes their names in book of formulas.

While each girl hangs mask of her face on tree
of rotten apples, and places both eyes
in gold grail on Round Table of blind knights,
Phaethousa leads them by hand to wheat field.

First raven flies to white juniper tree
where Phaethousa plays tunes on stringless harp
and smiling boy places egg in her hand
though he swims in lake of her weeping heart.

Second raven flies to amethyst throne
where Phaethousa tends flame in stone lighthouse
and watches through swirling storms for lost ships
since her mother is Sun Spider again.

Third raven flies to young dancing pear tree
where Phaethousa draws in leather-bound book
instructions for building garden of clouds
to preserve galaxies in her crystal moon.

Last raven flies to old lime tree that sings
hymn of creation carved on mountain cliff
where Phaethousa paints face of every soul
who ever existed on mirror sky.

Phaethousa cradles baby in her arms
who watches her with seven glowing eyes,
and whispers, you are my daughter I made
from flash of light I found in Sea of Eyes.

Old bearded man who steps from broken door
extends withered hand to present from Death
jewel that reveals dreams we all try to hide,
so Phaethousa gives him glass of orange juice.

I discovered while looking at my face
in lake of stars, he explains while he smiles,
I cannot exist because my true soul
remembers when vast universe flashed real.

Catching flicker of lightning in her eye,
Phaethousa turns her head in time to see
Icarus fall in sea of dreaming eyes,
then transform into boy with beating heart.

Young sorceress who opens seventh eye,
that helps her see every world full of life,
dives in lagoon of starlight and swims down
to bottomless abyss at core of time.

Standing before every person alive,
on ziggurat of Ishtar come again,
Phaethousa sings, I feel in rays of light
every moment of your sorrow and joy.

We wake and break from eggshell of desire
to follow light that gleams in starless sky
and gather around Ziggurat of Truth
where Phaethousa holds Lamp and Book of Life.

Lost in Garden of Phaethousa, we
who were born in mortal flesh lift our hands
and sing sweet hymn of creation and death
then merge into each other with new names.

Friday, January 22, 2016

Instagram Show

Instagram Show
© Surazeus
2016 01 22

Everywhere I go in my home and town
I see an Instagram photo appear,
so I play the tragic hero you love.

Food on our table with bottles and plates,
me wearing the latest fashion, so chic,
you making a face outside our front door.

My hand reaching for apples in a tree,
my face silhouetted on the old bridge,
you gazing over the vast city maze.

We are the stars in our Instagram show,
puppets dancing on strings of our own hands,
memories that remain after we all die.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Revelation In Moon Garden

Revelation In Moon Garden
© Surazeus
2016 01 21

Dressed in long black coat and tattered blue jeans,
Rick stands in park among whispering trees
and curls his fingers when distant black clouds
flash gold with lightning in red sunset rain.
"I channel bright flash of electric light
through sizzling wires of my conducive body,
and concentrate discipline of my mind
to focus power in swirling ball of flame.
We are connected to soul of this world
that animates material of all objects
when Prime Mover first created whole sphere
to nourish imperfect bodies of flesh.
Plato envisioned realm of perfect Ideas,
that Augustine named Heaven where God dwells,
depicting this world as imperfect forms
that decay from perfect eternal state.
Aristotle envisioned natural purpose
innate within substance of growing forms
that urge transformation from origin
so we strive to attain state of perfection.
Wise poet of lush Persia named Hafez
once wrote popular proverb that guides me,
declaring, this place where you are right now
God circled on world map for you to live."

Dressed in long brown coat and flowing green skirt,
Christine emerges from shadows of oak,
and sits on stone bench by small trickling stream
to watch him grimace as he curls his hands.
"We cannot channel bright electric light
for though our bodies are powered to life
by energy sparked from food, our frail cells
would be destroyed by flash of lightning bolt.
While our bodies are formed from sparkling atoms
that compose this world, nothing but our brains
are conscious, for this organ of perception
alone can perceive, aware of itself.
Our brains design ideas of all forms
we perceive to organize in world view
complex clusters of atoms that mutate
in constant process of chemical change.
Atoms form bodies of minerals and organs
based on number of electrons that spin
around nucleus, so forms that exist
evolve from random assembly of quarks.
No divine purpose guides our way on path
of predestined fate through maze of this world
for we perform based on organic urge
of hunger and desire to copulate.
We act within context of natural force
that operates based on mindless rules of physics,
controlled well by chemical interactions,
so we act based on knowledge about nature.
Magic is a fantasy that only fools
believe is real to escape desperate fear
that we all cease to exist when we die,
so wake from fear and embrace vibrant life.
God is a mask of Pathetic Fallacy
because we project our own conscious sense
of self, expressed by willful mind of hope,
at vast universe of planets and stars.
Perceptive brains of all organic creatures
alone are conscious in this universe,
so we are God evolving into life,
waking from eternal dream of desire."

Kneeling before Christine on temple stone bench,
Rick palms his hands and prays with sincere love.
"You are true immortal goddess of wisdom
incarnate in body of mortal woman,
so I discard fantasies of my hope
and accept as true vision you express.
You and I, dreaming now in this vast world,
are spirit of God and Goddess alive,
so we should savor sweet pleasure of life
in romantic friendship before we die."

Laughing and caressing his freezing cheeks,
Christine kisses him mouth, so they relax
together on bench and watch shining moon
float among clouds that glow with lightning flash.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Key To Her Labyrinth

Key To Her Labyrinth
© Surazeus
2016 01 20

Her black eyes, large as ocean of star light,
encompass my whole world in swirling mist
that leads me through pathless forest of pines
to mountain cave where she sings by warm fire.

