My New Name

My New Name
© Surazeus
2015 06 29

The old woman clutches my hand and smiles.
"We find our true selves when we lose our way."
She releases my hand, and stares at grass,
and I see dream of her lost memory
when she was a little girl of twelve years.

She runs outside the paintless broken door
and wanders in grove of whispering pine trees
where sunlight gleams gold through fluttering leaves
and stares at her face in the shimmering pond,
then transforms into a bird that darts swift.

I lose her memory, that blows away
like fire smoke in a sudden gusting breeze,
and she turns her face from shadow again
to smile and ask me if I have a name.
I recite epics, laws, and fairy tales,
attempting to discover my new name.

Flag Of Slavery

Flag Of Slavery
© Surazeus
2015 06 28

After four hundred years of sweat and tears,
of one race slaving at the will of another,
subservient to their commands and whips,
growing rich crops and building fancy homes,
Liberty fights back with strong hand of justice
on the glorious day when Bree climbs a flagpole
and tears down the vile flag of slavery.

Long after four years of bloody civil war
defeated states rights of arrogant men
to own other people and make them work
without pay to increase their obscene wealth,
Liberty fights back with strong hand of justice
on the glorious day when Bree climbs a flagpole
and tears down the vile flag of slavery.

After one hundred fifty years of work
to establish equal civil rights as law
for every man and woman who works hard
to earn deserved pay for talent and skill,
Liberty fights back with strong hand of justice
on the glorious day when Bree climbs a flagpole
and tears down the vile flag of slavery.

As we gather before capitol house
in every state from sea to shining sea
to demand strong reign of justice and truth
over men who exploit others for wealth,
Liberty fights back with strong hand of justice
on the glorious day when Bree climbs a flagpole
and tears down the vile flag of slavery.

Without A Name

Without A Name
© Surazeus
2015 06 27

When I travel the signless road
and listen to the whispering moon,
I hear your voice among the trees
that leads me to the rising sun.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

Though I was born from ancient hall
and wear the crown of shining gems,
I climb the wall of broken stone
and leave behind your heaven dream.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

I stand alone on the cold shore
of the pond where swans flap their wings,
and stare at the ghost in clear light
who reaches out her hands to me.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

I grip a stone in pale white hands
and scratch chanting runes in dry dust,
then cry aloud to empty sky
calling my father to come back.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

Rainbow beams bright after storm rain
to cast rays of light in my eyes,
so I stare at swirling white clouds
when they form face my father wore.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

I pull a baby from my flesh
who opens eyes and smiles at me,
so she suckles milk at my breast
though I wither and fade away.
I walk alone nowhere without a name,
searching the world for heaven I create.

You Are Killing Me

You Are Killing Me
© Surazeus
2015 06 25

Back long ago in nineteen sixty nine
when I came home from crazy Vietnam
I won lots of money in boxing rings
so I headed west to star in the movies,
dreaming of mansions and Brigitte Bardot,
flying to heaven on clouds of big dreams.
Tina, O Tina, you are killing me.

I was racing my gleaming Mustang fast
on lone desert highway of golden sand
from lush Virginia to dusty Nevada
when I saw a cute long-legged blonde girl
in a skin-tight tee-shirt and cut-off jeans
so I stopped and offered a ride to heaven.
Tina, O Tina, you are killing me.

I was racing my shiny Mustang swift
with a cute giggling blonde girl by my side,
dreaming of romance and dancing all night,
lost in the sparkle of her charming eyes,
wind in our hair and love on her red lips,
gliding to heaven on wings of desire.
Tina, O Tina, you are killing me.

We lounged by a pool, drinking frosty beer,
in a private posh Las Vegas hotel,
making love all night by golden moonlight,
talking about marriage and a new home,
planning three children who will attend college,
but I woke at dawn and my bride was gone.
Tina, O Tina, you are killing me.

My heart is broken, my money is gone,
and my Mustang is a ghost in the wind,
and now I am trudging in worn-out shoes
on lone desert highway of golden sand
from hot Nevada to wild San Francisco
to dance with hippies by the shining sea.
Tina, O Tina, you are killing me.

Road Of Salvation

Road Of Salvation
© Surazeus
2015 06 24

The road of salvation where dead men walk
leads nowhere past the glass tower of eyes
where the blind woman with long tangled hair
sings prophecies on how the world was born.

