Abide In Me
© Surazeus
2018 05 01
When the quick cat leaps on my lap and purrs
I watch the statue of Shiva that stands
dancing to destroy and create the world
in continuous cycles of war and peace.
The old man with hair gray as moss on oak
stands at the same spot by the national bank
for thirty years since he appeared one day
and plays guitar while singing endless tales.
Alone on the street in both sun and rain
he strums vibration of wind on the river
while everyone sits at home to drink beer
and watch favorite series on television.
The woman he would have married in church,
if they had ever met, sits on her porch
reading romance novels all afternoon
while thirty cats lounge with her in the sun.
When the small airplane glides by in the sky
I watch it flashing in the sun and hope
it does not crash into the lovely home
where the mother and children die in flames.
The world is so huge as it spins in space
and teems with such intense passion of life
that I can only frame its strangest details
in minute memes of cultural artifacts.
On the river shore I arrange twelve stones,
pile leaves and twigs under arbor of sticks,
then strike flint stones and blow to light the sparks
that flare in flame flickering in twilight.
The girl draws characters for her cartoons
every afternoon by the sun-bright window,
though her parents never met and got married
so dead leaves float on the river of time.
The artist who was never born appears
when sunrays beam in swirling mist at dawn
to tell me the plot of her latest story
because her voice murmurs like flowing rivers.
I see her dancing in the sky with diamonds
which all contain the First Flash of Creation
that reveals how spiraling strings of light
weave this body our mothers generate.
She places mirror mask over my face
so I sit at the white table in Museum
of Talking Ghosts who tell me their life stories
which I weave in the tapestry of tales.
My silence swirls into black hole of truth
that consumes planets to recycle faith
and radiate visions of human desire
in sprawling hologram of social conflict.
The old man strumming guitar on the street
is deaf to the hungry rumble of engines
but he can hear the thoughts that people hide,
translating mute sorrow into pop songs.
The cat woman walks to the grocery store
and walks by the bank with sacks full of food
but pauses to stare surprised at the man
who strums guitar and chants spells like Orpheus.
When he finishes his tale of the lost poet,
she takes his hand and they walk to her home
and sit together on the porch of cats,
making love with eyes in the twilight glow.
Abide in me, and I in you, she sings,
as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself,
unless it abides in the curling vine,
neither can you, unless you abide in me.
© Surazeus
2018 05 01
When the quick cat leaps on my lap and purrs
I watch the statue of Shiva that stands
dancing to destroy and create the world
in continuous cycles of war and peace.
The old man with hair gray as moss on oak
stands at the same spot by the national bank
for thirty years since he appeared one day
and plays guitar while singing endless tales.
Alone on the street in both sun and rain
he strums vibration of wind on the river
while everyone sits at home to drink beer
and watch favorite series on television.
The woman he would have married in church,
if they had ever met, sits on her porch
reading romance novels all afternoon
while thirty cats lounge with her in the sun.
When the small airplane glides by in the sky
I watch it flashing in the sun and hope
it does not crash into the lovely home
where the mother and children die in flames.
The world is so huge as it spins in space
and teems with such intense passion of life
that I can only frame its strangest details
in minute memes of cultural artifacts.
On the river shore I arrange twelve stones,
pile leaves and twigs under arbor of sticks,
then strike flint stones and blow to light the sparks
that flare in flame flickering in twilight.
The girl draws characters for her cartoons
every afternoon by the sun-bright window,
though her parents never met and got married
so dead leaves float on the river of time.
The artist who was never born appears
when sunrays beam in swirling mist at dawn
to tell me the plot of her latest story
because her voice murmurs like flowing rivers.
I see her dancing in the sky with diamonds
which all contain the First Flash of Creation
that reveals how spiraling strings of light
weave this body our mothers generate.
She places mirror mask over my face
so I sit at the white table in Museum
of Talking Ghosts who tell me their life stories
which I weave in the tapestry of tales.
My silence swirls into black hole of truth
that consumes planets to recycle faith
and radiate visions of human desire
in sprawling hologram of social conflict.
The old man strumming guitar on the street
is deaf to the hungry rumble of engines
but he can hear the thoughts that people hide,
translating mute sorrow into pop songs.
The cat woman walks to the grocery store
and walks by the bank with sacks full of food
but pauses to stare surprised at the man
who strums guitar and chants spells like Orpheus.
When he finishes his tale of the lost poet,
she takes his hand and they walk to her home
and sit together on the porch of cats,
making love with eyes in the twilight glow.
Abide in me, and I in you, she sings,
as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself,
unless it abides in the curling vine,
neither can you, unless you abide in me.
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