Gazing in bottomless abyss of my soul,
she extends both hands toward me with fierce hope,
then opens them wide to reveal red egg
while three thousand butterflies veil her face.

I trudge cement streets among city towers,
clutching black book where I write magic spells
that conjure visions before eyes of dreamers,
and long to find key to her labyrinth.

Alone in hushed library full of readers,
I open eight thousand books full of words
that squirm and slither in my aching heart,
and wings of hope grow tearing through my shoulders.

I stand on apartment roof before dawn,
staring blind through drizzling rain of despair,
till flash of white light opens door of love
and she descends on wings of crackling fire.

Her long black hair weaves fabric of this world,
eternal goddess who creates all life,
and threads gold owl wings she sews on my back,
so I leap off foundation of baked stone.

Holding my hand, she shoots among clouds,
soaring over mountain covered in snow,
leads me back over continents and seas,
and sets me shivering in old temple ruins.

Alone in dark mist-shrouded Parthenon,
I stare at statue of Athena Aethyia
that holds bright in extended marble hand
diamond-flashing key to her labyrinth.

Grasping it tight in trembling hand of flesh,
I stand before door on mountain of stars
and open mirror of visions where play
tales of every person who ever lived.

Through infinite flow of history I swim,
dreaming life of every person who lived,
savoring sorrow and joy of each mind
that sparkles in galaxy of my brain.

I write their stories in genetic verse
that coil in spirals of harmonious tunes
to weave all our hearts on grapevines of eyes
which binds dust of our globe with threads of light.

Waking in mind of every living soul,
I look at myself wearing countless masks
of pulsing brains marked with letters of names
that form secret key to her labyrinth.

The Hermead and the Pathetic Fallacy

The Hermead and the Pathetic Fallacy

The British critic John Ruskin coined the term "Pathetic Fallacy" in his book Modern Painters. Ruskin developed the Pathetic Fallacy as a literary term that describes the tendency for writers to attribute human emotions, characteristics, and conduct to Nature as a way of personifying inanimate objects.

I would relate this to what I would call the Theist Fallacy as well, which is the act of attributing consciousness to the vast universe. Consciousness is limited to the chemically-based organic functions of the brain.

I feel it is why most epics of the past ultimately fail in presenting accurate guiding principles of life, because in all of them the poet composed text to present a world view that assumes nature is controlled by a conscious creator. Any epic based on the Theist Fallacy fails as a valid cultural text because it presents a false view of the universe.

The Iliad and Odyssey, the Mahabharata, the Aeneid, the Divine Comedy, the Faerie Queene, and Paradise Lost all fail because they present a universe controlled by a conscious God that does not exist. The Canterbury Tales and the Plays of Shakespeare present a world view where a conscious God is irrelevant or imagined by its characters, so they better succeed as valid texts.

In the Hermead, my epic poem that presents the lives and ideas of ancient Greek philosophers, I swerve from the assumption of the Theist Fallacy, and present a world view without a conscious God, yet with conscious humans who explore that world and attempt to explain its substance and functions through mechanical processes. Based more on scientific research than theology, the Hermead presents a more accurate view of the world.

Love Me Bald

Love Me Bald
2008 07 07

I feel it eating at my heart.
I feel it devouring my flesh.
But it cannot eat my spirit.
No it cannot devour my soul.
My hair fell out in a house of glass.
Love me bald for bald is beautiful.

I feel it spread throughout my body.
I feel it sapping away my energy.
But it will not conquer my pride.
No it will not destroy my joy.
My hair fell out in a house of glass.
Love me bald for bald is beautiful.

I feel it clawing at my mind.
I feel it tearing at my hopes.
But it will never kill my dreams.
Yes my love for life lives forever.
My hair fell out in a house of glass.
Love me bald for bald is beautiful.

I am floating on a wave of light.
Tide of death carries me away.
But I will live forever in your heart.
My star is shining down on you.
My hair fell out in a house of glass.
Love me bald for bald is beautiful.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Butterfly Face

Butterfly Face
© Surazeus
2016 01 18

Old man walks signless highway without wings.
Ghost of his daughter holds his hand and sings.
He takes off his butterfly face and flies
spiraling light in vast galaxy eyes.

Returning to dark Earth on broken wings
he stands on pyramid of watching eyes.
"Arc of our moral universe is long
but it bends toward justice." Blind people cheer.

I walked ten thousand years in blistering sand.
My face turned black and my eyes dark as night.
I walked ten thousand years in freezing snow.
My face turned white and my eyes blue as sky.

Black and White stand together in sunlight
and breathe new answer blowing in the wind.
"I have a dream that my children one day
will not be judged by color of their skin."

I stand firm on this soil by sparkling stream
and claim this spot as my land till I die.
I grip my gun and shoot elusive dream
and souls like butterflies learn how to fly.

Old woman walks signless highway with wings.
Ghost of her son wears her lost face and sings.
She weaves him butterfly face and he flies
toward people on bridge to give them new eyes.

Sunday, January 17, 2016

Children Of Our Minds

Children Of Our Minds
© Surazeus
2016 01 17

Dim afternoon on quiet shadow street
where unnamed children never play wild games
oppresses sorrow from cracked wooden doors
to show how we invent sad games of love.

Returned from ancient city of dead gods,
she brings old leather books bound tight with skin
of devils who played chess with God and lost
so all his ravens gather in bare oak.

What secret keys of brass, forged by grim hands,
fall hidden where red flowers wilt at dawn,
though every door they opened long ago
were splintered by swift hurricanes of time.

When bearded elders gather in dark room
to share lost arcane secrets of rebirth,
he longs to enter door with no address
and see their map to labyrinth of our soul.

