Haven Of Dancing Skeletons

Haven Of Dancing Skeletons
© Surazeus
2016 05 26

From where I stand, nowhere on spinning globe
of polished faces, I gaze down long road
and see infinite possible worlds bloom
outward through spiraling fan of wild wings
that weave vast galaxies of aching hope
till I step, then half of them disappear.

I built strong wall of stones in circling pale
to enclose haven of secure desire
within paradise of surrounding love
to protect my wife and children from harm,
but even most solid stone will erode
from torrents of tears that degrade resolve.

When my paradise of surrounding walls
that once protected us from slaving chains
transformed into prison that kept me trapped,
I climbed Tree of Life and slipped over wall
after dropping ripe apples in my bag
and walked signless road beyond wall of death.

When I lose everything I made with love
I walk away down empty road of hope
to some far distant town where I replay
role I invented before I was born
through actions that cause flowers to explode
from splattering rain into statues of souls.

To everyone I meet on winding road
I explain why I escaped without books
from my haven of dancing skeletons
where I wove masks of dead souls from their skin
in pages of ancient scroll that reveals
secret name every person wants concealed.

Each universe of possible events,
that unfolds before perception through flash
of laughing lightning consolidates truth,
leads me through labyrinth of open doors
that reflect face which combines every face
in one perfect face till we all drink wine.

I could combine these words ten thousand ways
to weave webs of visions inside our minds,
step on fragile glass bridge, compiled from dreams
we never remember, and leap on wings
of fraudulent promises to cross sea
of bottomless trust, then write this new song.

That is why I turn my back before dawn
and help ancient woman with silver eyes
to board lake boat, then rest on diamond skull
after I steer way through blood-soggy swamp,
and crown myself king of this stone-ring hill
before anyone else steals my true word.

Each action I perform before I die
molds small aspect of giant diamond world
to imitate eye of my brain that weaves
beams of light into virtual world of forms
where all chairs become one standardized chair
which walks behind me on lone dusty road.

If I stop and lie down to rest all day
under Tree of Knowledge near diamond mine,
sorrow will compact memories in words
describing how I propelled myself forth
from cement coffin to assume strong shape
of singing angel mute on temple roof.

Lightless Gloom Of Hope

Lightless Gloom Of Hope
© Surazeus
2016 05 25

We trudged together on the signless road
and though the wingless angel of time fell
we climbed aboard the iron horse and rode
doorless labyrinth to the farming dell.

How many of us, without perfect eyes,
fell alone in the lightless gloom of hope,
and lay unchanging under starless skies,
then sang prophecies from the fruit tree rope.

I give you mask I wore at the church dance
when angels and devils swore loyal faith,
and you play me on stage in laughing trance
to prove at last that I am now a wraith.

We are not ready for this new world war
so we play must chess on the clockless beach
till our Fairy Queen knocks on the cracked door
and sends me back home with new book to teach.

I write another bible you will need
to comprehend weird calculus of truth
so stand before congregation to read
secret of happiness retaining youth.

He smears mud with seeds on our holy book
and from its pages grows an apple tree
so when Rapunzel sings spells from her rook
we will vote for her to set us all free.

Rise On Angel Wings

Rise On Angel Wings
Surazeus
14 April 2007
Lansing, Michigan

When Persephone shaves her golden locks bald
and Apollon is crippled blind by road-side bomb
who will rise on angel wings from slough of despond
beaming visions from crystal-eyed cameras of truth
to record old castles of power crumbling in winds
that howl from gaping mouth of Money Moloch
hungry for blood and oil from your weeping eyes.

When lost children watch television cartoon
and Mars comes home brain-damaged from war
who will rise on angel wings from broken empire
guiding lawyers and doctors on empty highways
who clutch silent cell phones and blank tablets
unable to gaze in bright eyes of their colleagues
when they find rainbow over burned-out church.

When Venus is kidnapped and sold as a whore
and Athena works nine to five in a greasy cafe
who will rise on angel wings from television eye
reporting truth about corrupt men in White House
who cling terrified to golden god mask of lies
that hide their vampire teeth from Common Man
who watches football drinking beer at end of time.

When Zeus orchestrates another holy crusade
and anorexic Artemis struts on fashion runway
who will rise on angel wings from glossy magazines
organizing army of rich rappers and sports stars
to join crusade stealing oil of dinosaur machines
and establish democracy on bones of mad prophets
so all might slave in factories of capitalist kings.