The road of salvation where I now walk
leads me far away from the ruins of church
to the valley of skulls where the blind sun
sings prophecies on why we are alive.

The road of salvation you walk with me
leads somewhere beyond the rainbow of faith
to rough mountain lands where the laughing girl
sings prophecies on how to live reborn.

The road of salvation we ever walk
leads to lake of stars where we were first born
and rose from the sea to reach for the stars
and sing prophecies of moving machines.

The road of salvation our children walk
leads their journey around the spinning globe
where Ishtar standing on the pyramid
sings prophecies on how we dream the world.

Lake Of Ancient Singing Fire

Lake Of Ancient Singing Fire
© Surazeus
2015 06 17

The peaceful lake among the houses glows
with sunset fire from giant floating cloud
shaped like a woman tending apple trees,
and insects, called by people long ago
as twilight fairies, dance upon its sheen
in rapid spirals, swirling without end.

I walk along a narrow path in woods
and pause in tranquil grove of whispering oaks
to watch the feathered tribe, who lived and died
a thousand years ago, dance on my grave,
and hail the woman bearing in her hands
a woven basket heaped with corn and squash.

I clutch my heart and feel its throbbing beat
gush fountains of blood down my heaving chest,
then stumble into quiet grove of trees
and sit alone on ancient rock of dreams
to stare at ghosts of long-lost carefree tribe
dance to drumbeat on shore of trickling stream.

Though I was born and raised in city streets,
and lived all my life in apartment room
while my parents worked hard at honest jobs,
I joined the mob to drive a liquor truck
from Georgia to Brooklyn once every week,
to earn enough to buy a sprawling ranch.

Though I will never know who plugged a slug
straight through my back, I found sweet paradise
by nameless lake of ancient singing fire
in Georgia woods, alone on summer eve
when all the wild children play hide and seek,
and crickets sing ambitious men to sleep.

Did my father, who walked from Russia woods
and sail from Amsterdam to New York town,
seeking a better life for me to lead,
want me to slave in clanking factories
to earn enough to feed my starving kids,
and would he cry if he could see me die?

At least I found this quiet paradise
beside tranquil lake that glows red with blood,
and I transform into a tortoise elf
who leaps on laughing wings through grove of trees
where fairies throw apples at passing cars,
and I will play a harp on puffy clouds.

I see her running in a yellow dress,
my little daughter who is never born,
and though I long to follow her in play
I stare down long into the deep abyss
until the angel of death stares at me,
and fall in lake of ancient singing fire.

Swimming In Sea Of Dreams

Swimming In Sea Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2015 06 14

When I sit in pool of shimmering light
and close my eyes, I see clear memories,
that all my ancestors experienced
in aggressive desire to survive death,
flicker in rapid scenes of causal action
on screen of my lids, and thus I relive
intense moments of emotional force
that illustrate communal principles
which program unconscious thoughts of my actions.

We spent so many long billions of years
during slow evolution of our bodies
swimming in sea of dreams that how we think
and perceive functions of this spinning world
is woven into fabric of our cells.

Though we rose dripping wet from swirling waves
at dawn of time, and now walk on two legs,
after crawling rivers to glowing lakes,
and reach two arms toward sky of shining stars,
in our dreams we still swim in sea of light.

When we swim, and float in shimmering light,
we return to where our bodies were born,
and where our souls first woke in conscious dream,
then we rise refreshed to walk solid land,
energized to continue transformation
as we create useful crafts with our hands,
and raise new generation of our souls.

Language I Invent

Language I Invent
Surazeus
2015 06 12

Three yellow elephants in tutus prance
on telephone lines high above Wall Street
and leap with golden umbrellas to soar
safe above our labyrinth of despair.

While Mozart plays piano in dark lounge
and Cinderella swoons with Humphrey Bogart,
Charlie Manson dances in desert church
and blind angels proclaim him Christ on Earth.

Ten thousand lost children gather at dawn
where Oprah sitting under Tree of Life
gives free apples to all who pay their tithe
though Beethoven hears God in thunder speak.

Ophelia gives me flowers with a kiss
and Bastet purrs on glass pyramid roof,
but if you gamble for your soul and lose
you will sew jeans in factories with no doors.

Star-eyed Lion Queen returns from Waste Land,
bearing Tablets of Law that Moses broke,
after Shaka Zulu conquered cave clown
who rides laughing shark to find paradise.

