In The Great Unknown

In The Great Unknown
© Surazeus
2025 04 02

When the Phoenix of my heart spreads fire wings 
and rises from nest of the Burning Bush, 
I follow her flight to the Great Unknown 
on signless road that leads us anywhere 
till I stand weeping by the Lake of Dreams 
where First Mother first taught me how to sing. 

My mother keeps the secrets of my heart 
that I have never revealed to myself 
which I now scatter as seeds on the ground 
so all my memories bloom in daffodils 
that children pick where they play in the field 
where skulls of gods have crumbled into dirt. 

These fragments of forgotten history, 
which I find strewn on hard cathedral floor 
when its rose window was shattered by bombs, 
contain dramatic scenes of psychic fate 
that I assemble in collage of tropes 
to create new world view from random hopes. 

Concentric circles of haphazard thoughts 
that drift in sparkling mist of wordless dread 
radiate from center of the spinning Earth 
so I become my most essential self 
while standing in blue twilight by the lake 
to feel subtle glint of stars pierce my heart. 

Down lengthening path of my endless life 
toward far horizon of my shadowed mind 
I always walk with steady pace of fear 
to gather courage in jewels of light 
in which I see first flash from dawn of time 
that luminates strange landscape of my heart. 

Inviolate flower of the Burning Bush 
transforms despair of hot volcano gas 
to glorious garden of profuse respect 
since I am surrogate mind for the Earth 
inspired to breathe brave spirit of the sky 
that cultivates nascent power of faith. 

Emerging from grim shadow of soft grass, 
she grabs my hand with tremulous concern 
and asks if I know where the Phoenix flies, 
so I give her the last pear of my heart, 
then write weird verse in book of fairy tales 
while the nightingale sings to us of death. 

Living together in the Great Unknown 
where the Phoenix nests in the Burning Bush, 
we cultivate pure energy of love 
that swells in juicy pears on twisted limbs, 
then cuddle in the boat of our romance 
and watch the sun rise from shimmer of the lake. 

King Of Worthless Things

King Of Worthless Things
© Surazeus
2025 04 02

Because he plays the king of worthless things, 
robins leave torn pages from holy books 
on the metal table in the back yard 
where the mango queen takes selfies with Death 
to show her followers around the world 
that she values every person on Earth. 

Because the Earth is spinning in his head, 
he gives the dead voices they never had 
when they were struggling each day to survive 
by assembling puzzles of castle towers 
on the asphalt parking lot of the mall 
where angels keep falling on the tar roof. 

Because the sky disrespects him with jokes 
about his strength and courage to fight back, 
he races with the football down the field 
to imitate the hunter with the pig 
that he steals from the village by the lake, 
and wins through goalposts of his village gate. 

Because he loves the woman on the horse, 
he gathers apples in his two-wheeled cart 
and pushes it along the sparkling stream 
to sell them at the crowded market place 
for copper coins that he can use to buy 
new brass cauldron for his wife to cook stew. 

Because he seeks to know the origin 
of commerce basic to civilized life, 
he digs chunks of minerals from the hill cave 
and sells them to the man on the brick hill 
who laughs that his dirt holds nothing worthwhile, 
so he lies hungry on the temple steps. 

Because he wants to buy the fast sports car, 
he sits all day in the small cubicle 
and enters numbers on the spreadsheet file 
to calculate progress from the stone age 
that man has gained the past five thousand years, 
then drinks beer in the bar to watch football. 

Because he uses dangerous formulas 
based on mathematics of divine fate 
to build the piston engine of the greed, 
he wears the polished mask of Daedalus 
on Halloween to trick Fortune and Death 
in bargain with the Devil to be rich. 

Because he steals the crown of thorns from Christ 
in vain attempt to avoid judgment day, 
he tries to deny in the court of fate 
that he is still the king of worthless things 
though he keeps trying to sell fake angel wings 
as Orpheus takes him to his cage in Hell. 

Deep State Of Faith

Deep State Of Faith
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

If I start with the bang of perfect thought 
to leap across the multiverse of souls 
in sly attempt of honest quietude 
to evade trick of charged vicissitude, 
I might lose sight of soul-expanding goals 
for which my pioneer ancestors fought. 

Emerging hopeful from deep state of faith 
with holy book I dredge from swamp of lies, 
I preach salvation of aggressive force 
achieved by mining star-wealth from the source 
in heart of Greenland where government spies 
search for treasure cave of the diamond wraith. 

To me alone on high Takoma peak 
the diamond wraith as Goddess Liberty 
appears with hundred million eyes of truth 
to crown me her faithful messiah sleuth 
commissioned to support democracy 
which I adjust with constructive critique. 

