Just A Country Girl

Just A Country Girl
Surazeus
2016 04 28

Running across four lanes of busy street,
Alexis crosses her arms and legs tight
on park bench to eat small salad for lunch
under sapling oak full of chirping birds.

"While everyone around me in this world
argues all the time about politics,
shouting at each other in fuming rage,
and calling each other insulting names,
I want to escape crowded city streets
and sit by myself by small country stream,
listening to soothing tunes of its music,
while I get in touch with spirit of life.
My head is buzzing from dark angry vibes,
and my eyes are clouded by gruesome scenes
of endless death I see on nightly news
that cause my heart to weep with aching sorrow.
I am just a country girl in my heart,
longing to escape hectic city life
to care for my horses on a lush ranch
and ride them every day on quiet hills.
Alone I feel immensity of space
and savor harmony of quiet peace
that restores love energy of my heart
and reconnects my soul to this vast world."

Returning to work in tall office tower,
Alexis prepares report of monthly sales
and shining cars glide fast on interstate
while she dreams of riding her gentle horse.

Blind Bard Of Avalon

Blind Bard Of Avalon
Surazeus
2016 04 26

Blind bard sits quiet and alone on bench
outside steel tower of first national bank,
and watches dim shadows of voiceless souls
move swift across white globe of glowing light.

"I have always teetered on tedious edge
of existential crisis, slouching mute
outside quaint theater of social drama.
I built grand cathedral of epic action,
so vast in its endless conceptual maze
encompassing all fields of lyric vision,
that every poet chanting spells of dreams
wanders free its endless halls of expression.
Though they grope its high walls of verbal tropes,
picking thought-grapes from philosophic vines,
they remain unaware they move inside
involute corridors of my domain.
Their poems are fragile little leaves of thought
that blossom from sprawling tree of my epic,
sprouting as parts from my complete vision,
for all their visions cut from memories
are small puzzle pieces that catenate
as fragments with each other to compose
comprehensive world view my song designs.
They play their individual instruments,
pretending they play alone their own song,
but I direct their many little songs
to compose immense symphony of tunes
that vibrates rich in harmony of feeling,
woven together in whole tapestry
of world-shrouding vision my epic binds.
My epic forms firm ground on which they build
quaint houses of poetic contemplation
for concepts of its weaving lines of verse
remain as hills and rivers sparkling bright
long after performers on stage of pride
shout their flashing moment of spoken word
then vanish in silent singing of wind.
My epic endures like mountain of truth
while their songs sprout and vanish lost like flowers
so I remain after wind snuffs their lies."

Blind bard of Avalon falls over dead,
then ambulance whisks his body to morgue
where no one attends his small funeral.
Tina scatters his ashes in warm wind
where blue birds chirp in apple trees that sprout
from mountain of minerals soaked by rain.
No one ever notices he is gone
nor gathers in parks to recite his dreams.

Waves Of Harmonious Love

Waves Of Harmonious Love
© Surazeus
2016 04 24

The real world all around me I perceive
Ishtar weaves with spiritual threads of light
in shimmering fabric of atomic skin
that pulse with heartbeat of harmonious love.

Organic bodies surge in waves of light
to manifest eternal forms of hope
in temporary bodies hot with lust
that merge to generate children of love.

When seed of aggressive desire sparks life
dreaming egg eye bulges into new shape
who emerges to devour material forms
in constant transformation of wild love.

Surface of our spinning globe billows thick
with organic bodies who wake from dream
and swallow each other in war of power
to replicate their bodies from fierce love.

We replicate our bodies in wild waves
that bubble from gushing rivers of need
so we shine our hour of passionate life
then burst in mute darkness of death from love.

We rise up from unconscious gloom of hate
to battle others who attack our bodies
hungry to devour rich souls to gain power
then dance free in waves of harmonious love.

Mastermind Sonnet

Mastermind Sonnet
© Surazeus
2016 04 23

Though you may think this universe conspires
against your happiness and rich success,
atoms could not care less of your desires
for molecules have no power to curse or bless.
That every event you design with care
spirals wild from strict control of your hand
is not sign mindless stars are not being fair
for stars play no fate you misunderstand.
This vast universe of planets and stars
beams no bright consciousness of willful mind,
so bad events that happen, leaving scars,
are not directed by great mastermind.
You direct life play with assertive will,
accepting good and bad when you pay bill.

Each Atom Of My Soul

Each Atom Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2016 04 21

I remember when I was a young star
swirling into perfect sphere of desire,
and collected enough quivering atoms
that my heart sparked bright to beam clear starlight.

Spiraling forward into boundless space,
I sang exquisite joy of glowing hot
to twirl in dance of bright magnetic wings,
and fired rays of light at infinite night.

I leaped from glowing sphere on coils of light
to accelerate wild in elegant dance,
shooting up high from bulging sphere of flames
where I floated languid in shimmering joy.

