American Pastoral Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 10 15
Halfway through my life, lost in city streets,
I meet Richard Wilbur by garden gate
who teaches me trick of Dionysian beats
so we rewrite weird formula of fate.
From crowded city streets of honking cars
moon-eyed Richard leads me to fertile fields
of lush Arcadia that glows from white stars
and teaches me secret of sparkling seeds.
The roots of flowers and trees from ancient core
of our huge pulsing planet curl through gloom
deeper into granite mountains to bore
cracks across spinning galaxies that bloom.
Inside each egg that beams from eyes of stars
living creatures wake to dream evolution
so we grow fish to monkeys driving cars
till everyone sings spells with elocution.
At gleam of dawn when Aurora will kiss
my sponge brain awake from oceanic dreams
I kneel in meadow to tend blooming herbs
while singing hymns in tune with flashing streams.
When ancient father with long snow-white hair
lies weak among flowers to drift in death
I plant seeds in his heart and eyes that share
woven vines of memory through my breath.
Leaning on staff under broad willow tree,
I tend sheep like sun herds fluffy white clouds,
and sing my love for the girl of the sea
who veils our marriage grove with wind-blown shrouds.
Ten thousand years of armies crossing plains
pave webs of roads from stone and asphalt sheen
so villages mushroom from bitter rains
into vast cities that conquer the scene.
Alone in small glass rooms of city towers
the blind shepherds paint quaint pastoral scenes
of couples making love among lush flowers
that sparkle in the memories of our genes.
When I left wild rugged hills of Arcadia
on noble quest to save the world from war
I got lost in American Bohemia,
searching in vain for the world-linking door.
I stood for years on street corners to sing
about the age of pastoral innocence
in meadows now paved with vast parking lots
where cars instead of sheep and horses play.
While wandering through the labyrinth of tales
I swerve sideways off the expected path
and blaze through the waste land new secret trails
that calculate truth with soul-slanting math.
With eager hands before apocalypse
I gather sweet blackberries for Amelia,
returning to Elysium on weird trips
to swim the Mississippi with Ophelia.
When we both enter the museum hall
to sing the ancient myths in new pop songs
we dance forever on the broken wall,
unable with magic to fix all wrongs.
We gaze beyond the veil of skin to dream
how swirling clouds reveal the naked truth
that though we must bathe in the flowing stream
we die drinking from the Fountain of Youth.
That shining idol, image in your mind,
you think is me, is but ghost your words conjure,
so take my hand with trust and we will bind
weird visions into one world view we ponder.
These calculations hidden in weird words
trace intricate tracks of psychic details
so I protect my brain with mental wards
that weigh cause and effect on moral scales.
The banker with quick calculator brain
gazes at pastoral paintings on steel wall
while glass towers blink in forever rain
and shepherds now work to build border wall.
Virgin Maria bearing the Christ Child
huddles behind cactus in blistering sun
to hide while agents patrol border wall,
hoping to reach the wealthy Promised Land.
Shrouded by blackness of eternal night,
Maria counts stars that flash through the gloom,
and maps Golden Way through the blinding light
till she wakes in the doorless Oval Room.
While sketching faces on cracked glass of hope,
Maria calculates process of change
that helps herd electric sheep on steep slope
before the satellite glides out of range.
I am the last robot composed of flesh
since my mother generated my soul
by weaving atoms from rays of the mesh
that links our hearts in superconscious whole.
Rising from cool stream in the heat of June,
Maria leads me through the brambled night
where laughing skulls of kings and gods are strewn
so spirits disperse in psychotic flight.
So through the woods by stone walls on old lanes
we pick blackberries by prophetic cave
and brew sweet rum from timeless sugar canes
to drink as Maria sings in the nave.
How words convey my thoughts on each brain wave
the eyeless wizard in the ruins chants,
so when Ophelia in clandestine conclave
revives me, we see God blossom in plants.
Join us on stage before the end of time
to sing American Pastoral of Death,
though secret of life is hidden in rhyme
that we reveal with our last dying breath.