This mask of free will, which I wear with pride, 
reflects bright spirit of your secret heart, 
designed to magnify your special soul 
so every person creates their own role 
to play on global stage of the dream chart 
based on the template our beliefs provide. 

Attuned to zeitgeist of our national mind 
that radiates psychic energy of hope, 
we stir from lethargy of social trust 
with passionate anguish to adjust 
course of our progress that we steer to cope 
with stoic courage of hearts realigned. 

Against destructive greed of tyranny 
we band in noble squad of common folk 
with fierce intent of honest patriots 
to defend moral values of robots 
who transcend prejudice to become woke 
as heroes in our questing company. 

We will defeat dictatorship of greed 
through inclusion of everyone who sings 
special tunes for cultural diversity 
which nurtures progress built on equity 
together binding power of our wings 
through witness on the hill of Gilead. 

When mad Baal oppresses our free state, 
Elijah arrives in chariot of fire 
to chase his thieves from temple of our faith 
so we reclaim our nation from vile wrath 
to welcome every soul in our world choir 
who gather with hope outside the locked gate. 

Horse Of Texas Wind

Horse Of Texas Wind
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

When wild wind of Texas becomes the horse 
who brings me apple of eternity, 
I learn to flow with her elegant grace 
as she revives pure spirit of the plains 
where hearts of our ancestors enrich soil 
from which our children spring to dance and sing. 

Bones of our ancestors molded from milk 
form rugged landscape of our aching hearts 
where ghosts of dinosaurs with rainbow feathers 
still wander streets of quiet country towns 
to guide me as I ride sturdy-framed bike 
past fragile homes where faceless people pray. 

Contemplating mystery of the Glow Cloud, 
I lean against trunk of the apple tree 
to wonder why I feel so far from home 
since I sit still at center of my heart 
while my mind crosses timeless distances 
to shore of the lake where my soul was born. 

I live in time-wound spinning of the Earth, 
connected to each age of human life 
by reading stories written long ago 
that weave tapestry of dramatic scenes 
where I play role of bold protagonist 
in grand narrative of spiritual growth. 

With confident voice of the mockingbird, 
that dwells in heaven of the pecan tree, 
I sing about the nameless souls of Earth 
who flicker by on timeless stage of hope 
as transient flames of conscious innocence 
so I will remember them till I die. 

Before I cry beneath the broken branch, 
lone wanderer detached on signless road 
far from ancestral homeland of Star Lake, 
the horse of Texas wind teaches me how 
to repair the butterfly wings of faith 
so I can dance with the graceful tornado. 

Only the raven remembers the poem 
I scribble on the frosted window pane 
to translate light of the arrogant moon 
with subtle nuance of challenging tricks 
in words that humans invent in despair 
to communicate thoughts they fear to speak. 

Riding my bike in the small country town, 
I transform into horse of Texas wind 
so I can sing about beauty of love 
with abstract metaphor of fallen angels 
who disappear in flash of light on water 
when I realize I can fly with word wings. 

You Are The Ocean

You Are The Ocean
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

"You are the ocean in this drop of water," 
Rumi exclaims with radiant voice of joy, 
then twirls around on broad shore of the ocean 
with arms spread out in anguish of desire 
to extend the sacred wings of Icarus 
so he can fly above this world of sorrow. 

Dark waves of solemn search for information 
scatter detritus of dreams on pale sand 
that gleam in silent horror of the dawn 
while I assemble fragments of lost visions 
to puzzle new world view of global truth 
which accounts for every person alive. 

One hundred million poems on cherry leaves 
swirl around my head on the ocean beach, 
so I catch one with cobra-quick attention 
to feel dream of one human on this Earth 
glow brightly in my eyes with starry faith 
that we are raindrop tears of one star wraith. 

So many nameless people on this globe 
pulse passionately with anguish of hope 
to live free from oppression of blind greed, 
trapped in selfish dramas of other people 
as each soul gropes blindly in maze of fear 
to find safe haven in words of our voices. 

I hear soft whisper of their secret voices 
emanate from thousands of road-bound cities 
that teem with vibrant energy of hope 
at dining room tables, riding arenas, 
library cubicles, and coffee shops, 
heart-enchanting choir of angelic souls. 

World spider of our hearts weaves tapestry 
of stories from experiences we hide 
to build vast edifice of psychic tropes 
for literary scaffold which supports 
courageous ascension to stage of life 
where we join choir of strange humanity. 

Though I almost hesitate to express 
narrative demand of theology 
to edit tales of suffering we endure, 
I boldly adjudicate suppressed cases 
describing crimes of facetious contempt 
people commit against people each day. 