When Saturn falls asleep in cool senate chamber
and Neptune sends planes to bomb Persian mosques
who will rise on angel wings from desert cavern
to investigate criminals of Arbusto family gang
though Junior tried to establish iron dictatorship
ruling glorious Fourth Reich for a thousand years
after he hurled planes of greed into Towers of Babel.

When Melusine rides on roaring Lion of Judah
and daughter of Jupiter wields sharp Excalibur
who will rise on angel wings from comfortable couch
following bold banner of White Dragon to defend
our sacred rights of honest speech and free will
and wrestle faceless minister of oppressive control
to break chains of ten million credit card slaves.

When Hera rides Pegasus over Sumerian ziggurats
and King David plays harp on ruins of Manhattan
who will rise on angel wings from plutonium mines
to hurl a thousand nuclear missiles of hot death
that will obliterate all life on our spinning globe
except for one apple tree sprouting in parking lot
of a glass shopping mall full of dancing skeletons.

When Narcissus wakes up from drugged-out haze
and Mercury shoots up another high school gang
who will rise on angel wings from corporate maze
to program a new religion of historical world views
so prophecies from Astarian Scriptures may inspire
wandering Children of Israel who left gasless cars
to build a New Washington in fertile Oregon hills.

When Virgin of Guadalupe offers her Holy Grail
and Richard Lion-Heart sings into a microphone
who will rise on angel wings from crowded jail
fomenting revolution of prisoners against blind law
to ski on waves drowning Los Angeles and New York
though Trebla calculator robot of statistical poems
prays for salvation from Blue Fairy of plastic eyes.

When Al Werewolf wears crown of Charlemagne
and Little Red Riding Hood is elected President
who will rise on angel wings from dark Notre Dame
bearing torch of liberty to illuminate Way of Truth
though tablet of stone bearing sacred Bill of Rights
was broken and cast down by Bible-thumping goons
until Robin Hood funds free health care for everyone.

When Ariadne leads me back from Caves of Hell
and Cinderella places plastic crown on my head
who will rise on angel wings from crumbled church
proclaiming new laws to govern chaos of desire
and channel hot lava to mold faster computer chips
so Buddha Christ patrolling on flying police saucer
may record drama of human life in metropolitan hive.

When Alice pushes me backward into Wonderland
and Orpheus gives me ring of his diseased bride
who will rise on angel wings from hospital bed
reborn from death in whirling galactic eye of light
to walk cement streets of America without Bible
and preach moral values but not accept donations
though worshippers carve stone statues of my face.

When Sargon stumbles off ziggurat of world power
and Krishna expands beyond body shell of flesh
who will rise on angel wings from cathedral skull
taming dragon of war to preside over marriage rite
that couples people of many nations into one tribe
so children born from Sacred Egg and Holy Spirit
populate Eden tending fruit trees by Lake of Dreams.

I Wear Masks

I Wear Masks
© Surazeus
2016 05 23

After sunset the dead crowd around us
and whisper secrets in our ringing ears
that we forget right after we are born.

While looking at photographs of old art
painted by men now bones in rotting boxes
I remember when I was in warm flesh
that person depicted in smears of paint
so I walk outside library at sunset
and stare at faces of dead gods reborn
to inhabit bodies of normal humans.

Sun gleams red through limbs while I stand alone
among cherry trees on huge spinning globe.

I refuse to play any ancient role
recorded in legends, epics, and novels,
painting my name across the land in blood.

I will not play king or prophet to gain
everlasting fame in stories men read
that define narrative which supports base
of ancient empires that my fathers built.

I wear masks of their faces when I write
stories about people searching for truth
about physical nature of this world
to preserve heroic deeds of their quest
for holy grail that reveals pulsing spark
of atomic energy which weaves web
of shimmering molecules to form our souls.

No matter how close you look at my face
contours of my soul become vast landscape
of this world while I vanish into mist
of words I express while singing new hymn
to honor woman who holds flower sun.

Sun gleams gold over snow-capped mountain peak
while I walk around lake where we evolved.

I am eternal soul reborn each life
who migrates body from father to son
and mother to daughter in vine of being
and I wear masks of every person born
whose names are written in books no one reads.