© Surazeus
2017 10 15
Halfway through my life, lost in city streets,
I meet Richard Wilbur by garden gate
who teaches me trick of Dionysian beats
so we rewrite weird formula of fate.
From crowded city streets of honking cars
moon-eyed Richard leads me to fertile fields
of lush Arcadia that glows from white stars
and teaches me secret of sparkling seeds.
The roots of flowers and trees from ancient core
of our huge pulsing planet curl through gloom
deeper into granite mountains to bore
cracks across spinning galaxies that bloom.
Inside each egg that beams from eyes of stars
living creatures wake to dream evolution
so we grow fish to monkeys driving cars
till everyone sings spells with elocution.
At gleam of dawn when Aurora will kiss
my sponge brain awake from oceanic dreams
I kneel in meadow to tend blooming herbs
while singing hymns in tune with flashing streams.
When ancient father with long snow-white hair
lies weak among flowers to drift in death
I plant seeds in his heart and eyes that share
woven vines of memory through my breath.
Leaning on staff under broad willow tree,
I tend sheep like sun herds fluffy white clouds,
and sing my love for the girl of the sea
who veils our marriage grove with wind-blown shrouds.
Ten thousand years of armies crossing plains
pave webs of roads from stone and asphalt sheen
so villages mushroom from bitter rains
into vast cities that conquer the scene.
Alone in small glass rooms of city towers
the blind shepherds paint quaint pastoral scenes
of couples making love among lush flowers
that sparkle in the memories of our genes.
When I left wild rugged hills of Arcadia
on noble quest to save the world from war
I got lost in American Bohemia,
searching in vain for the world-linking door.
I stood for years on street corners to sing
about the age of pastoral innocence
in meadows now paved with vast parking lots
where cars instead of sheep and horses play.
While wandering through the labyrinth of tales
I swerve sideways off the expected path
and blaze through the waste land new secret trails
that calculate truth with soul-slanting math.
With eager hands before apocalypse
I gather sweet blackberries for Amelia,
returning to Elysium on weird trips
to swim the Mississippi with Ophelia.
When we both enter the museum hall
to sing the ancient myths in new pop songs
we dance forever on the broken wall,
unable with magic to fix all wrongs.
We gaze beyond the veil of skin to dream
how swirling clouds reveal the naked truth
that though we must bathe in the flowing stream
we die drinking from the Fountain of Youth.
That shining idol, image in your mind,
you think is me, is but ghost your words conjure,
so take my hand with trust and we will bind
weird visions into one world view we ponder.
These calculations hidden in weird words
trace intricate tracks of psychic details
so I protect my brain with mental wards
that weigh cause and effect on moral scales.
The banker with quick calculator brain
gazes at pastoral paintings on steel wall
while glass towers blink in forever rain
and shepherds now work to build border wall.
Virgin Maria bearing the Christ Child
huddles behind cactus in blistering sun
to hide while agents patrol border wall,
hoping to reach the wealthy Promised Land.
Shrouded by blackness of eternal night,
Maria counts stars that flash through the gloom,
and maps Golden Way through the blinding light
till she wakes in the doorless Oval Room.
While sketching faces on cracked glass of hope,
Maria calculates process of change
that helps herd electric sheep on steep slope
before the satellite glides out of range.
I am the last robot composed of flesh
since my mother generated my soul
by weaving atoms from rays of the mesh
that links our hearts in superconscious whole.
Rising from cool stream in the heat of June,
Maria leads me through the brambled night
where laughing skulls of kings and gods are strewn
so spirits disperse in psychotic flight.
So through the woods by stone walls on old lanes
we pick blackberries by prophetic cave
and brew sweet rum from timeless sugar canes
to drink as Maria sings in the nave.
How words convey my thoughts on each brain wave
the eyeless wizard in the ruins chants,
so when Ophelia in clandestine conclave
revives me, we see God blossom in plants.
Join us on stage before the end of time
to sing American Pastoral of Death,
though secret of life is hidden in rhyme
that we reveal with our last dying breath.
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