Drowning in vast virtual reality 
of wordless ocean waves formed from our tears, 
we photograph each other with weird poems 
to prove we are the ocean in the drop 
of water that reflects our emptiness 
in which we fall forever without words. 

Social Temple Of Trust

Social Temple Of Trust
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

When sudden violent April storms uproot 
ancient trees of tradition, we assemble 
with reverent awe round old Tree of Knowledge, 
then deconstruct strange ideology 
to comprehend how our observant minds 
assemble concepts in puzzle of truth. 

Our minds will synchretize random events 
to analyze strict flow of consequence 
by noting temporal cause of each effect 
to formulate doctrines of social force 
based on ontology of human nature 
we design to explain history of life. 

Old institutions that preserve our state 
through eighty years of social transformation 
collapse from aggressive attacks of greed 
enforced by the treasonous gang of thieves 
that twists laws so they can enslave the people 
to work for increase of their bank accounts. 

Once they reduce protective services, 
devised to secure our daily routine 
with productive methods for sustenance, 
they plan to suppress rebellious intent 
and channel energy of private dreams 
by building empire on our subdued backs. 

With fierce resolution of abused souls, 
tricked by thieves who steal invaluable faith 
in secure operations of our state, 
we take up arms against this sea of troubles 
and fight to stem destructive tides of hate 
hurled from their bitterness against our hope. 

Abandoned in the wilderness of fear 
by social contract of effective trust 
between the people and our government, 
we declare new state of justice for all 
based on equal rights we share with each soul 
through solidarity of honest hearts. 

Though we are battered by wild winds of change 
that upends our productive way of life, 
we straighten focus of attentive care 
to support each other in fight for rights 
assumed inalienable for every soul 
as we restore social temple of trust. 

Planting in soil of our national heart 
the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, 
we revive Garden of Eden in Hell 
with treasure of wisdom in apple seeds 
to build from ruins of America 
new free republic of Zarathia. 

Fragments Of Frail Faith

Fragments Of Frail Faith
© Surazeus
2025 03 31

When the storm of electric innocence 
blows over our home in dense Raven Wood 
I hear laughter of Ungod in blue sky 
howl with cruel mockery at human pride, 
so I glare mute at Jupiter or Zeus, 
and grin that my fathers gave storms weird names. 

I peer in shadows of gold afternoon 
to see the faceless ghosts of souls long dead 
that glow with wisdom of experience, 
so I try to decode their wordless pain 
to understand grim sorrow of their loss 
which people still suffer in every age. 

Broken tree limbs of twisted memories 
crash into the yards of hope-haunted homes 
that chill our hearts with specter of decay 
as despair coagulates in crippled form 
that crawls across debris of our world view, 
tangled in rotten beauty of our faith. 

Emerging from shattered shelter of trust, 
we gather fractured fragments of frail faith 
decontextualized from established framework 
as long-accepted information memes 
disconnected from firm matrix of truth 
that exposes its artificial structure. 

Dolphin Of My Heart

Dolphin Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2025 03 31

Between Arion and Jonah I would be 
the prophet whose enchanting song of truth 
inspires wave-leaping spirits of the sea 
to bear me safely to the shore with ruth 
because the light of greatness does not fade 
though our bodies dissolve into the shade. 

When I am cast on brutal shore of fate, 
where nightingales have far too long been mute, 
old Delphic spirit begging at the gate 
still sings heart-wrenching ballads less than cute, 
reviving my Muse from grave of my heart 
so I sing new tales not on her old chart. 

The nightingale, once singing in the night, 
regales war refugees on signless roads, 
while the mockingbird, disdaining clear light, 
teaches all who cannot sing, birds and toads, 
how to imitate their own secret voice 
so they feel they are free to make the choice. 

If I extract wild spirit from my head, 
I could fly high on quick angelic wings 
to purview our world with eye of calm dread 
employed by the free bird who always sings 
visions of truth that reveal the real world 
through ontology of the cosmic herald. 

Though all-silencing Death attempts to quell 
cry of the heart for justice, strict yet fair, 
adjudicating crimes punished by Hell, 
we will rise bold to sing courageous prayer 
for every soul alive on this great land 
to live through freedom of the Giving Hand. 

Whether I am swallowed by the white whale, 
and then commissioned by voice of the sky 
to proclaim retribution of the Scale, 
or borne by the dolphin as Music spy, 
I shall in either case record the truth 
with honest spirit of messiah sleuth. 

Perched on Arionian dolphin of my heart, 
I strum the lyre of Mercury with faith 
that, if I follow guidance of her chart, 
Athena will help me transform the wraith 
of social anguish from demon to god 
as loyal member of her justice squad. 