Old paradigm philosophers designed
how Cosmos burst from swirling flash of light
and formed huge sphere of spinning galaxies
remains our view on huge multiplied scale.

Our universe is huge pulsing egg sphere
that crackles writhing strings of plasmic coils
that weave huge galaxies of burning suns
that nourish planets where conscious souls dream.

They lie on grass in backyard fence at dusk,
holding hands in silent perceptive trust,
and gaze at stars that are not watching eyes,
entwined in faith of passionate desire.

Though we are nothing more than star-dust clumps
of throbbing flesh who wake in fragile dream
of momentary joy, we will embrace
and share sweet pleasure while we still yet live.

He holds her hands and gazes in her eyes
and sings creation of this world of souls
and for that hour of timeless ecstasy
their minds on wings of vision soar beyond.

Then silence settles on their cheeks like dust
that sparkles still from star-bright furnace flame
and all false knowledge vanishes in breeze
that weaves their clear eyes with infinite loop.

We may be nothing in vast span of time,
she whispers louder than silence of death,
but while we live we sing to express why
we invent our secret reason to strive.

I know that death will crush our pulsing souls
to dreamless death, he smiles in bright abyss
of her unblinking eyes, so at this hour
of conscious hope we will share one long kiss.

Though five times in long history of our world
disasters struck from empty void of space
to cause mass extinctions of hungry life
we will live now as if death never comes.

Though space between two points beams infinite,
forever split in half of measured length,
our bodies press together now to bind
our beating hearts in stream of aching love.

How strange that animating air we breathe
expresses sounds our minds combine in words
that signal objects and actions as thoughts
so speech connects our minds with matching dream.

Though I cannot know what is real or not
I reach my hand to touch your soft warm face
then speak your name and gaze into your eyes
and we embrace to become everything.

Wood skeleton of their fable-framed house
breathes chimera winds from pulsating hills
to beam on silver screen of memory
fantastic visions of dramatic love.

Genesis describes creation of Earth
centered inside large crystal shell of stars,
like Big Bang expands vast in Flaring Forth
within one huge holographic Black Hole.

She tugs his hand to touch her swelling womb
and whispers, here inside atomic shell
of my nourishing flesh our souls reborn
weave new soul from incandescent insight.

We are born imperfect bodies of flesh
woven from chemicals of pulsing atoms
and we achieve salvation from blank death
when we generate children of our minds.

Eye Of Television Prism

Eye Of Television Prism
© Surazeus
2013 03 04

Broken door that leads to countless strange rooms,
I see through eye of television prism
spreading rainbow wings over factories,
though lightless glass on tower window sill
reflects ocean waves that carry wood boats
away from island of lost dreams, yet all
stories forgotten because words are smeared
by screeching tires I watch on silver screen,
unless I walk away from asphalt streets
to sit on grassy hill outside tall fence
bristling barbwire, and listen to dead prophet
singing how we have got to get ourselves
back to that garden in paradise lost
where rotten apples covered by green flies
in clanking refrigerator encase
seed of faith that could crack cement foundation
of world empire, so one physics textbook
should explain meaning of my paper heart,
then we found eyeless robot in cathedral
of broken glass walls rewriting old bible,
so we sail leaking boat on river of why.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Godhood In My Being

Godhood In My Being
© Surazeus
2016 01 16

I can never figure out if I am
a liberal conservative for the past
or a conservative liberal for the future.

I remember when atoms of my body
sparkled in lakes, hummed in trees, glowed in clouds,
and whispered ancient songs in flowing wind.

I become my ten thousand fathers one
whose desires wove the vision of my mind
so I waken their Godhood in my Being.

Literature of life is always about
personality of amazing people
and how we perform in drama of life.

Though individual atoms are not conscious,
when atoms are woven into vast networks
of neurons that resemble galaxies
they generate our conscious sense of self.

Man is created in image of God
as Child is gendered in image of Parent
for we create our children from our hopes
just like Prometheus and Frankenstein
created Phoebus and Hamlet from mud.

Ideas, archetypes, and universals
are concepts our brains design using tools
of language to represent with images
special forms of nature that we perceive
to organize complex reality
in a simple and manageable world view
so we can apply profound principles
of construction and destruction of action
to engineer vast structure of our world.

When your world falls apart, broken by storms
of desire for experience of sweet pleasure,
build your new world from ruins of great truth.

I am nothing more than a bag of meat
who dreams the entire history of our species
and types words in poems to record those dreams.

We are crickets gathered by national pond
singing personal songs in communal choir
for our song itself is our joy of living.

While Muslims long to return to Mecca,
Jews long to return to Jerusalem,
and Christians long to return to Rome,
I long to return to lush ziggurat
where Ishtar first taught us all how to sing.

Till then, I return to Mount of Athena
and celebrate her divine quest for Wisdom.

Our mothers assemble meat of our bodies
from material of food, thus we express
passion of hunger so blood can sustain
chemical operations of strict growth,
generate new bodies for ancient soul
of vibrant genes to live again in children,
then our bodies fall apart and disperse
our sun-forged atoms to fertilize flowers.

I fall from blazing star in beams of light,
slither as rain and clump into thick soul,
transformed from seed into apples on limbs,
then sustain chemical process in this body
when I eat myself, and wakened from dream
to sing and dance this timeless hour of joy
in sparkling glow of conscious love, till death
scatters my soul in wind that blows my dust
in swirling atmosphere of outer space
where I float forever in empty void.

This Godhood of my Being that I describe
applies to you and every dreaming soul
who ever lived and will live, seeking joy
of pleasure through infinite song of hope,
on every planet of vast universe
so look in my eyes and know we are God.

When I return to this place of laughing waters
just rename me He Who Watches Rain Dance.

