Monday, May 22, 2017

Mad Prophet Of Oregon

Mad Prophet Of Oregon
© Surazeus
2017 05 22

I was walking down the street in Seattle
one cold afternoon twenty-six years ago
during the grunge era in Ninety-One
when the old homeless Russian engineer,
named Valentine, who told me he escaped
the Iron Curtain of oppressive fear
by walking far across frozen Siberia,
then riding a fishing boat to Seattle,
shouted, "Mad prophet of Oregon, come
and read to me your latest poetry."

Sitting in my long green tweed overcoat
beside the old thin-faced forest wizard
with long golden hair and thin tangled beard,
wearing a green feathered Robin Hood cap,
who stared into my soul with sky-blue eyes,
I opened my thick black sketchbook of poems
and read several satirical jeremiads.

Swigging vodka from the torn paper bag,
and eyes shining with light of wild rain,
the Russian wizard clapped my back and shouted,
"Now you are writing poetry of truth
that burns pure in deep black hole of your heart.
You remember what I told you last time,
that greatest poets who sing soul of death
defy tyrants and commit suicide
because force of life burn inside their brains
like flame of hell that laughing devil sparks.
Now you too sing like mad prophet of death."

Grinning amused at his insistent praise,
I shrug and explain, "I think I will try
to publish them in Poetry Magazine
or The New Yorker," but he shakes his head
and raises both hands to the cloudy sky.

Leaning close so his blue eyes fill the sky,
the Russian wizard exclaims with clear voice.
"Those magazines will never publish you
because you are mad prophet, like your poets
of English, William Blake and Allen Ginsberg
and Walt Whitman, all heads possessed by devil.
You sing wild mountain wind and ocean waves
so your poems will burn their weak magazines.
Your poems you must shout at death on street corner
and not in dim library or bookstore.
You stand in sunlight of death and sing poems.
Now you go and shout poems to wake whole world."

Pushing to my feet in chill Autumn wind,
I give Siberian wizard twenty dollars,
then tip fedora, and walk through the crowd
of students on University Ave
to find my mask I must carve out of light.

Leaving Emerald City of misty towers,
I walk into the wilderness of dreams
east on long signless highways of America
over mountains and deserts to the sea,
singing poems on the streets of every city
till I stand on the sea shore in Miami
and watch the sun rise from the Sea of Death.

Our First Mother, who rose from Sea of Life
at dawn of time and wove our brains from atoms,
giving birth to every creature on Earth
who sees its own reflection in her Eye,
appears before me on the beach at midnight
and kisses my Third Eye with drop of rain
that beams memories of all my ancestors
before my eyes in visions of survival,
and reveals secret of eternal life.

I fly around the globe on silver wings
to Island of Flowers in sparkling sea,
where Istra, elegant Goddess of Love,
holds my hand and leads me up mountain side
to stand where Siwa created her soul,
so we kneel together in temple hall
to sing the ancient song of trusting faith.

From flashing beam of light two Goddesses
of Wisdom, Saraswati and Athena,
descend and place two jewels in our hands
that glitter with the eyes of our ancestors,
so we fly back around the spinning globe
where two daughters spring from our spiral eyes.

While sitting by the lake where we now live,
in the lush sultry hills of southern Georgia,
and feeling moonlight flicker on its waves,
we watch our daughters laugh and play in flowers,
delighting they will live after we die.

Though I know that the wizard Valentine
died many years ago in silver mist,
I hear his spirit laughing in the woods,
shouting, "Mad prophet of Oregon, come
and read to me your latest poetry,"
so I smile and watch our two daughters play
for they are the poems that grow from my heart.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Our Universal Spirit Of Light

Our Universal Spirit Of Light
© Surazeus
2017 05 18

Sitting outside my office at lunch time,
while on the phone talking financial business,
I glanced at the pearl sky and saw huge clouds
shaped exactly like a white unicorn,
elegant face on a tree-bough curved neck
with knotted mane flowing in feathered wisps,
long pointed horn from a passing jet plane,
and one great eye of gold blazing light
when the sun beamed through at just the right spot,
that gazes still in the depths of my heart
which flushed my soul with pure infinite love.

While staring astonished with beating heart
at apparition of the divine spirit,
which prophets for millennia claimed exists,
and thinking how to disconnect the call
to photograph this vision of the Light,
which my brain invented from random swirls
of moisture gleaming in the boundless sky,
the clouds dispersed, so the weird vision vanished
while I listened to talk of interest rates.

I felt my soul spread out in beaming rays
to vibrate with all atoms of the world,
as if some universal spirit sees
my face and knows all the dreams of my mind,
and then I felt every person alive
pulsing with life on our vast spinning globe.

Yet though I know the universe of stars
has no consciousness in coherent mind,
clouds are nothing more than swirls of rain drops,
and the sun nothing more than beams of light,
yet I felt energy of every atom
that forms the spinning Earth on which we live
spiraling in threads of transcendent spirit
straight through dirt and air and water and light
connecting my small isolated soul
to the undulating soul of our world
and all the souls with conscious dreaming minds
who live at this hour of chemical change
on all the planets of our universe.

People of Earth, I give my solemn word
that I saw this unicorn spirit gleam
for less that one minute in the vast sky,
so that from my little spot on this globe,
while in just the right place at the right time
in my polar perspective, I perceived,
at one moment in the whole span of time
through over four and a half billion years
our planet has spun around the bright sun,
this vivid vision of the unicorn
appear before my eyes in the vast sky
out of all the shapes that clouds have performed,
which I failed to capture with my eye phone.

