Where Writers Wrestle Angels
© Surazeus
2018 12 21
Strange aching urge to sing soft haunting spells
swells from hollow cave of my empty heart
to echo booming with thunder in rain
that drenches silent hills of my despair.
Once I wake from longest night of the year
I walk with shadows of lost nameless ghosts
in house that views me with skeptical hope
voiced in creaks of doors that never stay closed.
The ghosts of word wizards entombed in books
I read in graduate seminars on verse
encourage me to package eerie thoughts
in stoic metaphors who comprehends.
Nibbling dry toast with butter and peach jam,
I whisper, this is body of the Earth,
so I eat it to remember wheat fields
where farmers drive machines in wordless wind.
How strange we humans think we can contain
surging currents of emotions in verse
that tangles concepts of meaningless dreams
for right action we hope to calculate.
How can I explain through nebulous plot
of action and reaction hopeless fear
characters suppress in novel we play
through fractures in mirror of flashing eyes?
I want to fade from memory of their eyes
and disappear from that community
of writers, poets, editors, and agents
who compete for ephemeral glow of fame.
Sipping wine from grapes grown in hills of France,
I whisper, this is sweet blood of the Earth,
so I drink it to remember vast vineyards
where writers wrestle angels for the truth.
I photograph oval pool by my house
that shimmers among slender trunks of trees
who scatter pages of poems as dead leaves
on mud soaked by rain seeping in my heart.
In the next short novel I plan to write
I will present teenage girl in high school
who shoots her principal for raping her
and spends the rest of her life locked in prison.
Why do the weaker people of the world
always suffer injustice at the hands
of men who attempt to control our bodies
for their ambitions to conquer that world?
Mist sparkles on my hands in morning light
as I walk squishy mud of my mute heart
to stand still among trees who always sing
quiet as wind rippling on mirror lake.
I stand beside still tree that stays for me
rooted in ancient mind of turning world
to seal in wood voices of souls I loved
till I become specter of urge to sing.
I channel ancient song of rain on soil
and wind in trees that curls around my heart
so I become infinite memory of light
glowing through clouds to rebirth my own mind.
With the dying and reborn sun, I feel death
swallow all my sorrows from the past year
that soak into mud for tree roots to drink
till I breathe free in cold refreshing wind.
My past is dead but I am still alive
so with this solstice I will rise reborn
to perform my role in strange game of life
by wrestling with angels to write new truth.
© Surazeus
2018 12 21
Strange aching urge to sing soft haunting spells
swells from hollow cave of my empty heart
to echo booming with thunder in rain
that drenches silent hills of my despair.
Once I wake from longest night of the year
I walk with shadows of lost nameless ghosts
in house that views me with skeptical hope
voiced in creaks of doors that never stay closed.
The ghosts of word wizards entombed in books
I read in graduate seminars on verse
encourage me to package eerie thoughts
in stoic metaphors who comprehends.
Nibbling dry toast with butter and peach jam,
I whisper, this is body of the Earth,
so I eat it to remember wheat fields
where farmers drive machines in wordless wind.
How strange we humans think we can contain
surging currents of emotions in verse
that tangles concepts of meaningless dreams
for right action we hope to calculate.
How can I explain through nebulous plot
of action and reaction hopeless fear
characters suppress in novel we play
through fractures in mirror of flashing eyes?
I want to fade from memory of their eyes
and disappear from that community
of writers, poets, editors, and agents
who compete for ephemeral glow of fame.
Sipping wine from grapes grown in hills of France,
I whisper, this is sweet blood of the Earth,
so I drink it to remember vast vineyards
where writers wrestle angels for the truth.
I photograph oval pool by my house
that shimmers among slender trunks of trees
who scatter pages of poems as dead leaves
on mud soaked by rain seeping in my heart.
In the next short novel I plan to write
I will present teenage girl in high school
who shoots her principal for raping her
and spends the rest of her life locked in prison.
Why do the weaker people of the world
always suffer injustice at the hands
of men who attempt to control our bodies
for their ambitions to conquer that world?
Mist sparkles on my hands in morning light
as I walk squishy mud of my mute heart
to stand still among trees who always sing
quiet as wind rippling on mirror lake.
I stand beside still tree that stays for me
rooted in ancient mind of turning world
to seal in wood voices of souls I loved
till I become specter of urge to sing.
I channel ancient song of rain on soil
and wind in trees that curls around my heart
so I become infinite memory of light
glowing through clouds to rebirth my own mind.
With the dying and reborn sun, I feel death
swallow all my sorrows from the past year
that soak into mud for tree roots to drink
till I breathe free in cold refreshing wind.
My past is dead but I am still alive
so with this solstice I will rise reborn
to perform my role in strange game of life
by wrestling with angels to write new truth.
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