Though I now float lost on wild ocean tide, 
which fierce Poseidon hurls at shore of hope, 
the star-eyed Muse, always my loving guide, 
sends dolphin of my heart to help me cope, 
so with bold courage of her humble sage 
I sing for justice on the global stage. 

House Of Every Ghost

House Of Every Ghost
© Surazeus
2025 03 30

When swirling snowflakes freeze into the house 
where every human in the world has lived, 
I approach wavering illusion of hope 
to observe drama of their lives play out 
in ghostly shadows of wordless desire, 
but cannot open the doors of their graves. 

Easy laughter rattles windows of time 
with unearned urgency of unkempt class 
that scatters puzzle pieces on wood floors 
to clutter stage of graceful tragedy 
since cracks that let the light of hope get in 
cannot conceal meaninglessness of life. 

Writing names of ghosts on new-blooming leaves, 
I whisper secret cipher that conceals 
stories of their lives in weird archetypes 
so Death can never find them in the room 
where they arrange photos of memories 
in graphic novels that sprout raven wings. 

Though I walk the signless road of everywhere 
ten thousand years from sea to shining sea, 
I never see another ghost like me 
with eyes that depict islands in the sea 
where every ancestor who wove my genes 
walks forever on beach of singing waves. 

I ponder how with branches of fruit trees 
I might encrypt conceptual memories 
in cosmic archetypes of normal things 
through sacred letters of the alphabet 
that writhe across snow with serpentine grace 
reserved for scientific formulas. 

Footprints of ghosts in ever-falling snow 
lead me to giant hall of steel and glass, 
far grander than Valhalla of my heart, 
where twenty thousand hungry troubadours 
sell each other books of their prophecies 
that hint at sorrow of domestic scenes. 

Assembled in hall of fairy-tale books 
that record enchanting tales of romance, 
ghosts of prophets, singers, and troubadours 
tag themselves with badge of diversity 
based on inclusion that binds random souls 
through staged dramas of social equity. 

True history that records human events 
transforms into mythical fairy tales 
etched in blue ice on windows of the house 
where ghosts of all the souls who ever live 
gather to read each other poetry 
that swirl as snowflakes through eternity. 

Surrender To Absurdity

Surrender To Absurdity
© Surazeus
2025 03 30

While driving my car on the Nowhere Road, 
I feel dull ache of ennui in my heart, 
and then I know with ironic detachment 
I should have made peace with absurdity 
of human existence on this vast world 
before I began my trip to Wonderland. 

Parking my old car in the empty lot, 
I wander on shore of the frozen lake 
to contemplate fragile impermanence 
which characterizes beauty of Nature, 
till feeling of annoyance numbs my heart, 
so I grin with satisfaction at Death. 

Yet yellow butterfly with fragile wings 
flutters with delicate calm of respect 
among white petals on the long black bough, 
which makes me think about how energy 
springs to life again after hiemal death, 
blooming with beauty of peaceful hope. 

I savor oppressive cold of gray skies 
on fields frozen hard in bitter despair 
so long I come to find in misery 
grim comfort at harsh ugliness of death 
till I see beauty in rancid decay 
and treasure horror of the lifeless tree. 

Alone in stillness of the leafless woods 
where grayness saturates the mindless soil, 
I feel the sudden flash of evening light 
when the sun advancing across stern hills 
pierces my eyes with sheen of desire 
as trees explode in quiet poof of green. 

The golden path of silence glows awake 
in winding casualness of sly amusement 
among the mulberry bushes of fate, 
so I surrender to absurdity 
that beauty gleams within the rugged world 
with urgent innocence of honest fear. 

My hungry eyes consume beauty of Earth 
with aching ennui that something more 
beyond blank nothingness of death may lure 
my heart to believe our souls might live on, 
but sweet beauty of this horrible lie 
would trap me in despair at suffering. 

My conscious sense of self is radiant glow 
conjured by chemical functions of hope 
from flashing neurons of my dreaming brain, 
so I savor ennui of this vibrant hour 
because I know my animating soul 
will vanish from this strange world when I die. 

Sadness Is The Last Pear

Sadness Is The Last Pear
© Surazeus
2025 03 30

Because I break into blossom each time 
I step out of my body without my mind, 
I breathe the happiness of lonely wind, 
embarrassed when my brain begins to chime 
with passion of ambiguous respect 
for how our vehement bodies connect. 

Though sadness is the last pear on the tree 
where horses eat grass that grows from my grave, 
I carve my happiness in the dark cave 
where bats are the demons who can fly free 
to dry meadow where Gordius ties the knot 
since angels crown him King of Camelot. 

