Foundation Of Great Empires
© Surazeus
2017 09 17
Now that I own my house of brick and wood
I spend several cool hours just after dawn
working in the yard with my legs and hands,
rearranging the wild chaos of nature
to organize neat garden of my haven
where trees drop fruit and nuts into my hands
so we brew juice that flashes brains awake.
By lining trees along the river shore
I define reality that we dream
and sing the flourish of flowers from soil,
turning fact into truth with groping hands
that thrust seeds into the dark bed of death
so they will resurrect through beaming sunrays,
thus we are reborn from passion of pain.
Poets are name-givers whose words define
solid objects that emerge from weird swirls
of color our eyes perceive when we wake
from dreams of tumbling in fast river gush,
so when they sing electric flash of bodies
our eyes conceive from billows of wet wind
concepts contained in dictionary words.
I thrust metal disk, I wrenched from cold mud,
to slice slabs of dirt from the flesh of Earth,
and dig long ditch to channel river flow
that soaks sun-baked soil where my seeds sprout wheat,
so from the dark heart of the spinning world
we resurrect the humming soul of life
where bees pollinate lush herbs from my breast.
I stack stones into thick walls that protect
my family from cold storms and hungry wolves
but men on horses, swinging long sharp swords,
tell me God who sits on the high pyramid
sees all that happens on the world below,
and since he wants the produce of my fields
I must yield goods to his hunger, or die.
They may kill thousands of us with sharp spears
pinning our bodies to the dusty soil,
but our beating hearts will soak the dry Earth,
and resurrect from hidden caves of hope
new generations of boys who fight back
to overthrow the wizards in tall towers
so our daughters may sing spells from high windows.
I want to sit on the porch of my home
at dawn that shimmers through whispering trees,
and drink lemonade squeezed from broken hearts
while plucking strings on lyre Apollo gave me,
for truckers haul the food grown on my farm
to stores in towns from sea to shining sea
so you may feast on the fruit of my hands.
Wearing jeans, white tee-shirt, and leather boots,
I carry shovel on my shoulder blade
when gold sun streams through black clouds after rain,
like the Soviet worker on the red poster,
or the farmer in the Georgics of Virgil,
that depicts the man who cultivates crops
as the hero who builds every great empire.
The farming family and the crops they grow
form the solid foundation of good work
on which every great empire is constructed,
so seeds of fruit trees, vegetables, and herbs
that you plant in the wet soil of your yard
sprout roots that stabilize commercial life
when you sell your work in the market place.
Though the prophet Jonah sits in the shade
of my apple tree and whispers weird spells
of prophecies woven by light of stars,
I climb the ziggurat of social power
and stand before Ishtar who gives me coin
stamped with the face of the latest world king
who plays God for this new season of life.
© Surazeus
2017 09 17
Now that I own my house of brick and wood
I spend several cool hours just after dawn
working in the yard with my legs and hands,
rearranging the wild chaos of nature
to organize neat garden of my haven
where trees drop fruit and nuts into my hands
so we brew juice that flashes brains awake.
By lining trees along the river shore
I define reality that we dream
and sing the flourish of flowers from soil,
turning fact into truth with groping hands
that thrust seeds into the dark bed of death
so they will resurrect through beaming sunrays,
thus we are reborn from passion of pain.
Poets are name-givers whose words define
solid objects that emerge from weird swirls
of color our eyes perceive when we wake
from dreams of tumbling in fast river gush,
so when they sing electric flash of bodies
our eyes conceive from billows of wet wind
concepts contained in dictionary words.
I thrust metal disk, I wrenched from cold mud,
to slice slabs of dirt from the flesh of Earth,
and dig long ditch to channel river flow
that soaks sun-baked soil where my seeds sprout wheat,
so from the dark heart of the spinning world
we resurrect the humming soul of life
where bees pollinate lush herbs from my breast.
I stack stones into thick walls that protect
my family from cold storms and hungry wolves
but men on horses, swinging long sharp swords,
tell me God who sits on the high pyramid
sees all that happens on the world below,
and since he wants the produce of my fields
I must yield goods to his hunger, or die.
They may kill thousands of us with sharp spears
pinning our bodies to the dusty soil,
but our beating hearts will soak the dry Earth,
and resurrect from hidden caves of hope
new generations of boys who fight back
to overthrow the wizards in tall towers
so our daughters may sing spells from high windows.
I want to sit on the porch of my home
at dawn that shimmers through whispering trees,
and drink lemonade squeezed from broken hearts
while plucking strings on lyre Apollo gave me,
for truckers haul the food grown on my farm
to stores in towns from sea to shining sea
so you may feast on the fruit of my hands.
Wearing jeans, white tee-shirt, and leather boots,
I carry shovel on my shoulder blade
when gold sun streams through black clouds after rain,
like the Soviet worker on the red poster,
or the farmer in the Georgics of Virgil,
that depicts the man who cultivates crops
as the hero who builds every great empire.
The farming family and the crops they grow
form the solid foundation of good work
on which every great empire is constructed,
so seeds of fruit trees, vegetables, and herbs
that you plant in the wet soil of your yard
sprout roots that stabilize commercial life
when you sell your work in the market place.
Though the prophet Jonah sits in the shade
of my apple tree and whispers weird spells
of prophecies woven by light of stars,
I climb the ziggurat of social power
and stand before Ishtar who gives me coin
stamped with the face of the latest world king
who plays God for this new season of life.
Who indeed
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