Girl At Dawn Window

Girl At Dawn Window
© Surazeus
2012 01 12

Whose eyes search mist shadows of distant woods
while hidden in shadow of silent room,
rose-blushing cheeks pressed against ice clear glass,
heart blooming wide rose petals of desire
toward sunlight shining from his nameless eyes,
and trembles from aching urge to run free
barefoot in meadow to cool sparkling stream,
to feel hands of love caressing soft hills
where roots of his tree curl down into soil
of longing hope, then she smooths clean white dress
and sighs, slim fingers sliding on her cheek.
Behind walls of protection, young girl longs
to break from egg-shell home that nurtured growth
of eager spirit, yet key to her room
hangs from red ribbon, gold brass at her breast.

Friday, January 15, 2016

Film Of My Life

Film Of My Life
© Surazeus
2016 01 15

Camilla lies on tattered couch at noon,
watching her cats chase each other in play,
and sips hot cocoa while ignoring snow
that swirls against cracked window of lost hope.

"I fall fast forward through film of my life,
staggering home from another party drunk
on intoxicating hope that my life
will mean something more than endless routine
of eating and sleeping, and generous fate
will assign me to play dramatic role
so my star will shine on important stage
of history, and people will recall
my true name and face with adoring love.
But I fear no director manages
passionate drama of life, and I drift
without purpose through labyrinth of fame,
smiling for cameras that record my face
glowing with elegant grace, but my words
vanish in wind, and I am nothing more
than pretty face and cute smile that enchants
fans who like my photos on Instagram.
We have no divine reason to exist
so we chase rainbows for elusive joy,
rushing forward in swift expectant lust
till all faces and places blend in stream
of blurred memories that all fade to white.
My whole life is now my own endless film
of photos and inspirational quotes
that stream in flashing words on screen of glass
as I invent meaning for my own show.
I am that dead tree sleeping in mute snow."

Camilla sighs then activates eye phone
and scrolls through photos of her best school friends,
clicking like and typing sweet messages
followed by explanation marks of love,
limp wings of sad listless angel who floats
on fluffy clouds of vanishing desire.
Voices whisper in hollow skull of glass.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Vanished Flower Of Manitoba

Vanished Flower Of Manitoba
© Surazeus
2016 01 14

Standing on wood porch of old trailer house,
Kathy White Horse stares across windswept plain
as evening wind swirls hair around her face.

Gazing down at torn photo in her hand,
that depicts young girl in high school who wears
beaded buckskin dress and necklace of shells,
she smiles sad and wipes tears from her black eyes.

"Where are you, Sarah, my sweet precious child?
Three weeks ago you went to work at dawn,
then called me after lunch time to explain
you would be late getting home after school.
But you vanished like wind in prairie grass
and your cell phone rings and rings when I call.
Police I called wrote down your name and age,
and copied photo of you I supplied,
then said they would call me if they could find
information about where you might be.
You disappeared as if you never were,
and now I doubt my memories of your face.
I remember when we attended gathering
of our tribe last summer on river shore
how you fancy-danced with elegant grace
and sang our tribal songs with charming voice.
My darling daughter, what happened to you?
I hope you are safe, wherever you are.
I hope you are at least alive, my dear."

Searing grief grips her heart, and stinging tears
of horror bleed sorrow from her blurred eyes.
"You are my flower that vanished in wind.
Will you sprout again from soil of despair?"
Stars of ice twinkle with indifferent glare
as snow begins to fall on silent plains.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Floating Trees Of Forever

Floating Trees Of Forever
© Surazeus
2016 01 13

Elegy for Carolyn Wright 1949-2016

I open door to our forgotten room
where I find smiling face you left behind.
You step through broken mirror to touch
rotting apple where I hide secret love.

You have no face so I give you my face
and now everyone thinks I have no face.
I disappear in floating beam of light
that blind raven brings to me from your hand.

I may seem an old woman with leaf hair
but I drink death to stay forever young.
Each time he thinks he finds me again, I
slip through labyrinth of words in my book.

I count photons that shimmer past in waves
of silent songs I hear you all record.
My heart is your black hole of true desire
from which I holograph play of our love.

My face is that blank clock that never turns
key of salvation to release swift stream.
Keep my face in locked drawer of your work desk,
filed with surreal photos and tax receipts.

This hour of infinite time I design
collage of nameless faces for pretend.
Why do you stand at midnight by brick wall
and recite magic spells I threw away?

My eye divides and becomes all your eyes
but I cannot recognize face you see.
Calculate speed of light to catch my heart
but I escape on whole Icarian tongue.

Each new door I open closes your door
so I paint one letter of your true name.
I think you assembled from swirling dust,
molded from archetype I want to love.

Though I am now dead, my secret lost voice
finds itself singing from your open mouths.
I paint your face on my locked bedroom door
and pray, but you never spring from wet green.

Your words that you scribble on vanished page
reveal my face that you could never see.
I am every atom that zings and sparks
to weave galaxies of my love for you.

Climb floating tree of forever with me
while we paint our faces on stones of Earth.
We are night air and our eyes are old stars
and our voices are wind stirring dead leaves.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Waves Of Faces

Waves Of Faces
© Surazeus
2016 01 12

Though I stand on cliff of infinite change,
and stare into abyss of swirling love,
I have no wings of hope to fly away
from town of dreamers burned by flames of war.

For many generations of hard work
my ancestors built homes in lofty trees
where we nested safe from cruel predators,
singing with stars while drinking apple juice.

Warriors with axes that gleamed in hot sun
chopped down our ancient sacred Tree of Tales
and burned a thousand panels of oak wood
where we carved our names and deeds of our lives.