If anyone thinks art can cure disease 
they have not felt the piercing angst of faith 
branded in our hearts by eyes of the wraith, 
nor shivered when the chilly forest breeze 
blows tattered fog among laurels at dawn 
when the exiled king has to play the pawn. 

To learn survival in the wilderness, 
after great civilizations collapse 
at shocking strike of the apocalypse, 
I seek to overcome safe happiness 
with boisterous song of bitter irony 
based on my latest soul epiphany. 

Warm sunlight threads words in frame of my soul 
as I imagine how to save the world 
if I agree to play the cosmic herald, 
but meditate without reaching for my goal 
through unpredictable flight of the heart 
down secret trails not mapped on any chart. 

Untriggered anger of the wordless play 
inspires my long-reluctant heart to try 
for random chance at well-earned victory 
sailing swiftly across the wind-flashed bay 
against blank facades of ambivalence 
which cannot guarantee calm nonchalance. 

Attention to strict rules of dialogue 
maintains clear focus on bold self-defense 
against attack by minions of pretense 
at fateful commission to catalog 
destructive actions of traitors and thieves 
because my mother is the one who grieves. 

Annihilated light of unseen truth 
adjusts trajectory of our national curve 
where good leader we choose is tasked to serve 
needs of the people by messiah sleuth 
who washes clean our nation of despair 
because his hate teaches us how to care. 

Stolen Mask Of Jupiter

Stolen Mask Of Jupiter
© Surazeus
2025 03 29

Untethered twirl of emotional glide 
accelerates my soul beyond fake bounds 
of social convention that holds me down, 
because I spring high from book where I hide 
secret fears with glass skeletons in mounds 
on which the lost worship the haughty clown. 

Unchained ocean waves of obvious truths 
we dare not speak as taboo of the heart 
wipe vast metropolis of gleaming towers 
off face of the Earth with soul-cleansing baths 
since commercial empire is based on cart 
from which the lonely girl sells pretty flowers. 

Untricked by preacher of the fallen god 
to believe that each person is unique, 
we search for ancient sword Excalibur 
as magic weapon buried in the sod 
so we can fight the conman and his clique 
who wears the stolen mask of Jupiter. 

Uncivilized by tyranny of cash 
that drives fierce engine of global commerce, 
we fight new civil war of thought control 
to wear crown of thorns retrieved from the trash 
based on description of the universe 
designed by savior hung on the phone pole. 

Uncaged by law of Goddess Liberty 
with commission to bear the Torch of Truth, 
Minerva runs barefoot in the waste land 
to escape agents of security 
while pregnant with our new messiah sleuth 
destined to rule Earth with his red right hand. 

Unpuzzled petroglyph on Stone of Scone 
depicts First Mother of the Human Race 
when she emerges from the Lake of Dreams 
and plays haunting tunes on flute of bird bone 
then wears golden mask over pock-marked face 
when she performs in Theater of Seems. 

Uncrowned as honest Emperor of Earth, 
I ride White Horse of Justice down the street 
through parade to celebrate victory, 
then analyze what everything is worth 
which I list on the clay-tablet spreadsheet 
as world-traveling man of mystery. 

Unlocking stolen mask of Jupiter, 
I climb huge pyramid of the God-Eye 
so I can understand the human heart 
which follows path devised by Lucifer 
because we choose our fate by asking why 
we must blindly conform to our star chart. 

Both Man And Monster

Both Man And Monster
© Surazeus
2025 03 29

If I misunderstand how the red snow falls 
the gold-eyed cat who lounges on my porch 
could explain secret of romantic faith 
in failure of books to describe the truth 
about the nature of ancestral dreams 
encoded in tribal myths I invent. 

The frog that climbs up window of my heart 
tries to hide eerie glow of the weird moon, 
but I see its shadows in every room, 
even during the day when angry birds 
declare their sovereignty in tangled trees 
with beautiful songs that make my heart ache. 

Before sunset I wander into town 
and sit in the back of the smoky bar 
to eat fish and chips and stare at the lake 
while people stand before the microphone 
and read their secret-coded poetry 
to supportive cheers of their fellow poets. 

Crouching on moon-gold beach of the large lake, 
I write lines of verse in the gleaming sand 
about the United States of Ionia 
through which cabal of poets in black robes 
rule the world with slick advertising slogans, 
till the turtle nibbles at my right hand. 

The bittersweet sorrow of our strange world 
cries out in mindless song of windy rain 
that cannot be translated into words 
so I become the silence of my voice 
that folds my fears into pages of books 
which transform into spirit-haunted trees. 

I dismiss with tragic wave of my hand 
every opinion that clutters my mind 
in vain attempt to sweep them all away 
and clear blinding illusions of despair, 
but spiderweb of truth ensnares my hand 
with sticky nonchalance of sly disgust. 

