Poets In The Streetside Cafe
© Surazeus
2018 08 15
In the streetside cafe, where morning light
illuminates bleak faces of calm people,
I float in mute epiphany of truth.
I float in wavy cloud of humming words
that conjure vision of our universe
like spiderweb that shines with galaxies
in waterdrops of infinite compassion.
I whisper name of everyone I knew
to see if they appear in swirling view
till I remember dream of when I fell
wingless from brick tower into the cold bay.
I will never know the right words to say
when people express bitter grief at loss.
Nothing more than understanding their pain
is all they want when they weep in their hands
which erases their footsteps from strange lands
though we stand alone in indifferent rain,
aching for warm kiss of galactic light.
What can I do to occupy my hands
now that I have no special role to play?
Once crowned with laurel for composing verse
that conjures vision of one universe,
they retreat from dream of the public stage
to hide in cave of shadows from the need
people exude with vile thirst of vampires.
Thus we shall gather at streetside cafe
to sip sweet mocha and contemplate truth
how nothing is real as what we perceive.
Thus we shall sip the liquid of the stars
and count dead people driving metal cars
whose faces look like zombies crushed by work
before we disappear in a good book.
Once given prizes for exciting poems,
they lose the hungry spark of bold ambition,
and retreat to park of accomplishment
where they gaze for inspiration at clouds.
Yet here I stand alone in restless rain
as if things are happening some place else.
Why am I still me and nobody else
now that I wear the mask God threw away?
They gather together in dark cafe
to share the secret dreams they threw away
and present discarded hopes as great art
which always cracks the most innocent heart.
We drove everywhere to get here tonight
so we can share what we found in the light
and claim the crown that no one dares to wear.
No matter who begins as king or pawn
we always end our days as the blind clown
who performs for indifferent audience
the song that we wrenched from our broken heart.
Twisting anguish of despair into code,
we recite spells in diabolic hex
to conjure apparition of the fool
who thinks he is the greatest poet on Earth.
He stands on stage before the microphone
and howls fraught anguish of his naked soul
to express voices of the multitude.
How did I get here from the silent moon
to sing electric passion of my soul?
Poets in the streetside cafe exchange dreams
they found forgotten in trashcans of hope,
discarded by the people with no faces
who walk mute in harsh sunlight of despair.
They are everywhere in the world today,
the people with no faces and no names
who like to participate in the games
that reward the best of the best with fame
fleeting as shadows of sunlight in trees.
What is that sorrow we feel in the breeze
that causes fruit on desks in empty homes
to rot from mindless horror of lost hope?
We stand together in streetside cafe
to read magic spells of truth we compose
that earn admiration of our proud peers
who will praise our name on the day we die.
I wear mask of the clown that will reveal
true spirit that animates grasping hands.
How can I explain our strange universe
in simple song that children memorize?
© Surazeus
2018 08 15
In the streetside cafe, where morning light
illuminates bleak faces of calm people,
I float in mute epiphany of truth.
I float in wavy cloud of humming words
that conjure vision of our universe
like spiderweb that shines with galaxies
in waterdrops of infinite compassion.
I whisper name of everyone I knew
to see if they appear in swirling view
till I remember dream of when I fell
wingless from brick tower into the cold bay.
I will never know the right words to say
when people express bitter grief at loss.
Nothing more than understanding their pain
is all they want when they weep in their hands
which erases their footsteps from strange lands
though we stand alone in indifferent rain,
aching for warm kiss of galactic light.
What can I do to occupy my hands
now that I have no special role to play?
Once crowned with laurel for composing verse
that conjures vision of one universe,
they retreat from dream of the public stage
to hide in cave of shadows from the need
people exude with vile thirst of vampires.
Thus we shall gather at streetside cafe
to sip sweet mocha and contemplate truth
how nothing is real as what we perceive.
Thus we shall sip the liquid of the stars
and count dead people driving metal cars
whose faces look like zombies crushed by work
before we disappear in a good book.
Once given prizes for exciting poems,
they lose the hungry spark of bold ambition,
and retreat to park of accomplishment
where they gaze for inspiration at clouds.
Yet here I stand alone in restless rain
as if things are happening some place else.
Why am I still me and nobody else
now that I wear the mask God threw away?
They gather together in dark cafe
to share the secret dreams they threw away
and present discarded hopes as great art
which always cracks the most innocent heart.
We drove everywhere to get here tonight
so we can share what we found in the light
and claim the crown that no one dares to wear.
No matter who begins as king or pawn
we always end our days as the blind clown
who performs for indifferent audience
the song that we wrenched from our broken heart.
Twisting anguish of despair into code,
we recite spells in diabolic hex
to conjure apparition of the fool
who thinks he is the greatest poet on Earth.
He stands on stage before the microphone
and howls fraught anguish of his naked soul
to express voices of the multitude.
How did I get here from the silent moon
to sing electric passion of my soul?
Poets in the streetside cafe exchange dreams
they found forgotten in trashcans of hope,
discarded by the people with no faces
who walk mute in harsh sunlight of despair.
They are everywhere in the world today,
the people with no faces and no names
who like to participate in the games
that reward the best of the best with fame
fleeting as shadows of sunlight in trees.
What is that sorrow we feel in the breeze
that causes fruit on desks in empty homes
to rot from mindless horror of lost hope?
We stand together in streetside cafe
to read magic spells of truth we compose
that earn admiration of our proud peers
who will praise our name on the day we die.
I wear mask of the clown that will reveal
true spirit that animates grasping hands.
How can I explain our strange universe
in simple song that children memorize?
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