We vanish into smoke of greed and hate
and our names are heaps of ash in cold rain
and our voices are muted by blind wind
so I drift alone lost, singing to stars.

If I lie down on cold stone of despair
and shiver with infinite gleam of stars,
will dark fire crackle in my throbbing heart
and kindle lust to live another day?

I am nothing more than a walking tree
who grips light to mold apples from hot tears,
for I will stand rooted on bulging hill
while waves of faces wash over my eyes.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Star Soul Of Planet Earth

Star Soul Of Planet Earth
© Surazeus
2016 01 11

Elegy for David Bowie 1947-2016

While trudging lost in meaningless waste land
I see blind Star Soul on hill of cracked skulls
who weaves wings so we can pretend to fly
so return to Heaven and ask me why.

Mute wood puppet with glass eyes and wingless heart
dances on stage of flashing rainbow lights,
devil transformed to angel through our eyes,
so crash back in Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

Star Soul sails beyond bounds of broken worlds
and floats in frail tin can across galaxies
that weave sticky web of our dreaming brains
so run lost from Heaven and ask me why.

Gaze backward in mirror of flashing eyes
and see you are Star Soul of Planet Earth
who invents doors so we can try to fly
so escape ice Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

If you are real Star Soul of Planet Earth
you read in old books secret of rebirth
by planting seed in wasteland soil of death
so breathe air of Heaven and ask me why.

I carve from my bones wall of paradise
and stand vigilant at electric gate
where Elite children of El may hide free
so climb gate of Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

When you wander blind in labyrinth of fear,
clawing at darkness for jewels of truth,
discover your Star Soul in shell of love
so break free from Heaven and ask me why.

Following footsteps of Orpheus I crawl
labyrinth of our hearts through mirrors and doors
and find face of God reflected in ours,
so build your own Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

I fly my star ship to bright crystal shell
where stars spew fountains of sustaining light
but I crack through shell to infinite space,
so stay safe in Heaven and ask me why.

Now that you know with faith based on research
we are Star Soul that our mothers create,
wear your own mask of God that you design,
so perform in Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

Star Soul who fell to Earth on broken wings
trudges weeping in labyrinth of glass doors
and calls our secret names from silent rooms
so gather in Heaven and ask me why.

Rising from our graves, we climb hill of skulls,
and dance in rain around flames of desire
to chant new spells he wrote to voice our love,
so party in Heaven and ask me why.

Ask me why we must live and we must die.
Ask me how to weave wings so we can fly.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Golden Globe Of Fame

Golden Globe Of Fame
© Surazeus
2016 01 10

If you find your face in the water well,
pluck feathers from ravens who crack sad jokes
and weave new mask that gives you superpower
to fly over stage where movie stars prance.

After I walk a thousand lonely miles
over waste land with shadow of my fear,
Minerva steps down from Saturnius hill
and gives me rune-bright golden globe of fame.

I stand alone on flat-top pyramid,
basking in glow of full moon, to sing hymn
that calculates how our souls are designed,
one eye staring back at ten thousand eyes.

Ever since Ishtar stood on ziggurat
and sang creation of our universe
people stand on stage before watching crowds
and play roles of gods who died long ago.

After working all day in fields of crops
and workshops, we gather in temple hall
to feast and watch mortal actors wear masks
and play immortal gods before we sleep.

One real Apollo lived centuries ago,
but immortal soul of his character
wakes again in actors who play his role
on temple stage while we drink wine and sing.

Dead people rise again from words on page
and crack from shell of books to live reborn
in Church of Every Hero who once lived
which preserves human history in their plays.

I see each face in Golden Globe of Fame
where tale of every soul who ever lived
waits silent in the sphere of watching eyes
till we conjure them alive with their names.

The endless struggle of our fragile lives
to survive relentless cycling of change
is written in atoms that form our brains
which scatter as dust in air that we breathe.

Within our universal Church of Every Hero
we honor lives of countless unnamed souls
who lived and died on Earth since we first woke
and stood by Lake of Dreams to sing our names.

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Road Of Immortality

Road Of Immortality
© Surazeus
2016 01 09

Dark silence of infinite time extends
beams of light from expanding web that snares
my leaping heart without wings that pretends
to understand spiraling stellar flares.

I wear no mask of individual face
for I am every creature who exists,
performing archetypal role to base
immortal soul of man where none persists.

Each flashing day I wear your special name
and cycle through long lives till final death
reveals why random people enjoy fame
while most struggle to survive with each breath.

Countless trillions of humans lived and died,
waking from dream of hunger to express
passion of joy, but drown in seething tide
of constant change, so we die to progress.

I am every nameless person who sought
mystic vision of love on quest for truth
but wandered lost without clear guiding plot
and now are dust trodden by feet of youth.

Taut web of starlight I feel sparkle hope
through tendrils of nerves that trigger my soul
so I perceive rules of dramatic scope
explain cause and effect of chess from scroll.

Whole world spools atoms to create my mind
that flashes awake in sweet hour of life
between infinite times of death that bind
walls of paradise we construct through strife.

Find carved on secret mountain my dream code
that will reveal mystery of soul rebirth
so follow signs of metaphors on road
that lead you seven times around whole Earth.

I follow road of immortality
through labyrinth of faces we all wear
to stand on pyramid with Liberty
who urges I act though life is not fair.

When Helius invented fast-spinning wheel
he taught us how to flow with changing time
so we survive by trusting what is real
and laugh when God is performed by first mime.

Friday, January 8, 2016

God Waking From Dream

God Waking From Dream
© Surazeus
2016 01 08

Our nation seems to seethe with discontent
when ancient church of privilege and power
constructed huge on white skulls of dead gods
cracks and crumbles at tides of hungry hope.