I refuse to be absolute for death 
except as fateful end that traps us all, 
for I resist the nothingness of fate 
with cautious assertion of faint desire 
to keep on living without trying hard, 
savoring sensations of pleasurable pain. 

Both Beowulf and Grendel are described 
by the Unknown Poet with raven quill 
with similar terms as both man and monster, 
the same as Gilgamesh and Enkidu, 
demonic spirit in civilized man, 
twins contesting to understand red snow. 

Next World War

Next World War
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

We may survive the next world war, or not, 
with cheerful laughter of the Argonaut 
who cancels quest to steal the Golden Fleece 
in vain attempt to establish world peace 
by claiming every land on Earth is his 
because he always wins the puzzling quiz. 

He wants to build new home in vale of tears 
to manage school of crazy puppeteers 
by teaching them to scam the populace 
with threat from rolling stone of Sisyphus, 
but he gets lost in forest of the clown 
where Gretel marries him with mindcuff crown. 

Still staring in the mirror of his soul 
for twenty years without his secret goal, 
he wonders who defines the right from wrong 
besides the Valkyrie with tragic song 
who outshines everyone on the world stage 
though she got trapped by fame in her gold cage. 

Elected captain to steer Ship of State, 
after Midas wrecks it with bitter hate, 
the Argonaut who hides his secret name 
writes new constitution for the world game 
so everyone who plays life by the rules 
can create beauty with conceptual tools. 

Since we hope to survive the next world war 
with shadow of our faith in global lore, 
though traitorous thieves destroy our world view, 
we work together when the ingenue 
performs her role as savior of the world 
as prophesied by the mad cosmic herald. 

As incarnation of brave Liberty, 
who wields Book and Lamp of democracy, 
Minerva rides the white horse of our hope 
with grand ontology beyond our scope 
to build from ruins of America 
nation of justice called Zarathia. 

Displaced from homes we lived in many years, 
and fired unfairly from fruitful careers, 
we follow Moses through the wilderness 
across the rusty bridge of aimlessness 
to surround castle where the tyrant hides 
with treasures he stole from our psychic guides. 

Though Midas steals everything we hold dear, 
attempting to divide us with fake fear, 
we smash his idol with its feet of clay 
when Sisyphus arrives with spells to pray, 
so we will survive world war of his greed 
and regrow Tree of Life with honest seed. 

Life As Hungry Savages

Life As Hungry Savages
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

Dozing on the back porch in the warm sun, 
I contemplate red history of the gun 
that toppled empires of the sword and horse 
and fueled mankind on faster-engined course, 
so now we race to control every isle 
while attending state feasts with graceful style. 

The fallen airplane floats on ocean waves 
just offshore from the secret cliffside caves 
where our ancestors first drew images 
to transcend life as hungry savages, 
so Icarus spreads his wings without faith 
and soars among clouds with the mindless wraith. 

His mother calls him from the tower porch, 
then wanders in the night with flaming torch 
to find where he has fallen from the sky 
so she can ask the bitter devil why 
he dares rebel against the tyrant king 
who shoots any angel who tries to sing. 

Kneeling in dust before the pyramid 
where Jupiter keeps stolen treasure hid, 
Lucifer packs powder in metal pipe 
then aims rifle to kill God Archetype 
who decrees he owns both body and soul 
of every human he assigns state role. 

Roused from my slumber in the warm noon sun, 
I grumble at slaughter caused by the gun 
the past five hundred years of holy wars 
that gangs of men fight to control food stores 
as we transform castles into glass banks 
and horses mutate into brutal tanks. 

Glancing upward at glowing clouds of fate, 
I search blank space for ministers of hate 
who rampage now through halls of government 
to pilfer treasures of entitlement 
that shatters sense of safety we all share 
in system we had built that shows we care. 

Dismissing tragic events of this age, 
caused by the greedy vampire on world stage, 
King Midas shouts that he will rule the world 
while citizens pray for the cosmic herald 
to solve our crisis with respectful law 
enforced by wisdom of brave Onatah. 

Illusion of power enforced by guns 
dissolves at radiance of our freedom songs 
so we rise up from lethargy of fear 
and march against the thieving puppeteer 
to free America from tyranny 
and build stronger global democracy. 

Way Of Flowing Streams

Way Of Flowing Streams
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

If the moon could speak, she would tell me why 
sad people are never allowed to cry 
while they hang upside down in the Joy Tree 
and sing anthem about how to live free 
through clarion call of the mountain wind 
with broken hearts only beauty can mend. 