Sitting in ring of stones on island hill,
I pour wine in gold cup and drink sweet blood
of Mother Earth who fills my brain with sparks
that wake memories of every life we lived
so I know how we evolved from One Eye.

You recognize this feeling I express
when we gaze forever in mirror of words
and see our own face reflected in stars
where we all thought we saw God in ourselves.

Sail Away To Fairyland

Sail Away To Fairyland
© Surazeus
2016 05 22

Floating away from the long pine-wood hall,
where her father hosts their tribe at a feast,
Gyda gazes at swirl of sparkling waves
that splatter steep slopes of pine-shrouded mountains.

Watching long wood ships with high curving prows
rock back and forth on silver-pebble beach,
Gyda sighs and clutches her long gold hair,
as gray mist shrouds narrow fjord with despair.

I am nothing but sunlight leaping bright
on endless swirls of dark swallowing waves,
nothing but wind billowing among pines
that whistle in deep hollow of my head.

My grandmother Alfhild clutched both my arms
and whispered how she saw with her own eyes
shadow become dragon with hundred eyes
that soared on wings of fire from mountain cave.

My father and everyone in my clan
look through my face as if I am not real
and no one ever calls me by my name,
though I feel mute wind gusting at my face.

I am not real unless I speak words loud
and then I feel my chest vibrate with breath,
which causes my heart to beat like sea waves,
so I must sail away to Fairyland.

Stepping in small boat with bag of fresh bread,
Gyda sails past towering mountain peaks
and follows the bright sun wheel rolling west
across the bottomless abyss of hope.

Billions of stars gleam in river of milk
that streams across infinite sky of time
and spirals down into her gazing eyes
to glow as eyes of everyone she loves.

Floating forward at dawn on silver sea,
Gyda aims toward faint gleam of ringing bells,
and wonders if she floats forever lost
like the planet of Idhun among stars.

From swirling mist I saw emerge fair isle
of lush green hills where flocks of white lambs grazed,
and sailed winding river past vast estates
where fairies in white gowns chanted sweet hymns.

Arriving at huge city of great halls,
I stepped ashore this magic Fairyland
and walked into the vast hall of White Tower
where the Fairy Queen sat on a gold throne.

Wearing a gold crown with a moon-sized diamond,
Victoria gestured with a thin gold scepter
so the Wizard Alfred Tennyson stood
before the crowd and read long epic poem.

Young man wearing a suit, tie, and top hat
took my hands and twirled me around in dance,
then took me to tower where Gwinevere sang,
and kissed me till the stars became his eyes.

That is how I came here to Fairyland,
or England, as this misty isle is named,
from Gotland, in the misty fjords of Sweden,
many years ago and found a new life.

Gazing for a long while at seven children
and twenty-four grandchildren of her heart,
Gyda wipes a tear from her silver eyes,
and they all crowd around to kiss her cheeks.

Now that the Germans stopped bombing our town,
we can return upstairs from this dank cellar
and share a feast around the glowing hearth
where I will tell you more tales of my life.

Ghosts Of Singers

Ghosts Of Singers
© Surazeus
2016 05 21

Wandering down the city street in gold mist
near the hour of midnight in your dream,
I hear the ghosts of singers and their bands
who sang love songs in night clubs long ago.

I pause under gold light on empty street
and hear Frank Sinatra on smoky stage
singing Maybe You Will Be There in voice
that cements every brick hall in New York.

I look through rain-streaked window in cafe,
peering closely to see faces and eyes
of lonely people who crowd smoke-filled hall
but they vanish in mute shadows of time.

Then somewhere far down narrow city street
sweet music spirals forward through gold mist,
rhythmic melody of heart-beating hope
that swirls around me like flowing silk cape.

From shadows of time I see them appear,
every singer who stood on bright-lit stage
in ten thousand years, sea to shining sea,
and sang dreams of our hearts in dancing words.

Leaping and twirling, they dance as they croon
songs of every social status and type
from every age, sacred and secular,
rich and poor, voices blending in one choir.

How their faces glow with sorrow and joy
as they hold hands and leap in swirling curves,
ten million ghosts of singers who once lived
and rang the air with voices of desire.

I feel myself awake in every hall
and church, around campfires on river shores,
and in living rooms of every small town,
listening to every song ever intoned.

Around me forever in swirls they dance,
serenading my mute soul with sweet choir
of mind-enchanting melodies that spell
visions of human character we feel.