This bright vision of the unicorn spirit
will gleam perfect in cells of my brain
until death snuffs the clear flame of my soul,
but no one else who ever lives on Earth
will ever see this vision I perceived,
except for those who read this poem I wrote,
though every brain who envisions my dream
will design their own version of the spirit,
and so billions of unicorns will dance
in swirling clouds that flash across the sky,
for we are but dreams in the Eye of Earth.

All conscious brains that shimmer with dreams
together weave one web of singing souls
in our universal spirit of light.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

I Feel Our World Spinning

I Feel Our World Spinning
© Surazeus
2017 05 17

I feel our world spinning wild into night
when all the working people of the land
who drive circles, searching for rainbow gold,
gather before the palace of the king
and call for Zeus to hurl his thunderbolt
that frees us from the clown who steals our souls.

I feel our world spinning far beyond right
when the three stooges play kings from the east
to visit the shack of the new-born king
and steal all the money his mother saved
to build their new wall around church and state
where the clown crowns himself king of the world.

I feel our world spinning faster in spite
when Tweedle Dum King of America
fights with Tweedle Dee King of Korea
over whose dad gave him the bigger crown
until Rapunzel in the Tower of Greed
steals both eyes from the clown with serpent tongue.

I feel our world spinning higher in flight
when Melusine, Queen of the Evening Land,
gives us all apples from the Tree of Life
while chanting hymns in the cave of Sainte-Baume
where Mary Magdalene the Mermaid rules
after she outwitted the clown at chess.

I feel our world spinning with tangled kite
when Angels who were born from mountain snow
unite with Devils born from desert sand
to help lost kings Tarzan and Robin Hood
drive money changers from Temple of Godin,
then elect Rapunzel our next President.

I feel our world spinning deep into light
when Orpheus appears on Woodstock stage
to sing, we are the bridge between the ape
and the Superman who lives in our hearts,
since I found the Holy Grail is the Girl
who reincarnates the soul of God as Clown.

Color Of Broken Eyes

Color Of Broken Eyes
© Surazeus
2011 06 07

Ice glitters in a glass of water forlorn
if silver were true color of broken eyes
or nothing swallows hot milk of death
so she chokes and gasps for breath.

Bow rips across her violin heart soft
as feathers plucked from crippled swan
whose last song is smothered by hand
of iron doctor twisting wires ripped sharp.

Eighty-six girls in torn white gowns
stand staring at you on a granite cliff
pulling scissors out of their belly mouths
then leap and dive into red invisible sea.

Gentle doctor in a clean white smock
steers her mother toward polished door
murmuring I want to gain her sweet trust
by giving her a popsicle or a plush bear.

Lighting cracks open egg of her eye
and screams silent cutting wind why
if her own face melts on car window
to bleed tears oozing from torn mouth.

Hiding behind locked bedroom door
as Gothic vampire king wails on radio
she slashes pale thighs to cut out demon
that squirms gnawing hot stabbed heart.

Galloping in Black Forest on white horse
she raises sharp sword and howls hope
then chops writhing pink worm hard
hacking porcelain mask in splintered shards.

Tangled in blanket escaping cold hands
she snaps awake clutching her violin
to stare at gold moon bleeding tears
and snakes writhe hissing from her head.

Wearing pink gown in ribbons and lace
little girl stands on stage at her church
and rips heads off demons as she plays
tearing tangled wires of fear from her heart.

Face me and look in my cracked eyes
she screams behind sweet knife smile
then bows blind as everyone applauds
moved by strange passion of her song.

Bubbles of red lava explode hot milk
searing sudden thrust of sharp knife
though she kneels in her living room
watching nature channel about volcanoes.

She throws glass of milk at clean window
of laughing rage behind picture shards
that reflect one eye swallowing her mind
or piece puzzle of despair to forget now.

Kneeling nude at midnight on lake shore
she paints violin red with dream blood
and strings wires from her mute heart
since books eat theories of mad love.

I she opens gray mouth to explain fear
if face of mother gleams brittle white
confusion tainting her voice from love
but falls without wings and groans hurt.

My favorite letter ache that is for horse
shines red as blood from broken eyes
that float with Orpheus on silent stream
and watch you when you wake in dream.

You know my name I carved in stone
hammer striking chisel in mountain glade
but who rose from death though torn apart
by teeth of kind doctor in a wolf cloak.

Gliding with friends in elegant lounge
and sipping gold drink by large window
lit by moon she smiles at a cute guy
asking his name with a flirtatious grin.

What do you do for a living William
and he purrs I work as a pediatrician
but her fingers crush chalice of red wine
and she throws up on his clean white suit.

Wrapped in pink wool bathrobe warm
she looks at her hands shaped like a violin
and blushes I apologize for my behavior
but dragon of rage ripped my pretty mask.

Look in my eyes beyond mirror moon
and you will see color of broken eyes
and smiles as he fusses over her health
giving her warm honey ginger tea to drink.

His finger caresses her trembling cheek
but eyes of glass crack into egg of light
as she whispers he is locked in prison now
then disappears behind mist of lost hope.

He paints her wearing a pink lace gown
playing violin safe on marble cupola bed
as three swans float on star-sparkling lake
but spirit of her soul pounds at her skull.

I live in top room of a cold stone tower
singing with birds and holding a flower
but hair your hands could climb up to me
was ripped from my soul when I was three.

Huddled in a yellow coat on river walk
she stands away from him in gray drizzle
and watches her face melt down windows
while staring beyond illusion at star heart.

I could not escape his grasping hands
but letter double you glows soft green
so maybe your kiss will revive my heart
but this sleeping beauty rots under glass.