I hurled balls of gas on taut springing coils
that swirled into planets bulging with fire
which cooled hard when I sprinkled them with rain
that sloshed and splashed in surging waves of laughter.

I opened eye in swirling sea of light
and swam toward giant eye of glowing love
where we coiled into strands of twanging spines
and divided into ten thousand eyes.

I swam up river to rest on warm jewel
where I saw myself born from beams of light,
then sang aching sorrow of birth and death
while reaching small hand toward bright distant star.

I rose from lake of dreams at dawn of time
and reached both hands toward glowing sphere of light
to pluck fresh ripe apple from tree of life
and drink nutritious juice of sun and rain.

I climbed sprawling tree to ascend toward light,
swinging from vines in forest of cool winds,
and sang melody of pleasure with love
while I cuddled you in adoring arms.

When serpent with sharp teeth and flapping wings
struck at me to poison my heart with hate,
I grasped stick and stone to defend fruit tree,
crippling its wings and then crushing its skull.

Born without a tail, I fell from great height,
and ran with wolves along river of light,
then hunted cows on plains to drink sweet milk
while dancing around ring of glowing fire.

I swam in surging waves of aching hope,
swirling arms and legs round to walk upright,
then ran on beach of birds to collect eggs
and drew pictures of your cute face in sand.

I molded mud in bricks to build square mound
where we sat chanting in beams of starlight,
crushing wheat grain to bake warm loaves of bread
and squishing grapes to brew sweet honey wine.

I ate white mushroom on rotten tree trunk
and sang bright visions that sparkled my eyes,
describing evolution of all life
from birth of Solaria inside my brain.

I flew from swirling sun on wings of light,
swam through dark surging sea on hands of waves,
walked over fertile soil on feet of stone,
and sang my mind awake on tongues of wind.

I feel sparkles of stars inside my body,
pulsing in every atom of my being,
for neurons of my brain weave galaxies
to project vision of our universe.

I remember when I was a young star,
beams of starlight coiling into our world,
for history of expanding universe
glows awake in each atom of my soul.

Think About Love

Think About Love
Surazeus
2016 04 20

I walk dim labyrinth of city streets
where doppelganger of ambitious hopes
follows me in flash of glass tower doors,
and give blank resumes to robot kings.

I shout invented lyrics with mad beats
while hanging from sailing ship on tight ropes
then wander, muttering spells, on misty moors
to forge from despair thirteen magic rings.

I swipe from gutter your discarded words
and forge new poetry of broken rules
to weave new angel wings so I can fly
to real fantasy land inside my head.

I gather restless cows in docile herds
and send my children to new magic schools
where they map geometry of our eye
though I remind you I am still not dead.

Events gouge holes of sorrow in my heart
then tears of rain fill them with loving hope
so you can kneel and drink dreams of my song
that fuels engine of your sparkling brain.

I load all I own on old creaking cart
and travel lost road where coyotes lope,
hoping search for truth will not take too long
while I trudge singing in relentless rain.

When I sit in quiet library hall,
with books on languages and alphabets,
I transform into hobbit on great quest
to find gem that reveals new birth of stars.

You cannot hang my picture on your wall
nor list me among your sacred prophets
for I want to sit in cool cave and rest,
and write songs about how to design cars.

Plato places model horse in my hand
while Jung explains key of its arcane code,
so I follow foal among apple trees
and she nuzzles my cheek with her soft nose.

I lay stones in large ring to bound my land
where I plant garden along busy road
and offer honey nectar brewed by bees
to travelers who rest and admire my rose.

I will tell you every secret I know,
revealing weird mystery of life and death
when men and women reincarnate souls
in children who preserve dreams of our minds.

Young girl laughs as she dances in new snow
then teaches me how to spiral deep breath
while drinking honey wine from golden bowls
in temple ruins where grapes sprout on vines.

This hour I wake and sing with timeless joy
expands sweet billows of my binding soul
to embrace this planet twirling in space,
woven by Sun Spider from beams of light.

God cannot play with me like mindless toy
for I am God as part of changing whole
whose heart beats rhythm of swift leaping race
to soar from mountain on high wingless flight.

I am talking lump of atomic sparks
seething with energy of hungry lust
who leaps in elegant dance of defense,
singing as I fight to preserve my life.

Each Sunday I take my children to parks
where we paint lipstick on stern statue bust
of noble hero who built private fence,
then place crown of gems on head of my wife.

Follow me through another door of thought
for I am Janus, divine two-faced clown,
who recites endless epic on great search
for wisdom about nature of all things.

After wars of religion have been fought
over who plays god in this nowhere town,
gather with me in our new godless church
and think about love while our angel sings.

How To Survive Well

How To Survive Well
Surazeus
2016 04 19

John clutches his hair and shrieks in defiance.
"Everything always seems to go wrong for me.
Why does this universe conspire against me?"