So lost in harmony of all their chants
that ring in calculus of chiming words,
while twirling around in wild ecstasy,
I fail to see ghosts of singers dissolve.

Snapping awake at sudden flash of light
from distant car turning down a side street,
I look around and find myself alone
on city street at midnight of gold mist.

Yet still sweet echo of their humming choir
ripples across bottomless sea of time
that swells from my heart in fountain of love
and surges to propel me forth in life.

Every singer who lived and died on Earth,
since Amen stood by shining lake of stars
and taught us how to sing dreams of our eyes,
gazes out from my eyes and hopes to sing.

I stand on street corner in warm sunlight,
watching people walking by, so I breathe
spirit from ghosts of singers in my heart,
and chant never-ending song of mankind.

Summer Will Never End

Summer Will Never End
© Surazeus
2016 05 17

I grip handlebars of my bike
and pump pedals with all my might.
I race up the hill toward the church
and spin wheels toward the morning light.
I ride around town with my friend,
hoping summer will never end.

I race with David down the road
on the college campus to ride.
We climb high the library wall
then drink cold root beers side by side.
I explore campus with my friend,
hoping summer will never end.

I sit at the library desk,
read the Hobbit all afternoon,
gone with the wizard on a quest,
and chant tales under the gold moon.
I walk Middle-Earth with my friend,
hoping summer will never end.

I ride my pony with a bow,
who gallops in the Texas heat.
I sing for Brenda by the door
who invites me in for a seat.
I sing in Texas for my friend,
hoping summer will never end.

Leaving heat of Texas behind,
we return home to Oregon.
We all ride in the pickup truck
up Colorado mountain road.
I wave good-bye to my old friend,
hoping summer will never end.

Inventing new language and world,
at sprawling university,
I draw Takoma Mountain peak,
and study spells of poetry.
I think about my long lost friend,
hoping summer will never end.

Playing guitar on city streets,
I hitchhike far across this land.
I chant the history of the world
and beam galaxies from my hand.
I forget about my old friend,
hoping summer will never end.

I search for David on FaceBook,
remembering Texas afternoons.
He gassed himself inside his truck
more than twenty-five years before.
I stare at picture of my friend,
hoping summer will never end.

Ghost Of Light

Ghost Of Light
© Surazeus
2016 05 16

Light flashes gold eyes of infinite truth
as sun rays bounce off wind-shimmering waves
rippled by wind of my spiritual breath
when I sit on stone and gaze at small lake
to dream memories my ancestors stored
in genetic coils that weave my bright soul.

I sense someone standing close by my side
in waking dream so I turn to express
secret name carved on white stone but flash
of sunlight on wind-rippled pond unveils
ghost of their featureless face when my brain
conjures their phantom to keep me alert.

One trillion people who live on this globe
over one hundred thousand years of lust
eat apples that sparkle with sun and rain
so their brains assemble from rays of light
model of this world and people they love
which appear in dim flashes of my dreams.

We walk together along river shores
that wind around hills tangled with grape vines
so long on path of five hundred life times
our brains develop sensitive radar
that conjures their presence as shining ghost
which sparkles whenever I drift in sleep.

Through trees I see shimmering ghost of light
so I walk forward to blaze trail of truth
while my loving heart beats wings of desire
and my eyes envision woman in gown
of white silk and crown studded with twelve gems
then call her true name in silence of hope.

I stand alone on shore of sunlit lake
and see image of woman I desire
dissolve to flickering beams on lake waves
that flash across surface of watching eye
in regular pattern of circling coils
that beam threads of atoms to bind my soul.

Ghost of light leads me through vast labyrinth
of roads that thread across flowering plains
and doors that open to rooms where I paint
faces of every ancestor who dreams
their memories flashing inside my brain
to reveal secrets of social calculus.

I dream endless waves of cause and effect
when people wear persona mask of names
and appear from door to speak without words
we invent in dictionary of dreams
to explain archetypes designed with shapes
that blossom from fruit trees on river shore.

I am your ghost of light, she whispers soft
while caressing my mind with hands of rain
till I spring from soil of lost memories
and metamorphose as father to son
from Helius to Hamlet and beyond flesh
so I evolve from fish to man to God.

I shall evolve into bright ghost of light
that sparkles from intricate web of wires
woven by atoms of clear conscious eyes
into neural network where virtual world
shimmers in weird universe of my brain
where we sit together and watch light dance.