William places porcelain vase with rose
on river balustrade and whispers mute
I love you no matter what happened Em
as I explore labyrinth of your purple heart.

Ice cubes melt filling her glass heart high
with water rippling down river of light
while true color of broken eyes reveals
death smiling from abyss of nothing real.

Emma holds his face with both hands
as William wakes just before blue dawn
and they sit together silent on wet lawn
watching sun rise reborn on shared breath.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Stories Of Our Hearts

Stories Of Our Hearts
© Surazeus
2017 05 16

When sun sets gold on distant hills
and men trudge home from working hard
we gather on the old wood porch
to eat apple cider and stew
then sing the stories of our hearts.

While Adam strums his old guitar
and Johnny on the bucket drums
young Sara breathes the mountain air
that beams divine soul down from stars
and sings the stories of our hearts.

When Kathy plucks the zither strings
in tune with fireflies in twilight
sweet Sara tells heart-aching tale
about the boy who ran away
to sing the stories of our hearts.

In twilight glow on mountain slope
where crickets vibrate by the pond
the young girl weeps by willow tree
and hopes he will return one day
who sings the stories of our hearts.

From Appalachian hills he walks
to play guitar on Memphis streets
where sun on Mississippi gleams
and dreams at night about her eyes
then sings the stories of our hearts.

When sun glows red on distant hills
and men drive home from factories
we gather on the spacious porch
where Sara stands in twilight gleam
and sings the stories of our hearts.

Wings Of Rainbow Flame

Wings Of Rainbow Flame
Surazeus
2009 04 27



When Blind Lemon Jefferson, clutching guitar,
got lost in a freezing Chicago snow storm,
and burned his tongue on sugarless coffee,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him and took his groping hands,
and sang, I will keep watch over your grave.

When Lead Belly got buck shot in his belly
and locked in prison for swinging a knife
to protect his girl from a rapist banker,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him rotting in dank iron-bar cell,
and sang, take this hammer to your captain.

When T-Bone Walker walked graveyard bones
in Monday storm, looking for lost sweetheart,
and sang blues instead of praying in church,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a winning queen high flush,
and sang, I transformed a tiger into your wife.

When Robert Johnson met tall black devil
at tombstone of Tashunca in midnight moon,
who tuned guitar strings with magic power,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him as Legba knocking on his door,
and sang, I burned your body down with soul.

When Muddy Waters twanged electric strings
for lightning to crackle over Chicago skies,
and surfed Mount Sinai on a rolling stone,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with pure dry black cat bones,
and sang, I got your mojo flashing neon eyes.

When Mississippi John Hurt laid rail lines,
swinging high hammer of John Henry hard,
and plowed wet Earth to plant golden wheat,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with dove of Noah in open hands,
and sang, go home to Avalon on that long train.

When Howling Wolf Chester drove up north
on Blues Highway Sixty One to see his ma
and she threw down his devil music money,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with gasoline instead of water,
and sang, church bells toll as a hearse rolls slow.

When Big Bill Broonzy came back from Europe
fighting for freedom, he cleaned with his hands,
getting paid half a dollar for same hard work,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a thousand dollar guitar,
and sang, get back to singing old river blues.

When Woody Guthrie roamed ribbon highway
over wheat fields from rolling dust clouds
across diamond deserts to lush grape hills
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a torch of freedom light,
and sang, this land was made for you and me.

When Bob Zimmerman, jingle-jangle Jokerman,
heard chimes of freedom on Desolation Row,
and translated visions blowing in a new wind,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with key to locked gate of heaven,
and sang, how does it feel to be a rolling stone.

Eating Sweet Pears

Eating Sweet Pears
© Surazeus
2017 05 15

The boy stands alone in old misty woods
and sings strange sorrow tearing at his heart.
Stars fall from the sky and crash on the Earth,
and crack the mountain that falls in the sea.

The boy climbs the tree and plucks ripening pears
and fills the basket dangling from his arm.
Rain streams down the steep slopes of granite peaks
and fills the valleys of bones with new lakes.

The boy floats alone on the pristine lake
and names every star he sees flicker bright.
Wind scatters seeds he arranged on the table
which sprout into pear trees on the lake shore.

The boy jumps startled when dark shadow moves
and crouches alert in the quiet grove.
Sunlight gleams through gold leaves fluttered by wind
and reveals woman formed from floating specks.

The boy glides through the woods in careful search
for the presence who watches him with eyes.
His mind conjures spirits of people whispering,
though his eyes see his own face in the pool.

The boy piles skulls of everyone who died
in ring of stones beside the sparkling stream.
The raven explains why people must die
so their bodies become pears on the tree.

The boy forms river mud to match the face
of the woman who gave him his lost name.
The face of his mother stares blank at him
and he almost hears her voice in the light.

The boy watches rainbow beam after rains
that drench flowers with drops soaking his skin.
The world is messy with sorrow and pain
but we seek pleasure in eating sweet pears. 

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Music Of Her Flute

Music Of Her Flute
© Surazeus
2017 05 14

"The boundless blue sky that mirrors our world
reveals that my existence is the lark
that chirps in the poplar tree in the park."
So the old man with a hammer and saw
builds a computer desk from poplar wood
for his granddaughter who loves to draw
pictures of boys and cats with PhotoShop.

Sitting alone on a bench in the park,
crowded with people collected in groups,
the old man watches clouds glowing with light
billow like waterfalls gush over stones,
and clutches the wood flute he never plays
which his mother gave him when he was twelve,
then whispers to the bird in the flower bush.