Old stale world view that saw the universe
as centered on this world and noble man
manipulated by all-powerful God
who makes mankind suffer by divine will
was shattered by the magic wand of sight
which Galileo forged from polished glass
and showed that stars are not affixed to shell
of bright rotating crystal sphere first moved
by angry deity who demands love,
but burst from singularity of light.

Huge galaxies of giant burning stars
spiral out forever from hot Big Bang
so swirling gas accumulates in world
where scheming creatures that crawl stream of light
rise tall from lake of dreams at dawn of time
and pluck sweet fruit from tree of life to eat,
then sing sweet hymns of awe at glorious sight 
of sparkling stars that forge thick molecules
which cluster tight in rings of carbon lust
to generate our brains from web of eyes.

No god existed in vast universe
till we evolved from hairy talking fish
who walk upright and make things with our hands
for we assemble in tall ring of stones
to dream long history of changing forms
and realize we are god waking from dream.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Back Home To Onathah

Back Home To Onathah
© Surazeus
2016 01 07

Before her step-father sneaks in her room
after midnight and crawls into her bed,
Kathy packs clothes, books, and money she stole,
then slips out the window and runs away.

Walking all night in maze of city streets,
past strip clubs, bowling alleys, and dark bars,
Kathy trudges along highway with cars,
over river bridge into starless gloom.

Lying down behind bushes beside old church,
Kathy stares at clouds that shroud shining moon,
and cries as she thinks about her sick mother,
then drifts on river boat of restless dream.

Waking as red dawn gleams over far hills,
Kathy stands alone in broad empty field
where large bees swarm red flowers and gold corn,
and birds flutter in limbs of maple trees.

Wandering confused in meadow of red flowers,
in vain search for houses, highway, and church,
Kathy skips and sings on lush river shore,
breathing fresh air and basking in warm sun.

Pausing by maple tree rustling in wind,
Kathy gasps surprised to see a young woman
with long black hair, who wears deer-leather gown
and band of bird feathers around her head.

"My name is Kathy Albertson from Boston,
and I ran away from home to escape
my step-father, but lost America
as I wander in perfect paradise."

Young woman gives her bowl of pumpkin soup
and corn bread that tingle sweet on her tongue,
so she eats delicious meal with delight,
while sitting on stone to watch beavers play.

"My name is Onatah from Shenandoah,
and I welcome you to land of Onathah,
fertile valley where my people have lived
since Manitou formed it with crafting hands."

Tall angry man clutching rifle appears
on rugged hill where he erects wood cross,
and Kathy pales in terror at his face,
gasping, "How did Bob, my step-father, find me?"

"I claim this fertile land for Jesus Christ,
so accept him as God, king of this world,
for he came to save us all from our sins,
or I will kill you and hurl you to hell."

Just as Bob raises gun to shoot and kill,
Onatah transforms into spotted deer,
then darts over meadow through whispering trees,
so he chases her onto desert plains.

Kathy runs after her step-father Bob
to stop him from killing graceful Onatah,
who leaps away swift in swirling gray mist,
as Bob runs after, following her shadow.

Kathy cries out, "Bob, put away your gun.
Why are you always hunting animals?
I think you carry that gun in your hands
because you are weak, and afraid of death."

Voice of Bob echoes loud through swirling mist,
"Jesus is king over this entire world,
and he told me that you should be my bride
and bear my children to live in this land."

Kathy shouts while groping through blinding mist,
"This ancient land belongs to Onatah
and her people who care for fertile valleys,
but our people came and stole it from them."

Bob growls, "This fertile land of fruit is mine,
because God gave it to me with divine hand.
That deer woman is a cruel evil witch
and now that I see her face, I will shoot."

Screaming at blast of his gun, Kathy runs,
heart beating fast, through gray fog where she finds
spotted deer standing under old pine tree,
then Grand Canyon appears when gray mist parts.

Enormous canyon shining in sunlight
stretches deep and wide under purple skies,
and deer transforms back into Onatah
so they hold hands and gaze with wordless awe.

Onatah points down into canyon gloom,
and Kathy sees where her step-father fell,
tumbling down into dark pit of despair,
shrieking in fear as coyotes attack.

Walking together in meadow of flowers,
Onatah and Kathy hold hands and sing,
then sit together by clear sparkling stream
where children play among whispering maples.

"I escaped from hell of America,
searching for paradise outside steel city,
and now back home to Onathah I come,
secure in paradise without stone walls."

While Wohali Laughing Eagle beats drums,
and Onatah plays sweet enchanting tunes
on bird-bone flute, Kathy dances and hums
as she gazes at hills where flowers bloom.

Red lights of an ambulance flash in rain
as police find Kathy, lost runaway,
raped and strangled in a dark alleyway,
and her blue eyes stare at infinite sky.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

White Horse Of Hope

White Horse Of Hope
© Surazeus
2016 01 06

No one sees the tall snow-white horse appear
in cold gray drizzling rain during rush hour,
blazing ghost of light walking among cars
stalled on the freeway, eyes gleaming gold stars.

Gripping the hammer of Thor, he strikes hard
anvil of ambition to forge new wheel
for wagon that glides the high rainbow road,
bearing Helios across the spinning world.

She hides in berry bushes by the cliff
for three days to catch a glimpse of the horse
that appears just after dawn in cool glade
and drinks deep from the bubbling spring of light.

The teacher crumples paper with her song
and sneers as he tosses it in the trash,
explaining that her lyrics are nonsense,
dumb drivel that no one will ever read.

Everyone sees the blazing horse of fire
leap through the brick institutional wall,
astonished when she leaps on its broad back
and rides him galloping wide city streets.