Sam dances circles around an apple tree.
"This universe of planets where I dwell
has no supernatural god who controls
processes of chemical interaction,
nor does it have transcendent consciousness
that manipulates events in our lives,
so it is completely indifferent
to my existence, and thus it conspires
in no way for or against my success
or failure as I wander through its maze
of seething elements for nourishment,
but other organic creatures like me
conspire to abuse me in various ways,
chase me away from fountains of fresh water,
and surround apple trees with high stone walls,
then bind my hands and force me to work hard
to increase their own wealth at my expense,
unless I fight back to protect myself,
joining with others to build strong safe haven
where we gather together every night
to share tales of heroic adventure,
and thus invent religion from our stories
to celebrate our struggle against death
that elevates the actions of one hero
who taught us how to survive well with joy."

John laughs and twirls till he falls among flowers.
"If I study each process of elements
till I understand its cause and effect,
then I can better choose what action to make
that will generate result I desire
so I may live in harmony with nature."

Sam gives him an apple and they both eat.
"Religions are nothing more than book clubs,
for they worship fictional characters
who exist nowhere but in lines of words."

John chews apple and gazes up at clouds.
"We record stories of success and failure
in books around which we construct religions
to provide guides so we know how to act
as we journey through maze of this weird world
and write new books on how to survive well."

Sam and John fill baskets full with ripe apples
then step through garden gate to sparkling pool
where everyone slices apples in cauldron
to brew juice while they sing tales about hero
named Apollo who battled evil snakes
and freed all apple trees for human kind. 

True Principle Of Art

True Principle Of Art
Surazeus
2016 04 19

Daniel stands on busy street corner, still
as ancient oak tree on farm field at dawn,
and watches people driving by in cars
to see if features of their souls match face
of David carved by Michelangelo.
"I want to paint their faces to reveal
mystery of human sorrow and desire,
so vision in my mind will activate
motions of my hand as it dips in paint
brush made of horse hair I smear across canvas,
but when I step back from painting, I made
from intense emotions surging in waves
of fertile angst from beating of my heart,
I see nothing true but meaningless smears
of color, like blood on sidewalk of fear.
I fail to convey through smears of wet paint
vibrant vision of complex human nature
since math of psychological despair
fails to calculate social regulations
which would allow viewers to analyze
unspeakable truths that destroy our souls."

Samson laughs as he watches pretty girl
with long golden hair blown by breeze glide past.
"You grow more pretentious with every day.
Paint people framed by landscape of their dream
as they interact with gestures of hands,
and vision of your mind will be revealed.
Or just smear paint to half-present their face
and people will think your painting profound
and give you lots of money for each painting.
That woman represents beauty of women,
and that man represents courage of men.
Each person on flat surface of their face
is nothing more than sterile stereotype.
No matter what vision of human life
you paint you will never gain wealth of fame
unless you know right people who control
gallery space where they display your art."

Daniel walks out to highway overpass
and stares at cars gliding in beams of light.
"My blood is paint that will brighten dull black
of asphalt highway with my angel soul."
Daniel jumps before giant semi-truck
and crumples on asphalt beneath large tires
that smear blood of his body on asphalt
in shape of delicate angel with wings
spread long and thin so he can fly to clouds
where raindrops wash his soul into dark stream
that flows in storm drain down to restless sea.

Samson sits all day in dark coffee shop,
writing surreal poetry in black books
for pretty college girl who holds his hand.
"His suicide was greatest work of art
he ever performed, painting highway black
with bright color of his pure star-born soul.
We are made of star dust, gleaming with spirits,
but so is garbage we bury in hills
where flowers sprout from rotting stench of death."

Penelope watches gold bird fly past
cafe window on flashing wings of hope.
"More I give love to empty out my heart
more I receive love from words people speak,
drinking visions from fountains of their eyes.
If we display paintings of damaged souls
Daniel left behind, we can both get rich
selling them to millionaires who pretend
they understand true principle of art."

Samson and Penelope sail white yacht
from Manhattan to Bahamas each year
where they sit all day on beach of gold sand,
and drink blood of sharks from bottles of wine.

Bones Of My Ancestors

Bones Of My Ancestors
© Surazeus
2016 04 18

The hard bones of my ten billion ancestors
calculate the structures of mountain peaks
and symbolize the surging ocean waves
because I stand on river shore at dawn.

I walk on the skin of my dead ancestors
whose eyes sprout as flowers from immense face,
so I pluck apple from hand of my mother
while my father rides the galloping sun.

I drink the blood of my dead ancestors
when I cup my hands in swift flowing stream
and collect sunlight to beam through my eyes
while I name each dead soul reborn as leaves.

Standing alone in grove of whispering trees
I sense someone watching me so I gaze
at eye of light glowing in boundless sky
and see my face looking at me from pools.

I find myself as an ancient blind woman
sitting in dark cave as she tends warm fire,
so she sings heart-aching tune under stars
that causes ghosts to stand before my eyes.

Long ago first mother and father came
and multiplied into a thousand children
who built homes from stone on lush river shore
then tended apple trees and herds of horses.