"When I look at the surface of the pond
which reflects clear everything that exists,
I cannot see my face, so I invent
strange new name to call myself every day.
Because I could perform a thousand acts
arrayed before me on a thousand roads
and walk into a thousand different worlds
I sit still at the center of this world,
unmoving stone in the wild swirl of atoms."

Rain falls from the clouds swirling over town
and everyone runs for cover under trees
or in doorways of stores along the street,
but the old man still sits on the wood bench,
gazing upward with squinting eyes at drops
of sparkling light that fall into his mind.
"I am a tree so I need rain to grow."
He laughs when two boys run back in the rain
to leap into puddles bright in the grass.

Watching the old man with long tangled hair
laugh on the wood bench in the pouring rain,
the mother of the boys frowns and points.
"That old man tells so many fancy stories
he wanders lost in meaningless delusions,
so though he knows whole history of the world
he knows nothing about our modern era.
Since he has changed his name so many times
he long ago forgot the real name
his mother gave before he was born.
The only name that is real is the name
your mother gives you before you are born."

Three red birds flit on branches of oak trees.
The young girl in a pink dress of white flowers
pushes an empty baby carriage slow
and stops under the bare black cherry tree.
"No pink petals flutter on my black hair.
I will bear no child from my barren womb.
My mother was pregnant with me when bombs
blossomed red flowers and poison rain fell.
My first memory when I was a girl
was my mother singing, eyes full of tears,
Takeda Lullaby with haunting voice."

Smiling through a thousand drops of green rain,
the old man with blue eyes offers the flute
to the young girl pushing an empty carriage.
After staring at the flute for three hours,
Akane takes it from the hand of Odin
and plays haunting music in swirling rain.
All the people in the world stand entranced
at weird harmony of her aching heart,
then dance in sync with music of her flute,
stepping and leaping on wings of the wind,
moving their fingers on long writhing arms
as if they weave sunlight in flower blossoms,
and eyes gazing at the swirling Black Star
that blazes at core of our galaxy,
while her melody glitters in their blood.

After rain leaves shining drops of sunlight
on everything, the old man walks alone
with teeming crowd on the long city street,
like a pine cone floating on river current.
The name and deeds of every person glows
around their faces when they pass him by
but no one sees when he floats in the sky
and all the world becomes his dreaming eye.


Friday, May 12, 2017

Tides Of Power

Tides Of Power
© Surazeus
2017 05 12

I float suspended in the flow of time
while watching people contend for control
in never-ending game of politics
when individuals seem to win and lose,
rising and falling in slow tides of power.

The global system of our nation states
connected by corporations and religions
that stood solid for these past eighty years
trembles from quake of contentious conflict
as ancient systems of government fight
against fractious groups of opposing visions
to define our global community.

I imagine painted on temple wall
entire progress of human history
as we transformed over ten thousand years
from simple tribes of hunter-gatherers
through nations merging into vast empires
to global puzzle of contending states.

I envision the whole process of change
as each generation played games of power
when gods wielded scepters like thunderbolt
and gathered many tribes on ziggurats
to sing creation of our universe,
when priests wielded tablets of tales and laws
and erected gold statues of dead gods
then enforced rules for people to live right,
when kings wielded swords to enforce commands
and organized people to grow more crops
then constructed castles to rule lush fields,
when dictators wielded guns to attack
rivals for power and oppress common people
hired to construct factories to build cars,
and when presidents before cameras
present vision for programs that provide
good services in return for their votes.

I see the same events of social drama
occur again and again over time
for every leader over every nation
these past ten thousand years of constant change
as generations of people are born,
contend in social games for wealth and fame,
arrange the rules to benefit their children,
then fall away into abyss of death
as their bodies and brains dissolve to dust,
and they vanish as their children in turn
contend in social games for wealth and fame.

With every winner in fierce games for power
thousands of people lose and wander lost
while numberless groups of people maintain
daily routines of productive creation
to grow food and build works with grasping hands.

All the ancient songs of experience
composed by our ancestors long ago
that preserve in stories the names and deeds
of people who gained wisdom facing death
shimmer in the minds of mothers and fathers
who sit in silence and watch television
so the legends of our tribes are all lost
as each generation falls in the grave,
and we hear nothing but the sad song of wind.

I feel all around me spinning with stars
the ceaseless story of aggressive games
which people play to win glory and fame
that cycles on the wheel of war and peace
as our giant ball of mountains and seas
spirals nowhere through vast infinite space,
so every moment in the game of thrones
hangs suspended in the process of change.

Whoever rules this land or that on Earth
means nothing in the scheme of history
for rulers come and go on tides of hope
and they who rule today will fall tomorrow
while we who seek to know nature of things
continue on our endless quest for truth.


Wingless Mirror Angel

Wingless Mirror Angel
© Surazeus
2017 05 11

Though wind chases light across the green plain,
and children run circles around pear trees,
the old man sits alone in falling rain
and licks sweet honey made by zooming bees.

When we at last arrive for feast of cakes
all the blind crownless kings will play war chess,
but after they change the queens into snakes
the deaf wizard appears, wearing a dress.

He grips my shoulders with frail trembling hands
and tries to convince me the dead will walk
and drive the living from our fertile lands
then rule the world till I invent the clock.

Bearing only the last book still unburned,
we set out on quest for the holy grail
since the Lady of Shalott, who was spurned
by Arthur, drew me a map of the trail.

After trudging through the waste land of dust
we arrive at the pool where all dead souls
dissolve from the flames of creative lust
till we civilize ourselves with grand goals.

I see my face in the mirror of light
so I attach to my shoulders swan wings
broken by the flaming sword of the right
which explains why the angel never sings.

The blind wizard who explains why we die
opens the back of my skull to replace
my sponge brain with computer diamond eye
so I can dream all history in one face.

