While The Nine Muses Sing
© Surazeus
2018 11 14
Scent of smoke from pine logs in the stone hearth
explains the face of the man who appears
the moment I need to scratch my eyebrow
from multilayer fabric of strange dreams
which require measurement of the dark path
I follow through woods to the rotting cabin.
Somewhere between the house where I was born
and the town where I will probably die
I stand in sunlight, holding sweet orange fruit
who knows the secret I wrote on the wall
before I painted the living room white
to match the fur of the old Persian Cat.
The famous woman poet with long hair,
tangled with painful memories she conceals,
holds wine as she stands in library hall
surrounded by admirers and fierce fans
after she reads verse no one understands,
and recounts humorous tales of her divorce.
Only fools ever claim that life is fair,
from bitter anger the mirror reveals,
so I paint superheroes on the wall
of ruined churches who lead caravans
of homeless slaves to find new promised lands
while I sit proud on statue of my horse.
I name this land for the Goddess of corn
with letters Martians can read from the sky
while the woman I love plays silver flute
to translate singing of the waterfall
so I can read vibrations of the light
which beams from our eyes at the plutocrat.
I am last messenger of truth on Earth,
commissioned to gather prophetic peers
in congress for literary powwow
though no one wants to relinquish the streams
by risking horror of the royal wrath
when I bring books of wisdom in new wagon.
The landscape where I walk trail by the stream
gives me secret name no one comprehends
so I become the power of flowing water
replenishing the Earth with laughing souls
who spring into bodies from fractured egg
to dance carefree on the beach in moon wind.
To survive winds of fate I always bend
swift enough to discover powder keg
that blasts to destroy strange religious goals
so I investigate nature of matter
which I encode in riddles for my friends
who are real flesh and blood outside my dream.
Where I am redwood on high mountain top,
ruler of Parnassus and Helicon,
they are weeds struggling to sprout from the swamp
and challenge me as wizard of the word
for my spells generate complete world view
which includes singing my transcendent hymns.
Civilizations stand based on harvest crop,
ruled by Athena in strong Parthenon
so I climb to Heaven, bearing the lamp
of self-deluding truths, to join the herd
of sheep who worship the wolf with no clue
how verses conjure apples on tree limbs.
You know why every great empire must fall
from blinding hubris of the President
who thinks himself the divine God on Earth,
appointed by Cloud of Light in blank sky
who never explains to me star-based plan
which calculates foolishness based on wealth.
I play no part in this drama of power,
instead sitting alone in ivory tower
of unwelcome truth to record events
performed by self-important presidents
who all spring from the ancient castle king
so we drink wine while the nine muses sing.
© Surazeus
2018 11 14
Scent of smoke from pine logs in the stone hearth
explains the face of the man who appears
the moment I need to scratch my eyebrow
from multilayer fabric of strange dreams
which require measurement of the dark path
I follow through woods to the rotting cabin.
Somewhere between the house where I was born
and the town where I will probably die
I stand in sunlight, holding sweet orange fruit
who knows the secret I wrote on the wall
before I painted the living room white
to match the fur of the old Persian Cat.
The famous woman poet with long hair,
tangled with painful memories she conceals,
holds wine as she stands in library hall
surrounded by admirers and fierce fans
after she reads verse no one understands,
and recounts humorous tales of her divorce.
Only fools ever claim that life is fair,
from bitter anger the mirror reveals,
so I paint superheroes on the wall
of ruined churches who lead caravans
of homeless slaves to find new promised lands
while I sit proud on statue of my horse.
I name this land for the Goddess of corn
with letters Martians can read from the sky
while the woman I love plays silver flute
to translate singing of the waterfall
so I can read vibrations of the light
which beams from our eyes at the plutocrat.
I am last messenger of truth on Earth,
commissioned to gather prophetic peers
in congress for literary powwow
though no one wants to relinquish the streams
by risking horror of the royal wrath
when I bring books of wisdom in new wagon.
The landscape where I walk trail by the stream
gives me secret name no one comprehends
so I become the power of flowing water
replenishing the Earth with laughing souls
who spring into bodies from fractured egg
to dance carefree on the beach in moon wind.
To survive winds of fate I always bend
swift enough to discover powder keg
that blasts to destroy strange religious goals
so I investigate nature of matter
which I encode in riddles for my friends
who are real flesh and blood outside my dream.
Where I am redwood on high mountain top,
ruler of Parnassus and Helicon,
they are weeds struggling to sprout from the swamp
and challenge me as wizard of the word
for my spells generate complete world view
which includes singing my transcendent hymns.
Civilizations stand based on harvest crop,
ruled by Athena in strong Parthenon
so I climb to Heaven, bearing the lamp
of self-deluding truths, to join the herd
of sheep who worship the wolf with no clue
how verses conjure apples on tree limbs.
You know why every great empire must fall
from blinding hubris of the President
who thinks himself the divine God on Earth,
appointed by Cloud of Light in blank sky
who never explains to me star-based plan
which calculates foolishness based on wealth.
I play no part in this drama of power,
instead sitting alone in ivory tower
of unwelcome truth to record events
performed by self-important presidents
who all spring from the ancient castle king
so we drink wine while the nine muses sing.
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