When our first father on pyramid died
his sons fought over who would play his role
as god who masters thunderstorms and fire
till one stood victorious on hill of skulls.

I look in mirror where I see his face,
sun god who ruled over empire of trees,
but everyone was dead or went away
so he ruled over skulls and squeaking mice.

All men and women who once ruled vast tribes
are nothing now but dirt in garden plots
where flowers sprout in whispering wind of dawn
as new children play their lost memories.

I kneel before the king on throne of gold
to present book of tribe tales I compiled
but he places laurel crown on bowed head
of fool who sings jokes of mocking disdain.

I twang silver strings of lyre Hermes forged
and chant spells of Orpheus that cause stones
to erect tall white tower on hill of springs
where I carve spells on bones of my ancestors.

These ancient dramas of power-hungry tricks
surge still in waves of political games
when Godin and Saturn sit on high clouds
and play chess with men in wars for control.

I cover my face with mask of my father
and stand on high stage in Globe Theater
to play prince who must fight to wear gold crown,
but I toss it in dust and walk away.

I sit alone now on vast spinning globe
to conjure dream spells from verses of code
that preserve memories of quest for truth
played on flute from bones of my ancestors.

Road To Nowhere

Road To Nowhere
© Surazeus
2016 04 17

These are not the days we pretend to live,
she laughs and throws beer bottle at the tree
which runs away singing over red hills
and scatters spell books on the road to nowhere.

We are not the clowns you pretend to love,
he smiles and steals another highway sign
so travelers over waste land of desire
chase fading rainbows on the road to nowhere.

I am not the king you pretend to crown,
I shout while strumming guitar on dark stage
then paint new features on mask of your face
with secret code to map the road to nowhere.

You are not the wiz you pretend to play,
you mutter to yourself in glass of beer
while switching channels on the broken telly
which shows your story on the road to nowhere.

Build My Own Church

Build My Own Church
© Surazeus
2016 04 15

Growing up in Texas as a young boy,
I often heard on the car radio
singers like Merle Haggard and Don McLean
who lead us to the Otherworld of dreams.

I grew up inside the Adventist church
where they said ours is the only right church,
but I walked outside in city of churches
to see the Earth is the only truth.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Sitting in college philosophy class,
I saw God does not exist, but subsists
as vibrant atoms that form everything,
so I walked out of church and changed my name.

Striding nowhere lost on cool autumn nights,
I heard Paul Simon sing hello to Darkness,
so I began to sing and saw the light
of my own soul that guides my way in life.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Wandering alone in Seattle mist
after college in the silence of death,
I sang to the faces of all dead souls
who crowd around me wherever I go.

Drinking electric kool-aid at midnight,
I danced with Dionysus and Apollo
by the lake of dreams where the stars are eyes,
and chanted, I saw the best minds reborn.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Hitchhiking far from sea to shining sea,
I journeyed on quest for vision of truth
from Seattle to Denver to Miami
to chant spells on busy commercial streets.

Standing mute with Allen Ginsberg in mist,
I handed him my book of spells and pen,
so he wrote, words are smeared by tears of rain,
then I stood laughing on the mountain top.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Weaving web of dreams on computer screens,
I found Tambourine Man in Michigan
where two daughters sprang from my apple eyes,
so I lead them from Desolation Row.

Mapping the history of Man on this world,
I chant epic poem of philosophers
to trace their paths from myth to chemistry
as we wake up from old religious dream.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Watching galaxies in vast universe
spin around Black Stars that generate life,
I sing the body electric that beams
conscious spirit of wisdom from our brains.

While Saraswati teaches me to sing
Athena teaches me wisdom and truth,
so I follow them high to Parthenon
where I dream in transcendent slant of light.

I blaze my own trail on this spinning world
and build my own church in lost paradise.

Mountain Of Visions

Mountain Of Visions
© Surazeus
2016 04 14

Rain drops stream down windshield of my fast car,
enclosing lost memories in sparkling gems.
I turn steering wheel to glide along curve,
following gold beam that guides me through gloom.

Cars speed around me on three-lane highway
as if they race for who will win first prize.
Should I park and dream all day in wet woods,
or type all day before computer screen?

While I wandered lost in dark city streets
Du Fu appeared from mist with dawning light.
Like Virgil lead Dante to Mountain Haven,
Du Fu teaches me how to chant dream spells.

I traveled sea to sea across this land,
refusing to search for permanent home.
My ancestors traveled ten thousand years,
following Helios from Egypt to Oregon.

High holy mountain is sacred to me,
Parnassos where Phoibos taught me to sing.
I climbed slopes of Takoma, lit by sun,
like Tai Shan for Du Fu my sacred peak.

I hear voices of spirits in my head
who whisper secrets about life and death.
I sew wings of words on thoughts of my mind
so they fly and sing in apple tree grove.