Naked and shrouded in long flowing hair,
she rides the white horse up high pyramid,
and peers through crystal jewel of insight
to keep watch as we trudge toward pointless death.

Whenever I look in mirror of time
I see behind me the White Horse of Hope
who waits for me by the Fountain of Tears
where people gather at the city hearth.

When she arrives from the desert of fear
riding the White Horse, we stop our vain work
and listen as she sings enchanting spell
that rewrites our world view of everything.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Old Dreaming Trees

Old Dreaming Trees
© Surazeus
2016 01 05

Walking around the lake in evening dusk,
Louise pauses on narrow shore to watch
swans and ducks gliding on algae-green sheen.

"When my computer screen bleeds news of war
burning in conflict over distant lands
where people have fought for ten thousand years,
I must escape bubble of doom that swells
around my head with suffocating fear,
and walk outside walls of civilized life
among placid groves of old dreaming trees.
The trees care nothing for our swirling wars
for we are nothing but wind in their leaves
blustering on by in temporary storms,
while they stand peaceful in sunshine and rain,
staring at infinite skies of blue light
or singing hymns with innumerable stars.
Humans always seem to be fighting wars
and building secure houses with locked doors
while stabbing spears of aggressive control
in soil to display flags of ownership
over land that will swallow their cracked bones
and devour their brains like birthday cake.
To live we must kill other living beings
and devour their bodies to consume light
of sizzling stars that animates our souls,
thus we have evolved from algae in lakes,
transforming through course of organic bodies,
plants, fish, lizards, mice, monkeys, men, and angels.
Are we transforming from these hideous shells
of hungry flesh, blobs of chemical lust,
to shimmering specters of glowing plasma
who live by drinking nothing but sun rays?
Or are we stuck through all eternity
to live in clumsy bodies of desire?
Or perhaps we will replace bones and flesh
and throbbing organs with bodies of metal,
encasing our brains in walking machines
so we live forever as we exchange
aging body parts for latest updates,
immortal robots with angelic minds?
When I was young, I wanted to write novels,
and earn worshipful fame of admiration
for composing intense tales about life,
but I got pregnant in college and worked
thirty years writing human interest features
for my city magazine to pay bills.
Who am I in this vast nation of people
who compete each day for money and fame?
Unknown nobody, happy with my life,
I write novels nobody ever reads,
though I published them as ebooks last year.
Would my stories outlast life of my flesh
if they were printed on paper transformed
from old dreaming trees, or will blinking words
on shining screen beam rays of light in eyes
of strangers who will absorb my lost dreams?
I live forever in the leaves of books."

Strolling on winding path among tall pines,
Louise pauses at sight of gleaming sun
over distant hills, so she holds phone high,
snaps photo of her face, which she uploads
for all her friends to see her smiling face,
then walks back home to drink coffee and write
while frogs by the lake sing to silent trees.

Monday, January 4, 2016

Shifting Sands

Shifting Sands
© Surazeus
2016 01 04

After midnight Tina sits on the hill
of melancholy hope, back to the world
of shining city towers and gliding cars,
and stares at vast infinity of space.

"My notebook of poems got smeared by foul mud
and I lost my pen in the tangled grass,
but what good are all the poems I could write
if another meteor smacks our world?
How small and fragile in vast universe
our ball of dirt spins nowhere for no reason,
one speck of dust among zillions of stars
that swirl in galaxies of burning song.
In all the wild teeming turmoil of life
creatures devour other creatures for food
in constant consumption of sizzling souls,
so this world is formed from heaps of dead bodies.
Our sun and planets from blast of big bang
spiral lost forever toward empty void
so all my poems are nothing but weak cries
of aching hope to regenerate life.
Though I scratch letters to capture my thoughts
in shifting sands on lonely beach of time,
relentless waves of change roar from abyss
to wipe away my verses without care.
I hear the crackling voice of ancient time
in radio waves that ripple across space
from the farthest edge of our universe
and so I sing in harmony with death."

Gathering eggs, herbs, seeds, flowers, and nuts
in basket she wove for Easter egg hunt,
Tina trudges home and sits by the hearth
sketching rainbows, angels, and unicorns.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

On Han River Shore

On Han River Shore
© Surazeus
2016 01 03

Should we meet by warm glow of Banpo Bridge
and mix our hearts in cool nourishing stream
of Rainbow Fountain where Bright Moon shines gold
to cast love letters on Han River flow?

I weep because we can no longer sail
wide sparkling stream of Han River at dawn
for now our hearts are divided in twain
so no one will read lover letters we lost.

Should we meet in glade of Mount Namsan
where Hwang Chini will sing our tragic tale
by light of sad Bright Moon who plays flute
that leads us wandering on Han River shore?

We live together in shadowy woods
with no one for friends but water and stone,
bamboo and pine, for none but rising Moon
will know we call this lonely glade our home.

Pure snow flakes melt as storm clouds gather dark
and spring flowers wither in my trembling hands,
but though we grow old as lonely sun fades
we dwell together on Han River shore.

We could travel far to Naksansa Shrine
and pray to Gwanseum Bosal for mercy,
but she stands mute and blind, forever stone,
so we must remain on Han River shore.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

Ten Thousand Apollo Clones

Ten Thousand Apollo Clones
© Surazeus
2016 01 02

I see myself in faces of strange people
everywhere I walk in maze of glass doors,
multiple selves reflected from their eyes,
so I fly red silk kite from tall church steeple,
leap laughing madly on cold misty moors,
and project their faces on empty skies.

I hold my phone before my smiling face
to snap clear picture of my secret self
so I can meet this mysterious soul
who replicates itself far from my space
and lives in my book on their distant shelf,
thus I compose for myself this new role.