Door Of Faces

Door Of Faces
© Surazeus
2016 05 13

You will never find the face I took off
and hid inside the book of lost folk tales
that no one ever reads in hall of lies
until I turn around three times and lock
oak door that leads beyond the last dead stream
because I escape from your waking dream.

I stuff too many sheets of paper tight
in suitcase of lost memories to fly
away from home you built on signless road
to catch fluttering words and count ocean waves
and yet we gather around bright camp fire
to give each other new names before death.

I step backward on road I paved and clap
in rhythm with heartbeat of last blind queen
who takes off her painted mask to reveal
she is mother of my mother in house
I painted red to hide it behind veil
of shining waterfall where we played chase.

Run laughing with me over hill of grass
to chase wind and play horses before dawn
obliterates real dream world we create
that disappears lost every time we close
door of faces which fall from weeping souls
who hide within cracked windows of starlight.

I can never find my way back home if
flapping sails on ship of silence skips waves
too fast in blustering wind that will erase
island where Fairies still live and drive cars
though I found it again on new glass globe
in library ten thousand miles away.

I paste old masks made from leaves and cobwebs
on door of faces whispering secret codes
I forgot to copy while I lay mute
and numb from searing pain at pointless death
of everyone I loved and reach thin hands
to clutch mutating clouds then sing their names.

I wish I could laugh at heart-twisting joke
of life and death that molds from spinning sparks
these sinuous bodies of atomic flesh
which generate this conscious dream of self
that animates my hot desire to kiss
your apple-red lips and become your soul.

I stand alone on island of the world
and everywhere I look I see the sea
of surging waves that slosh shore of smooth stones
which reflect gold sunlight of longing ache
to swim far bottomless abyss of love
where you are not misty ghost of my dreams.

Gusting wind blew my boat from star-gold shore
where you still stand in tattered dress of weeds
and smashed frail shell of my hope on sharp rocks
though now I wander singing on lush hill
of island paradise far from your breast
so we embrace each other with cold wind.

Though door of your house on lone silent shore
is locked against hunger of bleeding rain
I will emerge from shadow when glowing beams
of sunlight slip across the floor of faith
to prove I am no longer wavering wraith
of heart-aching love you fashioned from leaves.

We stare at each other for seven days
of flashing sun and moon surprised with joy
that weaves our fingers and hearts in firm web
of laughing songs to share words of our thoughts
because cold wind wraps our bodies in wings
of white ravens who leap from shining clouds.

White ravens bring new masks from flowing stars
carved on oak door to house of many rooms
where children look up at me with my eyes
so I lead them to ring of stones on hill
of secrets and teach them how to sing spells
that transform wind into faces of flesh.

Innocent Emma

Innocent Emma
Surazeus
2016 05 13

Though he may swing his dullish sword of words
while I play flute and shepherd lonely herds
of wingless angels, mute among dead trees,
his laws will never chain the carefree breeze
that causes wavering towers of steel and glass
to shiver with clowns on the mountain pass.

I hope to map the new world we invent
even though blind preachers try to prevent
our journey to the secret promised land
and steal the compass from my guiding hand
because we need to know the obvious way
through the labyrinth where lost lovers pray.

I am not the world savior you expect
though with my flashlight I come to inspect
the miniature paradise you designed
hoping to escape drama she defined
that traps you in the hell which you prefer
since our names and faces fade to dark blur.

I admire how you remain innocent
and sweet with loving care you leave unspent
though life is rent with suffering and pain
that cannot be washed away by cold rain
even as we walk holding hands to find
ideal world you see only in your mind.

You sailed the sea of storms in fragile boat
from ancient misty island where crows float
on restless winds that blow your way far west
where I continue your forgotten quest
and play the serious clown on small church stage
to show how Hamlet constructed his cage.

Locked thirty years in dark asylum ward,
she plays King Arthur with sharp shining sword
to free everyone from mindless despair
but herself, in torn dress and tousled hair
wandering hallways of whispering wind and light,
and wishes she could set everything right.

Serpent Of Joy

Serpent Of Joy
© Surazeus
2016 05 12

At the hooting of the owl in the tree
on the river shore in the misty glade
I remember sparkle in her blue eyes
when we kissed at the beginning of time.

How sweet and innocent, with naive play,
she always smiled and sang a cheerful tune,
no matter how much horror and grim death
we endured in our village by the lake.