Should I sail more west to stand on Mount Tai
and sing in grove where Du Fu saw his visions?
I build no sail boat, but travel back east
to dwell on shore of Chattahoochee Stream.

I walk around lake in beams of warm light
then sit on rock to compose magic spells.
Whether on Parnassus, Takoma, or Tai,
I find new visions in my heart to sing.

Torn Angel Wings

Torn Angel Wings
© Surazeus
2016 04 13

Zina sips coffee at glass cafe table
and peers through black hair at gleam of sunlight.
"Though you can see my body and my face
you cannot perceive sunbeams of my soul."

Brian sketches her face on blank white page
in black notebook and ignores flash of cars.
"When I sketch mask of your delicate face,
I decode geometry of your soul."

Zina shades her black eyes with slender hands.
"Lines you draw that seem to reflect my face
are nothing more than bars on cage you make,
but my soul flutters swift as birds on wind."

Brian slides sharp pencil point slow to trace
contours of her sharp chin and almond eyes.
"I trace your flight among clouds of desire
to map high winds of freedom you design."

Zina watches young man at nearby table
who wears thick blue coat in warm evening breeze.
"I see red roses bloom from singing minds
but we cannot fly with torn angel wings."

Brian leaps toward Hamid who presses button
but vanishes in blinding flash of light.
"I know there is no supernatural god,
though fragments of my bones glitter rainbows."

Zina flies back against shattering blue sky
and lies bleeding on vast gray plain of silence.
"I touch blank face of my mother, and feel
my blood pulse in every river of Earth."

Sergeant Francois weeps for dead Chinese girl
dressed in slim scarlet skirt and black lace blouse.
"Her name was Zina Zhang, born in Shanghai,
who studied painting at Paris-Sorbonne."

Francois carves statue of young Chinese girl
from white marble sliced from Carrara hills.
"My heart weeps with sorrow that you are lost,
but your spirit lives in each laughing child."

Liu Mei skips laughing around white statue,
flapping angel wings strapped over pink gown.
"Who is that goddess frozen in white marble?
Why is she reaching toward sky where birds fly?"

Mirror Of One Face

Mirror Of One Face
© Surazeus
2016 04 12

Running outside cabin among tall pines,
Bryan hurls manuscript to careless wind
that scatters pages of his vision far
over ten thousand towns on signless roads
where they fall as snow on faces of people
who fold them into swans that float on lakes.

Three owls on twisted limb of ancient oak
watch him with gold eyes while he writes on leaves
that crumble from his hands and float on stream
which steals his story-voice so he stands mute,
and now you know why rivers babble tales
about every person who ever lived.

After he tries to play stringless guitar,
he paints faces of people on tree trunks
that wash away as tears in laughing rain,
so Bryan trudges back inside through door
that leads down endless hallway of cracked glass,
then stops and stares in Mirror of One Face.

"Whenever I look in mirror I see
everybody else who lives in this world
except my own face, so I write their tales
and they disappear, hidden in new book,
but instead of my own face clear at last
another face appears to mask my own."

Leaping out narrow window of high tower,
Bryan glides on raven wings over hills
where people build towns inside ring of walls,
then transforms himself into honey bee
who hovers humming tunes around bright flowers
but they giggle and twirl dresses in wind.

Katherine watches him fly among clouds,
as his wings paint rainbow after blue rain,
and ponders secret code of archetypes
he carves from oak into one puzzle piece
each day, and calls to him to answer why,
so he explains how she designs each scene.

Wearing white wedding gown, she parades slow
in cathedral of laughing demons, crowned
queen of hearths, responsible to maintain
eternal flame that Prometheus sparked,
then places ring of gold on his bowed head
to appoint him true guardian of her life.

"I am no mad poet gone on wild quest
for meaning of life in cruel wilderness,
nor eloquent philosopher who quotes
dead sages whose bodies carved in stone
stand mute and blind in huge temple of truth,
yet I am humble farmer who bakes bread."

Katherine and Bryan sit in tower room
at small round table, gold from beam of light,
to eat bread and drink milk while angry mob
surrounds ivory tower, clamoring for help
as black shadow devours their vibrant souls,
and dead leaves shroud their broken skeletons.

Three daughters born from heart of Katherine
transform into foxes who play in woods,
leaping among flowers where honey bees
explain secrets of chemistry and love,
then trucks pave asphalt parking lot on spot
where their strong tower fell centuries before.

Blank Eyes Of Goddess Death

Blank Eyes Of Goddess Death
© Surazeus
2016 04 11

So many people all around me stand
flat as cardboard characters who stare blank
through wavering shadow smoke of my soul
till I reach out and touch their hands, then spark
of spoken words resurrect them from dream
and they puff alive with breath of desire.

I feel as if my soul were ancient flame
that slithers through bodies life after life
like fragile thread that connects many minds
in necklace of pearls, or clusters of grapes
that sustain this body with juice of rain
and sunlight while I dance in gusting wind.