I build four wheels from the dead Tree of Life
and drive swift wagon along winding trail
that leads me to the cracked tower where my wife
pours honey wine into the Holy Grail.

I carve on trunks of trees the secret Runes
that tell tragic tale of the last Snow Queen
while three-eyed girl sings for me ancient tunes
recording how she built the world machine.

I see the robot angel fly at me
but stop and stare at the mirror abyss,
eager to marry Empress Liberty
who blushes when I give her loving kiss. 

Thursday, May 11, 2017

Hawk Of Our Dead Moon

Hawk Of Our Dead Moon
© Surazeus
2017 05 10

The hawk silhouetted black on the roof
at dawn when the full moon shimmers light pink
through the trees shrouded in haze from fire smoke
reveals the spark of life that burns my heart.

What wild flame of inspiration flashed bright
from the crackling neurons of my sponge brain
and caused my fingers to dance on black keys
that beamed letters from visions of my eyes.

I give you the key I forged from god bones
so you open wide the numberless door
and follow my song through the labyrinth
where faces of the dead watch us from walls.

The hawk soars down swift from the mountain cave
where the devil holds emerald in his hand
which contains in its flashing molecules
the entire history of our universe.

How bitter-sweet the false mind-numbing faith
that Jesus will raise us all from mute death
so we can live forever in lush garden
eating fruit from trees that grow from our hearts.

I drive time machine on endless highway
spiraling through towns sea to shining sea
where ten thousand blind angels in book stores
read poetry from new bible of our lives.

I organize the process of my death
according to the numbers of my clock
which calculate chemical lust for luck
when atoms sparkle clear with divine soul.

Amazed to be alive, I wake each day
and grasp matter of the world with my hands
to mold machines from rocks with Vulcan fire
and weave computers in the Brain of God.

The hawk of our dead moon watches me type
magic spells that glow on computer screen,
but Sky Walker never explains why I
am me and no one else who ever lived.

We dance around each other in the home
of nine windows by the small lake of eyes,
so I listen to the wind rippling waves
explain nothing except we all will die.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Twenty-Third Psalm

Twenty-Third Psalm
© Surazeus
2017 05 09

Alone in teeming crowd on Market Street,
after everyone leaves work for the day,
Barbie pushes shopping cart full of bags
where she stuffed all her fine dresses and shoes
when the police foreclosed on her large house,
and watches faces glowing in street lights
freeze into porcelain masks when they pass
though she smiles at them with generous love.

Parking shopping cart beside wooden bench,
between the coffee shop and the flower shop,
Barbie adjusts blue trench coat with slim hands,
then sits beside the couple eating ice dream,
and rests her hand on the edge of the cart
to watch people go in and out of shops,
while remembering how much each dress cost,
and if she needs to buy another dress,
though if she sells them at the vintage shop.

At the small round glass table three young men
laugh as they snap photographs with their phones,
just like Jean Paul Sartre, Verlaine, and Rimbaud
talking about surrealist poetry
at the Pegasus Cafe in Paris
because poets are wizards who conjure
apparitions of heroes and lost souls
from the dust of words that compose the world.

When those three boys in ski masks broke the door
and pointed guns in their faces, she cried
and begged they leave because professor friends
from the university will come soon
for an evening of roast beef steak and wine
they bought from France on their summer vacation,
but he pushed her against the wall which caused
the Ming Dynasty vase to fall and crash,
shattering her heart into a thousand shards.

The other one shot her husband three times,
the gentle professor who teaches history
of the Roman Empire to graduate students,
splattering his blood on her new white dress,
just like the one Jackie Kennedy wore,
and his eyes stared blank at the vast white wall
where all the memories of laughter flash
in sparkling waterfall on mountain trail
when they ventured to Yosemite Park
for their honeymoon to make love at night
when stars glitter like diamonds in her heart.

Smiling as she smoothes her long tangled hair,
Barbie wonders if she told the young girl,
sitting beside her, story of her life,
how after her husband was shot and killed
she lost everything, bankrupted by fear,
but she still has all her dresses and shoes,
safe in thirteen trashbags for thirty years,
still looking for her home on Alder Street,
so she smiles at the girl who looks away.

Reciting the address numbers on door
of every house on every street of town,
Barbie walks up and down the neighborhoods
to traverse the entire city on foot,
pushing shopping cart with dresses and shoes,
and whispers words she invents from cold wind,
intending to write the new dictionary
that will explain why everyone should care.

The Lord was my shepherd, but now I want,
for I wander idyllic pastures of heaven
now paved with asphalt in network of roads
lined with houses, doors locked against the gloom,
that watch me with silent eyes of disgust,
and I have nowhere in all these green pastures
to lie down safe, for the clear quiet waters
are hidden in cement pipes under streets,
and I wander up and down rigid streets
reciting the weird name of my dead husband.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
late at night when everyone is asleep,
I fear nothing because nobody cares,
sitting together behind their locked doors
and watching television after supper,
for no one is with me in the cold night,
and the policeman with a gun who drives
slowly past where I walk, pushing my cart,
would arrest me and lock me in the jail,
so I keep walking to avoid his eyes.

Ten thousand houses line neighborhood streets,
and inside them all are ten thousand tables
covered with large plates of delicious food
beside pitchers of milk, juice, and sweet wine,
but I will never again be invited
to join their rich feasts, for I have no friends
and everyone is now my enemy,
since no one ever bothered to help me
after my husband was killed by the thieves,
but I sneak up to the sides of their homes
and fill plastic bottles with sparkling water
that overflow and splash on my torn shoes.

