Sunday, July 30, 2017

My Dead Heart

My Dead Heart
© Surazeus
2017 07 30

She throws a thousand darts into my heart
because she fears I may escape her eyes
so when I would embrace her in my arms
her anger drives me far into the night.

She builds high wall to keep me close to her
but locks the gate and shuts me in the dark
so though she wants to bind me in her heart
she pushes me into the hopeless land.

She dreams inside her mind the part I play
but glares at me in silent wordless rage
because I fail to read her beaming mind
then yells because I sulk inside my cave.

She tries to place gold crown upon my head
and gives me sword that falls from trembling hand
but hidden in cold castle I must hide
from greedy swords that thrust to pierce my heart.

She stands alone in tower on high hill
and weeps while I now wander in cold rain
then kneel beside the gushing stream of love
to wash the wounds that never heal again.

She calls my name in blustering wind of hope
but fallen by the river without name
I watch bright flowers bloom from bitter rain
when apples sprout reborn from my dead heart.

Friday, July 21, 2017

We Choose Love

We Choose Love
© Surazeus
2017 07 21

When each person stands at edge of abyss
of eternal death after this short life
that weaves pleasure and pain into our hearts,
and comes to realize with ache of despair
that we are born by accident of lust
instead of being created for some purpose,
struggle against horror with hunger to live
in meaningless universe of wild atoms,
then vanish to nothing after we die
though we may leave our children still alive,
and decides with inspiring flash of love
to care for everyone with gentle acts
that create rather than destroy, they rise
above numbing horror of crushing death
and express love till death crushes our souls.
For two thousand years Christian priests proclaimed
that God created us from boundless love,
Jesus died to save us from selfish sins,
and we should accept him as selfless savior
so he can resurrect our souls from death
to live with him in paradise of bliss,
or we will burn in hell of agony,
but this lie of the resurrection blinds
eyes of desperate people to see this world
with sober view that everyone will die
and that Jesus will never resurrect
our bodies after death disperses souls.
People broken by agony of pain
and twisted by horror of suffering
cling tight to this false deceptive belief
that some super-powerful God of love
loves them and will restore their souls to life,
so every week they gather in their church
and conjure visions of this powerful god,
they pretend loves them and designed some plan
to guide their way in vast uncaring world,
to soothe the horror of eternal death
that clouds their eyes blind with deceptive hopes.
How sad that people need this specious promise
of the afterlife in blissful paradise
or the threat of eternal suffering
in order to convince them to act good,
when true goodness within the mortal soul
arises when each one who faces death
and eternal nothingness of our souls
in vast uncaring universe of change
decides to be good and love other people
in spite of the undeniable fact
that life is full of suffering and pain
and that we vanish to nothing at death.
When each person who stands at edge of death,
staring numb into bottomless abyss,
decides to light their heart with glow of love
and exude warmth to comfort fellow souls,
they gain true enlightenment of good love
and choose to live through creative expression,
that though we suffer and die in cold horror
we journey together on road of life
and cooperate in creative teams
to survive in communities of friends
and celebrate life with feast, dance, and song
that stays the darkness of death for this hour
while we savor the sweetness of our love.
When we realize that priests invented god
and the blinding lie of the resurrection
to transform the horror of death to hope
we choose to dispel the cold darkness of hate
with the warm light of love from our own hearts
so we become the light that shines this hour
to lead lost souls to hearth of fellowship
where we feast and sing till death crushes all.
We choose love though we will all die forever.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Flash Of Consciousness

Flash Of Consciousness
© Surazeus
2017 07 05

Each blade of grass that sprouts from spinning Earth
reflects pure rays of light from pulsing sun
that throbs inside the anguish of my heart
when I dream clear the original Flash
that wove vast threads of light in spinning coils
which twang through triangles of molecules.

I remember when the sun was first born
for all the atoms flashing in the cells
of my dreaming brain were forged by its Flash,
then woven into planet of our eyes
so every combination of bright atoms
beams bright with transcendental mind of hope.