But pungent scent of electric rain jolts
my body awake, so I spring alive
from painting on your wall, from photograph
you snapped of my face when I walked alone,
thus I know now this body is my home
that sustains my soul while it operates.

I build home of stone on lush river shore
and welcome all who wander by on road
of business to sit awhile in bright hall
where I serve platters of sustaining food,
and cups of soul-enchanting juice, then play
music that soothes your travel-weary mind.

I listen to strange story of your life
and dream each moment you savor sweet truth,
and become you for that hour when your voice
conjures vision of this world within words
so though you continue walking your road
you stay with me forever in fruit grove.

Whenever I stand alone in cold wind
I feel slant of light from eternal sun
weave wings of joy, so I stretch my arms high
toward infinite sky of my watching eye,
and savor sweetness of sun on my skin
since I was light and will be light again.

Alone in grove of apple trees on shore
of listening lake I sing visions of life,
and when I cease I feel resonate clear
consciousness in every atom that spins
in spiraling dance of dirt in sunbeams
where I stand empty and fragile as mist.

My toes sprout roots down to heart of this globe
that spins with dizzy speed in empty void,
and I transform into tree sprouting fruit,
so pluck songs from my hands and taste sweet rain
that drips in bright tears of sorrowing song
and I will wake inside your dreaming mind.

I am everything that exists in form
designed from atoms pulsing with hot light,
yet I cannot wake unless tangled wires
of your brain sparkle with conscious desire,
so, though you are outside dream of my mind,
kiss me and hold me in your beating heart.

Blank eyes of Goddess Death stare in my brain
so I feel wild gleaming light of my soul
seething in hot blood through wings of my veins
each time I breathe in cold spirit of hope
and drink flashing stars from river of eyes
till I sink in dreamless flow and dissolve.

Sing To Trees

Sing To Trees
© Surazeus
2016 04 10

Without keys forged in flames of love who could
open broken doors jammed shut by desire
to live beyond death reflected backward
by mirror that combines dream-weaving eyes
of seven billion people who all speak
one language invented from sticks and stones
by blind woman living in ring of signs
who knows name of every person who lives.

When you wake in white room of nameless boy
and cannot remember your name or goal
for running through ten thousand doors of hope
that lead at last to this moment in space,
you will find your original tribe father
as young boy sitting at round table stiff
from excitement as dreams flow from his eyes.

Young nameless boy whose father is all men
catches pieces of broken angel wing
from thousands of memories we all share,
and assembles enormous puzzle globe
in comprehensive atlas of world history
that records path across landscape of lust
every person who ever lived on Earth
blazed on quest to unite nations of souls.

We are not statues of stone on grass hill
and we do not eat flowers on lake shore
that sprout from broken skulls of warriors
for we are statues of glass with ten eyes
forged into diamonds by laughter and tears
because, after all, no one can perceive
real person behind mask we carve from words.

I hide your names in stones on hill of dreams
where sun gleams forever gold through light mist
so you carry baskets in hunt for eggs
but instead you find keys to broken doors
that line infinite hall where you must guess
which one will open on bright universe
where gold trophy waits for winner to claim,
but true way back to real atomic world
will vanish if you fail to sing to trees.

Great War Of Books

Great War Of Books
© Surazeus
2016 04 09

Though bombs of greed destroyed ancient cathedrals
of power, blasting stone pillars of philosophy
into red butterflies of mute despair,
Tom crawled on hands and knees amid the ruins
of glorious empire where fresh lilacs sprout
from dead land, where a million soldiers sleep
dreamless, and attempted to reassemble
rose window of myth about the dying god
who became man to teach men to be men.

That puzzle is scattered by winds of war
and each piece is nailed to mute bleeding tree
as sign on endless highways of desire
to show lost tribes of escaped slaves true way
to promised land where they build high stone walls
to keep all the undesirables out
while they feast on hearts and drink blood from skulls
and laugh safe in their castle tower of power.

You worship a ghost who does not exist,
image of a powerful world emperor
that flickers nowhere but inside your mind
when vision of his character springs whole
from words you read in ancient book of tales.

Walk beside me on the road to Emmaus
and you will see that I am just a man
of flesh and blood, born from woman and man,
and someday I will die and all my bones
will crumble to dust that blows lost in wind,
so touch my face and I vanish in beam
of sunlight that blinds your believing eyes.

Then turn around and you will see by river
of life my children playing in apple trees.

All religions are nothing more than clubs
of people who favor one book of tales
over all other books about great heroes,
so they gather in buildings once each week
to tell stories about their Founding Father,
mortal man who lead them safe from Waste Land
and taught them how to build walls of defense
to form paradise of surrounding walls
that keep them trapped in survival routine,
and sing hymns to praise his glory and power.

Now we fight another great war of books
between people who worship characters
of fiction based on great men who are dead,
vast civilizations of nation-states
who defend invisible border lines
drawn across deserts, over mountain ranges,
and along rivers where boats glide on streams
of cheerful sunlight, and declare that their book
describes true nature of our universe.