Sorrow and despair follow after me
all the days of my life since criminals
invaded my home, raped me on my bed,
and shot my husband to steal our jewelry,
and I will dwell on the streets of the world
outside the walls and the doors of the house
forever, pushing my cart full of bags,
stuffed with dresses and shoes, in the hot sun
and the drenching rain, searching for my face.

Smiling at the little boy with balloon
who stops to stare at her with big blue eyes,
Barbie reaches out her thin wrinkled hand
and offers him the baseball that she found
in the alley behind the grocery store,
but he knocks it out of her hand and laughs,
then runs to his mother by the flower shop,
so she watches trees rustling in cool wind
and breathes in pungent scent of purple lilacs.

Monday, May 8, 2017

Labyrinth Of Dreams

Labyrinth Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2017 05 08

Whether wise philosophers who design
economic programs that benefit all,
or arrogant clowns who manipulate
power of law to steal wealth from working hands,
kings and presidents who try to control
surging tides of human desire with reins
of ambition to nourish national life,
rise and fall in the long current of time,
while men and women who discover truth
about the nature of our world and minds,
and express their visions in formulas
that aid our quest to comprehend the Light,
guide our way through vast labyrinth of dreams
to paint paradise inside our own hearts.

Whether devils who present glamorous lies
to lure us from safe garden of fruit trees
and lock our hands with chains to mine for gems
in sunless underworld as slaves of greed,
or saviors who free us from binding chains
and lead us blinking back to the real world
where we join hands and sing with grateful praise
then work together in communal walls,
one man always gains power over each group,
exploiting us for his own private gain
or teaching us skills to create our wealth,
on ancient quest to comprehend the Truth
where we wander through labyrinth of dreams
to build paradise inside our own hearts.

Whether tyrants who spark our national pride
to band as loyal warriors who defend
our fatherland against all foreigners
while hiding in castles of bleeding stone,
or messiahs who wield the flaming sword
of honest justice to battle cruel monsters
and welcome wandering refugees to garden
where we share stories of ancestral gods,
tribal leaders appear and disappear
in ceaseless turning cycles of exchange,
possessed by eternal spirit of power,
divine essence of god in human flesh,
who leads us lost through labyrinth of dreams
to chase paradise inside our own hearts.

Whether scientists who investigate
the deepest secrets of our universe,
conducting tests to verify their thesis,
and devising theories to describe truth,
or curious detectives who follow clues
and organize facts to weave web of actions
by tracing effects back to their causal agents
to solve crimes and thus administer justice,
seekers for arcane wisdom employ logic
to assemble puzzle that reveals truth,
then change beliefs to match provable facts
by adjusting their ideology
to navigate through labyrinth of dreams
and find paradise inside our own hearts.




Sunday, May 7, 2017

Idol Of Jesus

Idol Of Jesus
© Surazeus
2017 05 07

After sitting in church for several hours,
listening to the preacher on stage talk
about Jesus as a supernatural god
who came to Earth as a beautiful man
who loves every person in the whole world,
Angela stands and asks where he is now,
so when the preacher exclaims with loud voice,
while pointing upward, that King Jesus dwells
in Heaven where he will take us all soon,
if we accept him as our lord and savior,
she runs outside and looks up at the sky.

Shading eyes under brim of her white hat,
Angela scans the sky looking for signs
that Jesus is watching her from his throne.
"Where are you, Jesus, sitting up in Heaven?
I read stories about Jesus in the Bible,
I see paintings of Jesus on the walls,
and the preacher says Jesus lives in Heaven,
but when I look up at the shining sky
I see nothing but vast blue emptiness."

Young girl in white dress, lace gloves, and white hat,
who clutches small white Bible in her hands,
walks away from the church by busy road
and climbs high green hill toward lone willow tree,
following gleam of sunlight through its leaves.

"I imagine Jesus in my mind, tall,
big green eyes, long brown hair curled on his shoulders,
wearing long white robe, gold crown on his head,
and both arms open wide to embrace me,
but I have never seen Jesus in the flesh.
I would call to you, Jesus, and ask you
to come down from Heaven on bright rainbow,
and stand before me in body of light
so I can see that you are real in person,
but I suspect you will never appear.
I know the preacher says that you are God,
by which he means that you are everywhere,
surrounding us in the air and the dirt,
even claiming you are inside my body,
and thus the pulsing energy of atoms
that compose this body I call myself.
However, if Jesus is God, and God
is everywhere, why do they picture Jesus
as a tall white bearded man with long hair?
I think, Jesus, you really were a man
who walked this Earth two thousand years ago."

Angela laughs while staring at the sky.
"Maybe you were alive once, long ago,
over two thousand years ago, they say,
but you must be dead now, gone from this world,
and nothing more than a doll in our minds
that people conjure through stories with words
to beam the image of your body clear
in our minds, so we think you are still real.
How strange they all think he is still alive,
believing this story their parents tell
since they were little children like me now,
and never stopped to think that he is dead
and nothing more than idol in our mind
that lies preserved in words of ancient stories,
and only springs alive when people read
those stories, deceived to think he is real.
I am real now, alive with flesh and blood,
awake and breathing the air that swirls thick
around the spinning world, aching for love,
but they all stand in that building each week
and sing about some man who is long dead.
They all worship nothing more than an idol
of Jesus, a fantasy that exists
nowhere but inside the dream of their minds."

Angela stares at the vast empty sky,
clasping the sides of her head with both hands,
and laughs at the absurdity she feels.
Lying on grass under the willow tree,
Angela smiles with joy that floods her heart,
and watches birds flutter wings as they mate.