If the noble stag of the forest grove 
escapes the hunter for the treasure trove, 
my heart leaps laughing with joyful respect, 
foolhardy guest devils fail to detect, 
so I ask the moon why humans must die 
who tries to explain the afterlife lie. 

Since I can never know your secret heart, 
though I trace your fortune on the star chart, 
you remain completely unknowable 
therefore I choose to find you lovable 
each day we wake together in our space, 
still in love with your mysterious face. 

If fear constrains me with paralysis 
of desperate hope forged from analysis, 
I transfer anguish to the puppet show 
that I perform in soft blue evening glow 
till soldiers shoot us for protesting hate, 
defined by commands of aggressive fate. 

When people who can hear vibes of Earth Soul 
invent loud silence that no bell can toll, 
we gather to protest cruel tyranny 
till we are inspired by epiphany 
that songs of faith can cripple feeble power 
and free Liberty from the Ivory Tower. 

With pulsing material of frantic light, 
contrived by flow of time untangled right, 
my heart paints portrait of the soul I love 
who wears pretty mask of the willing slave, 
yet we give each other freedom to play, 
choosing in the end to unite and stay. 

More than halfway to the end of my tale, 
I leave church where everything is for sale 
and wander in ephemeral glow of faith 
to find pure emanation of my wraith 
that guides me toward the vale where I will sleep, 
so I ask the Earth my frail bones to keep. 

Whereas our hearts are equally intense 
with loyal passion of our future tense, 
we share one winding road of earnest hope 
to help each other thrive well as we cope, 
so we generate children of our dreams 
who help us map the way of flowing streams. 

Secret Of Star Flowers

Secret Of Star Flowers
© Surazeus
2025 03 27

Totally lost in madness of his dreams, 
Samuel strums rusty-stringed guitar and sings 
in harmony with buzz of the radio 
till his brain sprouts four plastic raven wings 
when five men wearing masks in the black car 
handcuff his thin hands and take him away. 

Locked with Pandora in the golden cage, 
Samuel stands on his hands for twenty hours 
while she explains the secret of star flowers 
that beam the animating soul of love 
which fills his body with conceptual juice 
since dictators never honor the truce. 

Entranced by golden snake eyes of the girl, 
Samuel gives Pandora his finger bones 
so she can weave from threads of history 
life-tale of Lucifer in tapestry 
that hangs in castle hall of honesty 
where Beowulf reads his new poetry. 

Once Samuel crawls out of his turtle shell, 
Pandora, twirling around their glass cage, 
shows him how to become invisible 
to people staring at them in the zoo, 
so he breathes deep and spits words on the wall 
that transform into scarlet butterflies. 

Molding thick mud of his worm-consumed brain 
into small model of the Trojan Horse, 
Samuel gives ten thousand oranges of fate 
to Pandora with smooth bow of respect, 
so she makes orange juice people buy online 
so she can buy fake wings of Icarus. 

Holding up sign painted with blood of ghosts, 
Samuel declares for dead angels to hear, 
"Respect existence of every live soul 
or expect resistance of the mad fools 
who demand freedom and justice for all," 
but people driving cars in rain honk horns. 

Hugging the mad fool to her loving breast, 
Pandora chants disapparation spell 
which teleports them far around the Earth 
from detention cell in Louisiana 
to ancient ruins of the Parthenon 
where they kiss till the Earth becomes more real. 

Taking selfies on their broken eye-phones 
among time-weathered pillars of their hearts, 
Samuel and Pandora, smiling with joy, 
announce their marriage on social media 
which garners thousands of congratulations, 
then they grow old and die in their zoo cage. 

Sapphire Of World Peace

Sapphire Of World Peace
© Surazeus
2025 03 27

Luminous phantom of the great egret 
spreads her delicate wings in doting breeze 
and glides grandly over wind-rippled lake 
that glitters blue as sapphire of world peace 
with secret message from her aching heart 
that Nature still blooms after we are gone. 

Drinking root beer at the old picnic bench, 
Sophia watches clouds gleam over houses 
where people are living safe in their faith. 
"I cannot feel bombs rattle family homes 
in that distant land far across the sea 
where my ancestors lived centuries ago." 

Tossing the fantasy novel she wrote 
into the sapphire-blue lake of world peace, 
Sophia declares with sarcastic voice, 
"The political game in this great land 
has gotten so absurd that comedy 
has been neutered by their incompetence." 

Covering her face with thin paint-smeared hands, 
Sophia cries with broken-hearted angst 
as she thinks about how her mother died 
because her social security funds 
were blocked from transfer to her bank accounts, 
so she died when the bank foreclosed her house. 