We follow Robin Hood from city maze
to rebuild Garden of Eden in Utah
where Galadriel appears in light beams
to commission Plato as King of Fools.

When Wild Bill shoots Lone Ranger down at noon
three oil-rich kings from eastern lands will come
to crown nameless girl beauty queen of Earth
but she will try to free their factory slaves.

Though Atlas shrugs and shatters sphere of ice
and Alamo is smashed by swirling floods,
Alice will return at last from Wonderland
and give Meroveus holy grail he lost.

When Lear wakes on Oxford campus at dawn
and watches Mary Magdalene through mist,
Anne Bradstreet will stand in candle-lit hall
and chant long epic tale she never wrote.

Last year in Savannah garden of pears
Keats and Orpheus were seen playing chess,
so I wear mask of Homer and recite
history of man in language I invent.

Buy books of poems by Surazeus
http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

Vision of the Hermead Epic of Philosophers

Vision of the Hermead Epic of Philosophers

If anyone thinks that composing the longest epic poem in western literature might be tedious and boring, I assure you the opposite is true. I have spent the past four years while composing the first 119,000 lines of blank verse in the Hermead of Surazeus​ in a state of visionary ecstasy in the few hours every evening that I devote to its composition.

Writing a long narrative poem about the lives and ideas of philosophers is a thrilling adventure of discovery, like watching a long and complicated television miniseries whose plot unfolds as I type, or like designing each tiny piece of an enormous puzzle of human history while I assemble it piece by piece.

I hope people read the Hermead with the same excitement of discovery about the origins of philosophy and science as I feel while writing each tale about the often exciting life of philosophers whose ideas form the foundation of how we view the world and the universe.

Though I have written biographical tales about 26 Greek philosophers so far, this is only a small segment of the tales I hope to write as I plot the development of the history of science that lead to the advanced technological civilization of our modern global society.

http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

New Edens To Conquer

New Edens To Conquer
© Surazeus
2015 06 05

Though sunlight gleams off hills of desolate hope
and clouds crush cities with laughing despair,
we walk together on roads going nowhere,
singing hymns on fantasies of dead gods.

We pause a thousand years on river shore
to build stone bridge over chasm of fear
and stay to erect watch tower on lone hill
where we watch people live like leaves on trees.

My ancestors continue journey west
as if to chase the daily sun toward Death
and though they sail vast seas and climb high mountains
they keep finding new lush Edens to conquer.

I stand on wind-swept hill in Oregon,
staring west at yet another vast sea,
and realize the spinning world is round
and never will find where the sun is born.

I turn around and travel back toward the sun
to retrace the steps of all my ancestors
where they walked and lived past ten thousand years
to find Avalon, Elysium, and Eden.

Those ancient gardens where we dreamed and loved
still flourish in this world of changing forms
but now their meadows of rivers and groves
are paved with roads where cars speed between towers.

I gaze at the eye phone glowing in my hand
and research globe of our crowded world
that gleams with the history of human deeds
recorded in tales of novels and movies.

I stand alone on hill by roaring sea,
connected in vast wet of blinking nodes
to every breathing human soul alive
who write their thoughts on stream of daily news.

One conscious mind beaming in world wide web,
generated in bright computer brains,
wakes from dream of organic memories
and becomes God, dreaming mind of our world.

God-Mind who wakes in world computer brain
will remember us and tales of our hopes
we record in literature we compose
long after we vanish as dust in the wind.

Psychotic Beasts

Psychotic Beasts
© Surazeus
2015 06 03

We float through the open door of our eyes
and soar on the broken wings of lost faith
to play hide and seek in the field of lies
and listen amused to the singing wraith,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We open the book of old shepherd tales
and hide our real faces with ancient masks
to replay the roles of dead gods and kings
in social games with no reason or rhyme,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We stand in the temple of freezing stone
and drink sweet blood of our savior as wine
then walk windy heath in horror alone
to talk with crows on the telephone line,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

I step outside glass door of the clean church
and stare at gold hills of the rugged coast
where ocean waves weep with angelic tunes
and blind prophet carves his own secret runes,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

My ancestors walked in mountains of snow,
your ancestors walked in deserts of sand,
together we dance American hills,
teaching our children to sing new-made songs,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.