"While lying here alone under empty sky,
I see true vision of this changing world,
how atoms interact to generate
living creatures with envisioning minds
who worship mortal human beings like Jesus
because they taught us how to live through love.
People attend church on Sunday each week
because they must rejuvenate with prayer
idol of Jesus glowing in their minds,
otherwise that idol will disappear,
and they will feel lost without guiding light
in winding maze of this meaningless world.
Any belief that must be kept alive
through constant prayer and sermons about faith
is nothing but illusion based on lies.
Allowing illusion to dissipate
from my mind, I will base meaning of life
on treating other people with respect,
because there is nothing beyond this life.
I will base the performance of my life
on generous interaction of exchange
with living people in drama of hope.
We are all hungry and we need to eat
to live, so we work together in groups
to grow food and celebrate life with feasts,
singing and dancing in the hall of stories."

Skipping back to the church by busy road,
Angela strides inside to join her family,
then claps her hands and sways in harmony
with the congregation while they sing hymns
about the man who taught us all to love.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

First Cave Of Our Song

First Cave Of Our Song
© Surazeus
2017 05 04

The sparkling sun spins around in my head
so I sing transformation of our souls
beaming outward from the glow of the sun
as we weave atoms into spinning world
where we swim forever in shining waves
then follow silver light of flowing stream
to stand on the shore of the mountain lake
and pluck red apple of the sun to eat.

First Mother of all souls who dream with eyes
wakes in the mind of everyone alive,
remembering when she crouched on emerald stone
and gazed at the forest of wind-blown trees
teeming with giant spiders and insects,
so she climbed tree vines toward vast empty sky
and squeezed large sac of eggs from swollen womb
to cradle children in gleaming moonlight.

I can still hear the keening of her voice
ringing from the core of my beating heart
as I clung to her breast on curling vine
while breathing deep sweet wind of laughing leaves,
but she lay down, exhausted by travail
from gathering berries for us to eat,
and never woke again, so aching hope
vibrated from my heart in howling song.

Through ten thousand generations of Me
we gain eternal life through body birth,
spreading out from the first cave of our song
to climb every mountain around the world
and dance on every river shore at dawn
then gather fruit to feast in ring of stones
where we chant in harmony of desire
so our children live on after we die.



Angels Gone Blind

Angels Gone Blind
© Surazeus
2017 05 03

Wind blows green rain that stings his flinty face
like bitter tears of angels who went blind.
Brim of brown fedora protects his eyes
that blink at sudden flash of light through clouds.
"I hate that metaphor that presents rain
as symbol of bitter tears, because water
causes seeds to sprout into trees and flowers,
restoring life to hearts dead from despair."

Red and blue lights flash quick on red brick wall
so he steps around blind corner to see
two policemen aiming guns at young man
who raises both hands while backing away.
"Are you going to shoot me because I am black?
I am a student at the university,
and I stayed at the library too late
studying for my physics exam tomorrow
to catch the bus, so I am walking home."

Aiming Galaxy phone, he opens FaceBook
and hits record to stream the video live,
then holds stock still while he captures the scene
of policemen aiming guns at a black student.
"We are arresting you for stealing cars,
so raise your hands and lie flat on your stomach."

The young man clutching backpack backs away.
"I am walking home minding my own business,
so you keep stopping me because I am black.
The last time you police arrested me
I proved my innocence of any crime."

The policeman fires three bullets that strike
his chest and stomach, causing him to fall
and bang his head against the rusty mailbox.
Blood spouts hot from the gaping wordless wound
to form river that gushes into a flood,
and drowns the world of cities in blank mist.

Zooming view of his phone with finger slide,
he focuses recording on the body
of the young student slouched against the mailbox.
"I think the police killed an innocent man.
You can see the blood gurgling from his mouth."

Young policeman hears his voice, so he runs
and snatches Galaxy phone from his hand,
slams it at the ground, then stomps on it hard
with his boot, shattering the screen to shards.
"Recording the police is against the law.
Turn around and place your hands on your head.
I am now placing you under arrest
for obstructing justice, so you best comply
since you know what happens if you resist."

Slamming his face hard against the brick wall,
the policeman locks his wrists with handcuffs,
drags him stumbling in the cold gusting rain,
and shoves him in the back of the patrol car.
"I love America, land of liberty,
freedom of speech, and equal justice for all.
At least I know my video streamed live
on FaceBook for all my friends to observe.
I think it is a sign of my white privilege
that they shot him but just arrested me.
Now I can watch raindrops flow down the window
like the bitter tears of angels gone blind."

Unite For Lady Liberty

Unite For Lady Liberty
© Surazeus
2011 03 29

Why did we fight to set people free
sacrificing a hundred thousand lives
in civil war between our united states
if honest people are denied any right
because their skin is darker than white
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
so men and women with honesty
may pursue happiness in true liberty
if women are not allowed a choice
to bear a child inside her womb or not
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
if teen girls who run away from home
are forced to sell their bodies for cash
by men who beat them in impotent rage
if they try to escape from sex slavery
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
smashing wall between church and state
if people of all religious creeds or none
cannot worship or not as they choose
and hold elected offices of authority
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
sending soldiers to fight for democracy
to overthrow dictators in distant lands
if bankers with no rules to hinder hands
game stock market with cheating scams
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
forming unions to secure worker rights
so every one may earn a decent wage
if speculators inflate prices of homes
and gamble mortgages to steal wealth
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
marching to war at loud trumpet call
to break chains and free all humanity
if billions survive without kind security
hoping to build wasteland into paradise
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Why did we fight to set people free
joining together all nations and creeds
if we fail to see we experience one reality
investigating science of true humanity
to share home planet in peaceful equality
unless we all unite for Lady Liberty.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

White Kitten Of Hope

White Kitten Of Hope
© Surazeus
2017 05 02

Carl trudges slow up hill of crumbling rock,
heart aching with the yellow tufts of grass
that struggle to sprout through sharp jagged shards,
and gasps for breath on windless slope that gleams
in billowing rays of sunlight that beat
from smooth crystal sky to pierce his wet eyes.

