Silver Eyes Of My Mother
© Surazeus
2018 01 01
Pretty fantasies for the perfect life
I once painted on my blank bedroom wall
fade in the pale light of late afternoon
that pierces the sorrow of window eyes.
I want to sit in the garden at dusk
among fruit trees on the bench with John Keats
and listen to the whisper of the Muse
concealed by the anguish of mute despair.
I walk the city street in midday sun
and watch the faces of a thousand people
hide their sorrows and hopes behind the mask
of the calm indifference we cultivate.
You smile at me so I invent new name
that hides your raw emotions from my eyes
for every person is important star
of their own soap opera nobody watches.
Carol stops on the street corner and stares
at face of death that shimmers white and pure
behind the beams of sunlight from the sky
so she comprehends formula for love.
Though he loves me I cannot love him back
yet when he explained true love does not care
and he loves me anyway with pure heart
I worried even more he might kill me.
She stands ten thousand years on busy street
and dreams small tribes growing into vast empires
so she writes history of the world with chalk
on the sidewalk because eyes kill the truth.
Clutching mud from the river shore, she molds
bricks from flesh of the Earth, then bakes them hard
over laughing flames to build pyramid
where she can play goddess before our eyes.
The pyramid, you see, she tells her son,
was the first public stage in history
where mortals played roles of immortal gods
in soap operas we call mythology.
From every generation of plain people
rise drama queens who want to play world god,
and we pretend they rule by divine right
though they are no more immortal than us.
Instead of kings and queens in castle halls
who parade with pride in gold palaces,
our social clowns play god in government
or imitate heroes on movie screens.
I once wanted to be a movie actress,
performing strong roles of great characters,
but I saw pride and greed destroy the lives
of people who achieve national fame.
Better to live unknown in my plain home,
spending each day in quiet play with you,
that stumble in the glare of glorious fame,
devoured by the eyes of gossiping vampires.
Carol and son Charles stop in startled fear
when Thomas steps from behind the park tree
and aims the black pistol straight at her heart,
but she cannot disappear into light.
You are my wife and my son, Thomas whines,
and I want you to come home with me now,
but if you refuse I will kill you both
since you belong to me and no one else.
Little Charles tweaks his fingers and recites
magic spell that folds Thomas into a doll,
then he makes the puppet dance on thin strings,
and Carol laughs when his toy gun pops smoke.
Carol holds the red rose before her heart
and smiles down at Charles before she falls,
crumpling into grass like the long bed sheet
crumples when blown off the line by night wind.
Charles reaches out to touch her porcelain face,
white as the soup tureen at Christmas meal,
but her face shatters into mirror shards
that flutter around him like butterflies.
The ancient Greek philosophers argued
that nothing comes from nothing, so the soul
which animates the body until death
must still exist intact after we die.
After father, Charles frowns, killed my mother,
I thought her soul returned to realm of light,
like Pythagoras taught Christians to believe,
and I imagined living in Heaven.
But now I know that animating life,
mistaken as unified force called soul,
is the function of interacting atoms
through physical machine of chemistry.
Like the light that blinks out when light bulbs break
our soul vanishes to nothing at death
because chemicals that operate our brains
cease nourishing the glow of conscious mind.
I miss the tender spirit of my mother
but she lives in the visions of my brain
for she generated flesh of my body
in her body, so I am her reborn.
Our little daughter you made from my seed
looks at me with silver eyes of my mother
so she lives again in soul of her mind,
gazing at me with trusting love of faith.
© Surazeus
2018 01 01
Pretty fantasies for the perfect life
I once painted on my blank bedroom wall
fade in the pale light of late afternoon
that pierces the sorrow of window eyes.
I want to sit in the garden at dusk
among fruit trees on the bench with John Keats
and listen to the whisper of the Muse
concealed by the anguish of mute despair.
I walk the city street in midday sun
and watch the faces of a thousand people
hide their sorrows and hopes behind the mask
of the calm indifference we cultivate.
You smile at me so I invent new name
that hides your raw emotions from my eyes
for every person is important star
of their own soap opera nobody watches.
Carol stops on the street corner and stares
at face of death that shimmers white and pure
behind the beams of sunlight from the sky
so she comprehends formula for love.
Though he loves me I cannot love him back
yet when he explained true love does not care
and he loves me anyway with pure heart
I worried even more he might kill me.
She stands ten thousand years on busy street
and dreams small tribes growing into vast empires
so she writes history of the world with chalk
on the sidewalk because eyes kill the truth.
Clutching mud from the river shore, she molds
bricks from flesh of the Earth, then bakes them hard
over laughing flames to build pyramid
where she can play goddess before our eyes.
The pyramid, you see, she tells her son,
was the first public stage in history
where mortals played roles of immortal gods
in soap operas we call mythology.
From every generation of plain people
rise drama queens who want to play world god,
and we pretend they rule by divine right
though they are no more immortal than us.
Instead of kings and queens in castle halls
who parade with pride in gold palaces,
our social clowns play god in government
or imitate heroes on movie screens.
I once wanted to be a movie actress,
performing strong roles of great characters,
but I saw pride and greed destroy the lives
of people who achieve national fame.
Better to live unknown in my plain home,
spending each day in quiet play with you,
that stumble in the glare of glorious fame,
devoured by the eyes of gossiping vampires.
Carol and son Charles stop in startled fear
when Thomas steps from behind the park tree
and aims the black pistol straight at her heart,
but she cannot disappear into light.
You are my wife and my son, Thomas whines,
and I want you to come home with me now,
but if you refuse I will kill you both
since you belong to me and no one else.
Little Charles tweaks his fingers and recites
magic spell that folds Thomas into a doll,
then he makes the puppet dance on thin strings,
and Carol laughs when his toy gun pops smoke.
Carol holds the red rose before her heart
and smiles down at Charles before she falls,
crumpling into grass like the long bed sheet
crumples when blown off the line by night wind.
Charles reaches out to touch her porcelain face,
white as the soup tureen at Christmas meal,
but her face shatters into mirror shards
that flutter around him like butterflies.
The ancient Greek philosophers argued
that nothing comes from nothing, so the soul
which animates the body until death
must still exist intact after we die.
After father, Charles frowns, killed my mother,
I thought her soul returned to realm of light,
like Pythagoras taught Christians to believe,
and I imagined living in Heaven.
But now I know that animating life,
mistaken as unified force called soul,
is the function of interacting atoms
through physical machine of chemistry.
Like the light that blinks out when light bulbs break
our soul vanishes to nothing at death
because chemicals that operate our brains
cease nourishing the glow of conscious mind.
I miss the tender spirit of my mother
but she lives in the visions of my brain
for she generated flesh of my body
in her body, so I am her reborn.
Our little daughter you made from my seed
looks at me with silver eyes of my mother
so she lives again in soul of her mind,
gazing at me with trusting love of faith.
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