Since Ahura Mazda and Ahura Iman
fought over who would wear crown of their father
and reign as Zurvan over empire of farms,
since Jesus and Lucifer, sons of Zeus,
fought over who would bear scepter of power,
since God and Satan fought over world throne
on towering ziggurat, lord of wheat,
brother fights brother over who will rule
nations of people who choose sides in war.

So now our gods campaign from town to town,
speaking before cheering crowds to request
our vote when we elect who will play god,
and who will be cast out of heaven, players
in our endless cycle of revolution.

Who will you vote for to play our world god,
human who embodies spirit of power,
mortal who ascends ziggurat of Ishtar
in apotheosis of admiration and love,
while we continue to play social roles
of routine actions that generate food
from dirt through industrial process of need
that manufactures energy of hope?

Ten million people sit alone in homes,
writing magic spells of visions they dream
to create books they hope everyone will read
and worship them as real prophet of truth
whose depiction of human character
guides our actions to survive each new day.

All our social memories of human action
are encoded in books we buy and sell
which preserve tales of a million dead souls
whose stories sparkle in gems of our eyes
and cast ethic beams into gloom of fear
to guide our way through waste land of despair
that any moment death snuffs out our souls.

So we gather in circles around fires
and sing hymns about heroes who survived
but then our songs vanish in abyss of death
and our children play on meadows of flowers
heaped high from the dust of our bones and brains.

We rebuild the cathedral bombed by war
into vast labyrinth of human tales
that relate how normal women and men
seek to understand true nature of things,
so live your life and sing your dreams in songs,
and carve your words on walls of one world church
to preserve your name and path of your life
in Book of Life that no one ever reads.

So Our Relationship Will

So Our Relationship Will
© Surazeus
2016 04 08

When I look in the vision of your eyes,
I want to understand you well enough,
comprehending true nature of your soul,
aware of your rich journey through this world,
that anything I say or do to you
will always be constructive and supportive
of your needs and hopes relative to mine
rather than be destructive or oppressive,
so our relationship will produce love
as we create better world we all share.

Homeless Warrior

Homeless Warrior
© Surazeus
2016 04 07

Jolt of electric terror at midnight,
stark of trembling despair for all truth lost
in swirling gush of endless singing stream
that ripples through my broken body fast.

Old photograph of wife and children flaps
in mocking wind and flutters from my hand
like crumbling leaf that screams when tumbling lost,
stuck in mud that devours sweet memories.

Face wrinkled like hillside blasted by wind
of old man huddled on cold cement porch
dissolves into landscape where wood homes sour
in rotten numbness of cracked aching bones.

Old homeless man stares through core of stale Earth
that spins relentless in vast empty void
of wind-battered heart from deep ocean rift
that gapes hungry mouth on moon of my chest.

My heart was gored by sharp bullhorns of grief
when my wife and kids were killed in a car crash,
so I drank to drown my pain, and was fired,
then lost my door key in river of tears.

Each night I sleep on second-story porch
outside dress shop that overlooks town stream
so I can feel fresh breeze from river flow
swirl gusts of air through labyrinth of my brain.

Phantom assigned to this porch by glass light,
I lie paralyzed in dream of contempt,
imprisoned in exile by swan of love
who froze my cold blood with electric shock.

I suffer seizures of abstract horror
when shadows of my fears loom in moonlight
and clutch my arms and legs with ripping claws
that leave no visible scars on torn skin.

I dream entire history of our whole world
each night I never sleep in stifling mist
that shrouds my throbbing corpse in panes of glass
which glitter from giant square towers of wealth.

I pray to God my father said was real,
hoping belief will save me from hot hell,
but I writhe in wretched hell of this flesh,
tormented by anguish for illusory hope.

Nobody answers me in silent night,
and nothing engulfs frail flame of my soul
with shivering raindrops that pierce paper skin
to weave me real with searing threads of light.

I sit hunched all day by glass door of hope
like statue of Buddha, heart froze to stone,
careless whether or not you give me money
because I chew your coins with broken teeth.

I am God who created this weird world,
ancient man with bleary eyes, tangled hair,
and paper skin on bones of fractured glass,
so ignore me because I am half dead.

You exist because I dream you are real,
for entire universe of galaxies
sparkles in tangled neurons of my brain,
and you are nothing but flashes of thought.

Old man hunched by dress shop looks in your eyes
and you see infinite space of all time
spiral outward from abyss of black hole,
so you fly in gushing whirlpool of love.

After he dies, veteran of foreign wars,
frozen to death on Christmas night, ghosts bear
his corpse to meadow where buzzing bees brew
honey in dead rotten tree of his heart.