Sharp pain pierces his side so he slips down
on one knee, clutching his side, and groans
with dead tree that lurches brittle from dust,
then lies on his back and closes his eyes
to float on windless waves of desolate hope.

Down into bottomless abyss of fear
Carl twirls on wingless dizzy height of gloom
toward flashing light that pulses from deep heart
of lightless sun which swallows him in mist
of sparkling seeds thrusting roots at hard cold
to crack adamantine death through white blaze.

Feeling as if he floats on wingless air,
Carl opens eye and sees his body flat
on jagged stones beneath dead twisted tree,
frail body of dry skin taut over bones
of brittle wood splintered by rays of light
that shoots ten thousand arrows through his core.

White kitten slips from shadow of red rock,
and creeps on cautious paws while swishing tail
toward body of that nameless man who lies
fragile as cracked serpent egg in white dust,
and nudges his cheek with small wet pink nose,
then licks his eyelids with empathic tongue.

Strange beams of purple light emanate wide
from singularity of timeless love
in spiraling waves of desire to hear
sweet voice of girls singing in temple choir,
and pulsing rays of truth from splashing drops
of glittering rain coagulate in eyes
of young kitten who climbs onto his chest
and curls her limbs in ball of sizzling fur
to become the throbbing beat of his heart.

Ten thousand years, beyond all bounds of space,
the kitten lies purring on his frail chest,
and all aching sorrow of bitter loss
dissolves like snow in gleaming rays of sunlight
so memory of his wife in bed with Peter,
clutching his back and gasping with delight,
vanishes in the bottomless abyss
and leaves him floating on wings of the hawk.

Two wolves appear from shadow at sunset
and sudden beating of his heart awakens
startled kitten who arches her small back
and hisses as she bares claws and sharp teeth,
but snarling wolves advance slow and crouch low.

Diving down into frail body of flesh,
Carl snaps awake and cradles in one hand
the fragile kitten hissing at the wolves,
then whips long silver sword from leather scabbard
and swings it swift to behead larger wolf,
so the other wolf turns and flees away.

Sitting on red stone under twisted tree,
Carl gazes into the large sky-blue eyes
of the white kitten, and purrs with delight
as she licks his cheek with pink raspy tongue,
then buries his nose in long fluffy fur
and sighs with pleasure at warmth of her body.

Perching small white kitten on his right shoulder,
Carl continues climbing hill of dry death,
step by step ascending desolate despair
of jagged rocks toward peak where thirteen trees
grow in wide circle around tall gray tower
that glimmers like smoke of hungry desire
against infinite sky of scarlet flames.

Long brass key that glitters on leather strap
hangs cold against his chest in twilight glow
as he slips it over his head and grins
when kitten bats the key with gentle paw,
then unlocks polished oak door that swings open
with creak of jealous rage stabbing his heart.

Pausing on desolate hill, Carl gazes back
at enormous world of low rolling hills
and shining river that flows toward deep sea,
which fades away into blankness of night,
then grins and shakes his head at broken trust,
and shuts the door to hide from world of pain.

Striking flint stone, Carl sparks warm fire in hearth,
then sits at wood desk where quills and ink pots
wait amid piles of scrolls and stacks of books,
and pours wine in crystal grail while white kitten
explores his desk full of bottles and jewels.

"How strange that I seemed to leave my frail body
and float in the air, looking at myself,
as if my soul slipped from confining bonds
of this haggard bag of bones that I am,
and almost escaped sorrows of this world
to soar upward toward crystal shell of stars.
Yet when I fall asleep my mind blanks dark,
and I remember nothing during hours
of nothingness, till I begin to dream
that I walk forever on mountain trails,
before I snap awake and become me.
I think instead of my soul slipping free
of this body, which sustains pulsing glow
of my conscious soul, my mind creates vision
of my body where I lay under tree
twisted by jealousy of angry hate,
and generated image of my body
so I seemed to see myself in waking dream.
My father taught me our souls are eternal,
generated by stars in realm of heaven,
then beam down to inhabit this frail body,
but I cannot remember anything
before I first woke at hour of my birth
when my father lay me on the plump breast
of my mother where I suckled sweet milk.
I remember nothing before I was born,
and all the dead disappear from this world,
so I think the conscious flame of my soul
is generated by flesh of my body
like flame only burns from substance of wood,
so bright flame of my soul will dissipate
after it burns my body to wrinkled age,
and leaves nothing but dry husk of gray dust.
My father sparked egg in womb of my mother
which she molded into body of me,
like the potter molds the jar from wet clay.
Yet now I explore the world of landscapes
where people play roles in drama of power
to find peaceful garden of paradise
where I can dwell safe from ambitions men
who fight each other to play role of king.
I was born, and now struggle to survive
and play the role people expect of me,
then death will crush me into nothingness,
and I will cease to exist for all time
that will continue after I am gone.
I will no longer play appointed roles,
rather I will sit in this tower of wind
and write verse to depict nature of life.
I sat all night contemplating this world
and now my eyes are lit by flash of dawn."

Carl lies down on thick rug of gray wolf fur
and snuggles the white kitten on his chest
who purrs as he breathes while he falls asleep,
spiraling down in bottomless abyss.