I am Apollo, bard of ancient song,
I proclaim on empty pyramid stage,
then strum harp to enchant your hearts with passion,
while ten thousand Apollos play along,
and mimic my unique role to upstage
my grand performance, now the latest fashion.

Wandering city streets alone at midnight,
I sing spells from depths of my boundless soul
and swim in harmonious echoes of truth,
but now my voice incarnates from sunlight
in countless singers who fragment my whole
when my spirit replicates nameless youth.

We gather on mountain of dripping rain
then follow Orpheus in Cave of Self
where we all imitate his lyric spell,
each one thinking we are unique in vain
though we are all clones of one singing elf
as we express ourselves with heart-felt yell.

I see myself reflected in your being
for we are million children of one mind,
each one unique duplicate of first soul,
so we hold hands to form one swirling ring
of singers who describe what truth we find
then combine our songs on synergic scroll.

We all disappear to dust when we die
and our songs fade mute in cold silent wind,
leaving our frail dreams in skeletal words
that remain after we vanish in blank sky
and arch over mountains where rainbows bend
to tweet new mindless songs as carefree birds.

We gather on cool river shore to sing
countless tales of experience we dream,
then sit together in frail secure boat,
weaving for each other one crippled wing,
to glide past flowered meadows on deep stream
till lost on sea of stars we wordless float.

Since we are ten thousand Apollo clones,
writing songs we sing in harmonious choir,
our faces blank mirrors that reflect light,
we build temple of song from broken stones
then climb endless stairs that lead ever higher
till one reigns alone on immortal height.

I contain multitudes for we are one,
countless separate souls woven in vast being,
individuals divided from first whole,
billions of flowers reborn from one sun,
so let us merge lonely voices and sing
to name our common universal soul.

Friday, January 1, 2016

Labyrinth Of Broken Doors

Labyrinth Of Broken Doors
© Surazeus
2016 01 01

While drinking rain that falls from hands of trees
I toss the crystal jewel of secret wisdom,
wait for it to transform to plastic frisbee,
then swing my flying broom and knock it out
front door of my house by Seattle park
so gliding drone of my omniscient eye
descends from flat-top pyramid of power
and sprinkles apple seeds in our back yard.

Keep up with me as we explore this maze
of discarded archetypes Plato lost
because that righteous key you need to find,
that will unlock the attic of your dreams,
where you lost documents and photographs
all our ancestors left after they died,
grows embedded in the oak tree of truth
where White Raven recites the alphabet.

Tall blind woman in white gown of pure light
descends from moon palace on wings of rain,
and whispers, "You must journey in dark woods,
following endless labyrinth of signs,
and stumble clueless in the brave new world,
transfixed by its splendor and glamour, but,
realize sinister forces are at work,
then you will wrestle with your inner fears
to find the one dark but life-giving secret
that will help you retrieve the sweet elixir
which will give you courage, wisdom, and strength
to fight the Beast of Existential Horror
and restore happiness of ignorance
that keeps subservient people of the kingdom
obedient to the mortal man who plays
king appointed by invisible God."

I play chase in labyrinth of broken doors
where mad ghosts of my repressed memories
howl at me with voices of blustering wind
because they are nothing more than torn sheets
flapping in wind storm that swirls lonely moors
captured in the painting that hangs on walls
of famous galleries London to Rome,
but always lead me back to Wonderland.

Thirteen generations since I arrived
across storm-blasted sea of lost Atlantis,
my ancestors wandered town to town,
raising children who married and moved on
one hundred miles west to another land,
so I stand on mountain in Oregon
and gaze back east over ten thousand years,
wondering what forgotten quest leads us lost.

I climb stairway to heaven in Uruk
and stand before Ishtar on ziggurat
constructed from the skulls of all my fathers,
and ask my one eternal mother why
she sent us west, and she smiles from my eyes,
then sings, "Go find the far edge of the world
and discover where the sun goes at night,"
so I explain, "The spinning Earth is round."

I went so far west to the end of time
I followed the sun to where it will rise,
so I return to home where I began
to stand on ancient ziggurat of song
and hold her smiling skull in my left hand
while I compose blueprint for new religion
in epic tale with symphony of voices
that explains well how God was born and died.

On field of flowers where first oak tree grows
within ring of stones on Avalon Island
surrounded by roses, lilies, and grape vines,
I see Sun King wield wand of changing fire
and Moon Queen wield cup of refreshing water
who mate, so his seed and her egg combined
incubate nine moons till my body forms
and I rise as their bodies decompose.

I return home but find I have no home
for my ancestors never stayed in place,
and always journeyed to another land,
so I sit mute by lake of singing stars
alone with no one but their waiting ghosts
and write down all their names in Book of Life
complete with stories of forgotten quest
because the secret that I found is obvious.

Though I Run Ten Billion Years

Though I Run Ten Billion Years
© Surazeus
2016 01 01

Though I run ten billion years across plains
I can never catch the flowers of your heart.
The fertile Earth spins around hot Sun
ten billion years in waves of life and death.
But when I sit still under your fruit tree
you come give me the apple of your heart.

Though I run ten billion years over hills
I can never catch the light of your heart.
The shining Sun weaves the sphere of the Earth
ten billion years with threads of life and death.
But when I sit still on breast of your faith
you come give me the warm fire of your heart.

Though I sail ten billion years across seas
I can never catch the rain of your heart.
The swirling Sea billows in clouds of rain
ten billion years with coils of life and death.
But when I sit still by lake of your dreams
you come give me the water of your heart.

Though I fly ten billion years among clouds
I can never catch the breath of your heart.
The flowing Wind puffs our bodies with hope
ten billion years with breath of lie and death.
But when I sit still by cave of your eyes
you come give me the fresh words of your heart.