Epic Of Our Human Race

Epic Of Our Human Race
© Surazeus
2016 04 06

The only reason I am interested
in knowing the details about your race
is because, when I gaze into your face,
I see the contours of mountains and lakes
that trace the trail of survival and hope
where your ancestors walked across our globe
these past ten thousand years of spinning life
since we all left our homeland on the Nile,
spreading outward over mountains and deserts,
riding horses across snow-frosted steppes,
driving wagons through jungles to broad bays,
sailing ships on rivers and across seas,
building ziggurats, temples, castles, towers,
and highways that connect our city nests
in one vast shimmering web of singing words,
and in your eyes I recognize my soul
as our descendants merge into new children
who join hands in circle around bright fire
and share stories of our journeys through life
that compose epic of our human race.

Our Human Dream

Our Human Dream
Surazeus
2016 04 06

I am not what you think I am at all
because I painted my face on your wall
before Death claimed my lost soul as First Prize,
extracting memories of pain from my eyes.

I built my house upon Rock of Salvation
to stage new passion play of desolation
since Dionysus now wears face of Christ
and rules how American Pie is sliced.

Material of our universe is flushed
through regenerating seeds of black holes
in process of rebirth that we can trust
since everyone chooses their social roles.

I sit in sunlight on flower-swirling knoll,
eating apples I pluck from Tree of Life,
and watch with simple joy my favorite foal
play by cool stream while I sharpen my knife.

My brain produces ancient memories
that replay lives my ancestors designed
which provide principles as urgent keys
to open doors in my unconscious mind.

Your magic spells fail to activate dreams
that could illuminate secrets of truth,
so I chant spells to reflect rhymes of streams
that sparkle spirits in Fountain of Youth.

I break free from egg of labyrinth eyes
and dance on ancient shore of flowing stream
where we first stretched our arms to flashing skies
and began this tale of our human dream.

I am what you think I am if you look
beyond my face and read my singing book
whose words trace, on map of our human dream,
coded tales that support our social scheme.

Slant Of Light

Slant Of Light
© Surazeus
2016 04 02

While I am strolling country road alone,
wrapped in long black coat from blustering wind,
I pause by ancient house that seems to glow
with mystery in pale wintry slant of light.

From sudden gust of swirling mist appears
black carriage that seems driven by mute Death
which stops, and from it, veiled in black lace dress,
steps ethereal girl in bright slant of light.

Slender as sapling of frail willow tree,
lithe as swift fawn in secret lakeside glade,
graceful as white swan on star-spangled lake,
she moves toward me into gold slant of light.

Beyond this melancholy world of fear,
caress of her hand on my beating heart
transports my soul on light wings of sweet song
so we fold time and space in slant of light.

At harmonious ring of her spelling voice,
I transcend enclosing bounds of this world
and become vibrant atoms of existence
that beam woven real by her slant of light.

I gaze out from eyes of all conscious  souls
and see myself alive in every face,
dreaming joy and sorrow of every tale
preserved by memories in our slant of light.

I become aware of you and your name
wherever you breathe on vast spinning globe
and you see me in mirror of all eyes
which invent this world from true slant of light.

I blink when Emily kisses my cheek
and slips raven-feather quill in my hand
then gestures I carve words on mountain cliffs
that shimmer songs in timeless slant of light.

Lament Of Old Kitchen Witch

Lament Of Old Kitchen Witch
Surazeus
2016 04 01

Beyond all sense of time and space I float
alone without thick body on frail boat
that bumps insistent on wet soggy shore
where I never want to live any more.

I see his face through mist appear at dawn
while I am tending flowers on wet lawn
for he brings thunderstorms and dreary rain
that never ceases trying to heal my pain.

Dread face of war on stamping horse arrives
who leads wild warriors looking for wives
so I must hide where sunlight never glows
and sit alone where river of tears flows.

My shadow stretches far beyond dead hills
though words bleed weeping from all broken quills
when body of my spirit shivers hollow
because I could not follow my dead love.

I cannot hope my love will return soon
while all my faith is drained by sun and moon
that whirls around me where I wander lost
alone without regret on cracking coast.

Ten thousand years are built upon my bones
when empires sprout as mushrooms from my bones,
castles and churches that ingest my groans,
and billions of people dream in my bones.

I crawl on hands and knees in laughing rain
where oak tree sprouts from sharp ache of my heart
where ravens on my arms steal beaming light
and roaring wind snatches me from despair.

I knock on castle door at flash of dawn
and sit alone all day on frosted lawn
while boy who pledged eternal love last night
feasts by crackling fire and ignores my plight.

When he appears and holds my smiling skull
I whisper, teasing, you made me your fool
when you promised to crown me as your queen,
then left me bleeding in mute forest grove.

My head was full of foolish dreams last year
when your words tricked me to give you my fear
and now our baby lies dead in my arms
while you seduce that girl with painted charms.

I sit alone in sunless grove of lies
and weave illusions with blank dreaming eyes
that multiply my tale ten thousand times,
every woman fooled by your glamorous rhymes.

I trudge slow routine from kitchen to well,
cooking meals for old king and all his clan
who dance in horror of visions they fear
from red mushrooms I crumbled in their soup.