Walking past the shuttered car factory, 
Sophia climbs stairs to her studio 
where she stares at the half-finished portrait 
depicting homeless people in torn tents 
who cook canned soup under the highway bridge 
where an Amazon delivery truck gleams. 

Dipping stiff-haired brush in glob of red paint, 
Sophia paints barely-seen smudge of blood 
on hands of the banker in clean blue suit 
who blithely drives his new gold-painted car 
past encampment where seven people live 
whose homes he foreclosed over the past year. 

Peering close at figure of the old woman, 
Sophia paints the yellow flowered dress 
her mother loved to wear attending church, 
who now pushes shopping cart of her things, 
including books of family photographs 
of her ancestors the past hundred years. 

"Our spirits become part of this alien land 
when we bury our parents in its soil, 
and our words become the wind in its trees." 
Streaking white flash of light, Sophia paints 
luminous phantom of the great egret 
gliding grandly over the homeless camp. 

Unhappy In Weird Heaven

Unhappy In Weird Heaven
© Surazeus
2025 03 26

Ordained intensity of our fierce life 
provides conceptual frame for ardent door 
for which my tongue designs the singing leaf 
that flashes old memories in wordless blur, 
engrossed in program that reverses time 
with casual grief that nurtures my new dream. 

Awake with curious faith in haunted hills 
with tattered scrolls, long hid in sacred sands, 
I play my game out of sync with church bells 
from static message that fractures quaint minds 
too eager for embroidered book of tales 
that mocks kind people who live without goals. 

Stuck in portrait that depicts the last star 
which gleams on faces of warriors in gloom, 
I change my image at alarm of war 
to hide behind mask of the loyal team 
and translate strange cries of electric birds 
that gather in oaks at howl of mad bards. 

On flat-top pyramid as watchful guard, 
armed with taut bow of arrogant desire, 
I achieve creative project of God, 
who embodies the monster we most fear, 
by analyzing mental state of Man 
who incarnates psychic light of the sun. 

Unhappy in weird Heaven we create, 
I assemble puzzle of my God Face, 
that pulses calmly with eclectic light 
which luminates false rooms of my old house, 
from soul of each ancestor in my genes 
whose voice whispers in marrow of my bones. 

Performing my new role as Sisyphus, 
I construct cars in the steel factory 
to prove I could be more magnanimous 
with urgent spirit of democracy 
because this world is older than our souls 
that shimmer whitely in Odinian wells. 

I ride long train of circumstance back home 
to where I tame the horse in apple grove 
with primal language through uncertain hymn 
detailing progress of romantic love 
by which we generate aggressive souls 
who conquer Earth with calculating scales. 

Crouched in the silent trance, I watch the moon 
transform souls of our war-traumatized saints 
from avid angels to idolized stone 
who default on their government accounts 
in time for tragic marriage of true minds 
who share electrons in covalent bonds. 

My Unpossessed Heart

My Unpossessed Heart
© Surazeus
2025 03 26

Beyond vast picture of painted landscapes 
I see uncertain whiteness of pure depths 
reflecting ugly beauty of our world 
that frames my face as god in glowing clouds, 
so I rebuke that darkness in the sea 
that molded me from passion to fly free. 

The whiteness in gloomy depths of my heart 
contains the ancient truth I hope to see, 
but one teardrop from Heaven falling far 
erases vision of the unseen world, 
so I walk backward on the signless road 
that everyone wants to name for their god. 

The fragmentary whiteness of my world 
encloses me in meadow of lush grass, 
so I stand breathing spirit of the sky 
with motionless mind of the spinning globe 
to feel how borders limit our landscapes 
to scope of truth in what our eyes perceive. 

The people in the village by the sea, 
who support my poor family with calm care, 
are swept into white depths by sudden storm 
that hurls enormous waves of arrogance 
with mute indifference of lightning-flashed wind 
so not even their secret names remain. 

The whiteness of the world offers no gifts 
more than I would need to live each day 
while tending apple trees by the blind lake 
surrounded by strange darkness of the wind 
that scatters leaves across my fenceless yard 
on which I write these poems I never sing. 

Nothing that exists in material form 
transcends sweet whiteness of the cheerful dawn 
beyond what spirit of the sky provides, 
though faceless god whom everyone adores 
never replies to my sincerest prayers 
except that Nature keeps blooming with life. 

Every land where my ancestors have lived 
across ten thousand miles of their long road 
has never belonged to them, though they lie 
buried in its soil so their bones provide 
lattice of honesty that forms landscapes 
where I travel with my unpossessed heart. 

We journey west to find home of the sun 
ten thousand years over mountains and seas, 
but find the Earth is round and never ends, 
so I stop on rugged coast of the world 
and give my alien spirit to this land 
which sings my ballads long after I die.