The universe of flashing coils of light
is no more conscious than hard chunk of rock
until rain breaks minerals into soil
sucked by roots of trees to blossom ripe fruit
so when I eat the sun and rain combined
I wake and know I am the Universe.

I lie on lawn outside my red-brick home
and feel the round blue sky inside my eye
so when we all together gaze at stars
we see our single universal face
reflected back in mirror of black nothing
where Flash of consciousness hums tune of love.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

My Broken Quill

My Broken Quill
© Surazeus
2017 07 04

The dwarf who dances on your unmarked grave
sold your spirit to the man with no eyes
but you run forever lost in his cave,
hoping to buy back our infinite skies.

Though you claw at the jagged rocks of hope,
seeking the bread of light, baked from live brains,
you tremble shivering on the hill slope
that leads to paradise flooded by rains.

The girl who understands your secret soul
refuses to give you the name you earned
so you hide laughing in the sunless hole
you dug from where the apple trees were burned.

The key that opens the exploding box,
you found in the glass jar in the dark room,
vanished while you were chasing the white fox
who tried to lead you from the house of doom.

The old man who sold you nine coffee beans
now sits on the throne your grandfather built
but while he buries thirteen noble queens
you hide in his oak tree, gnawing on guilt.

The dwarf who built walls around paradise
charges you for apples from your own trees
but since you cannot pay the perfect price
he demands you bottle the perfumed breeze.

The night you tried to rescue from death cave
Rapunzel who whispers your secret name
three owls waited for you in the church nave
but you got lost in the world-power game.

The peak which glows gold in the dawning rays
watches you without commands or advice
therefore after twenty-three hundred days
you dream the perpetual motion device.

The world is one giant eyeball of dreams
that pulses with constant contests of will
but you sit alone by the singing streams,
composing epics with my broken quill.

The map I carved on the cave wall of Hell
might lead you to the great treasure you seek
but since you still hide in the songless well
no one will hear the magic spells you speak.

I cannot help but feel soul-swelling pride
because I molded from broken tree runes
weird song of philosophers who all died
so children learn secrets from blinking tunes.

The tower where Rapunzel raises our child
endures beyond the spinning of the world
until the world chronicle is compiled
that explains how the real universe whirled.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Boston And Skye

Boston And Skye
© Surazeus
2017 07 02

The young woman with long red tangled hair
and eyes green as the rolling hills of Sgith
crouches low against the jagged gray stone
that juts at the black sky bleeding red rain,
and howls her wild song in the flashing mist
as the baby squirms from her flushing womb.
Cradling the new-born child to her full breast,
she hums weird melodies of wind and rain
and smiles, "I name you for your father Sgith,
for I am Sgatha, Queen of the Misty Isle."

Seven centuries later the young man
with brown hair like the wings of an oak raven
and eyes green as the rolling hills of Skith
slouches against the brick wall of a bar
and drinks beer while watching cars glide in rain.
"I am the wizard of Boston and I
write magic spells in rain that no one reads,
for their eyes are blinded by coins of money
that vanish from their hands though they grasp tight
to steal the rainbow of power over minds.
We are the great nation of Rocket Boys
for in one hundred years we rose from dirt
of farms we tended with our horse and wagon
to build cars, telephones, airplanes, and guns,
and now we dominate the spinning globe,
we who sprang from the Misty Isle of Sgith,
for we are the sons of God, son of Sgodin,
who rules the world with thunderbolt of Odin."

Three friends hanging out with him in the night
laugh and clap his shoulders with jaunty grins,
and Sean offers him a bottle of beer.
"Michael MacLeod, you crazy son of fools,
most of the time your talking makes no sense,
but you are my friend so I never care."

Then they all laugh and drink beer in the mist
while the moon gleams on both Boston and Skye
where Sgatha sings haunting tunes on wild hills.