Though our fathers died in soul-slashing war,
our brothers were enslaved to work in mines,
and our mothers died sweating in workshops,
she sang joyous tunes by the waterfall.

We held hands and skipped when the sun rose gold,
and chased each other among apple trees,
and my heart swelled with joy to see her hair
shimmering gold as sunlight in river breeze.

And then I heard the hooting of the owl
when she reached her hand in the narrow cave
to retrieve a jewel she saw shining bright,
but snatched her hand away with startled gasp.

She smiled at me with blazing beams of light
and all the sky became her shining eyes
when girl I loved collapsed into my arms
and trembled at the poison in her blood.

I saw the snake that bit her slip away
then clutched her in my arms with anguished cry
and though she smiled with love for everything
I saw the spirit fade from her blue eyes.

Though she was innocent with selfless love
and sang with cheer regardless of cruel death,
the serpent of joy bit her loving heart
so I weep at the hooting of the owl.

Own My Soul

Own My Soul
Surazeus
2016 05 12

I wake at dawn and drive to work
and operate machines
while children play in bright schoolyards
and rich men buy my soul.

I work till dusk then drive back home
and watch weird teevee shows
while newsmen talk of wars and doom
and rich men sell my soul.

I work all day to pay for bills
so I can eat and sleep
so I can work until I die
while rich men own my soul.

If I refuse to work for cash
and never pay bills more
I wander down the signless road
across the homeless land.

I walk on down the signless road
in search for paradise
that shines somewhere beyond dark hills
where rivers sing my soul.

I wander down the signless road
now nameless town to town
and play guitar where people walk
who give me back my soul.

I have no family or home
outside the walls of town
so I walk down the signless road
and cherish my free soul.

I wake at dawn and walk the road
that leads to your old town
and sing to make you laugh and cry
for now I own my soul.

Radio Static

Radio Static
© Surazeus
2016 05 08

We are not who you want, so go away.
Voices from radio static emerge
to formulate words we might understand,
then vanish in nauseous waves of despair.

Crashed on mountain side during thunder storm.
No survivors who could buy brand new homes.
These days children learn nothing of import
to help understand global economics.

In the Neptune fountain I dropped my phone
just as they called to offer me the job.
I wanted to be a great movie star.
I wanted to play Hamlet, but went deaf.

He wrote her name on the dank prison wall
but we could not find out where she lives now.
My heart is a wild bird, and my rib cage
is a prison and a haven for me.

While trying to read the longest novel, I
keep drifting into weird half-asleep state
where strange visions that make no sense to me
play out horrible scenarios of death.

He sits alone every day on sidewalk
before shining bank of marble and glass
and sings sweet love songs he forgot to write
that nobody hears while they walk on by.

I hoped that you would teach me how to fly.
I think a princess with long golden hair
lives alone on a little floating planet
somewhere over the rainbow of my dreams.

I want to believe with hope-aching heart
that something bigger than myself exists,
but I feel so alone in this dark world.
She stares at glowing screen of her eye phone.

Somewhere far out on the sea of wild waves
people in a fragile boat cling for life
while he shouts on the radio for help.
The old deaf woman on an island cries.

She stares at puzzle pieces on the table.
I know I will see an image emerge
from chaos of color, ordered by shapes.
I will make a movie from memories.

I want to go to school and learn to read.
Numbers walk like insects on shining sand.
I hold an ancient secret in my hand.
Nothing is revealed in their arcane creed.

Standing on the pyramid of one eye,
he pantomimes Hamlet without a word.
I told you this deception was absurd.
Another angel falls out of the sky.

Not one thing I write describes how I feel.
We sat in awkward silence while at lunch.
No one dared tell him the truth, so we left.
Despite radio static, I understand.

I want to rebuild the grand Parthenon
so we can gather each year in great hall
and recite the lost epic no one reads
that recounts the life and deeds of Athena.

Who Will Play Our God

Who Will Play Our God
© Surazeus
2016 05 07

Once I realized everything I believed
was all wrong and based on deceptive lies,
I dismantled cathedral of my faith
and rebuilt on reason new hall of truth.

Behind every bright article of faith
embossed with deceptive glow of belief
that blinded my eyes with confusing lie
I found deeper truth based on solid facts.

I see real world of objects that perform
actions according to physical laws,
while people talk words that deceive my eyes
with glamorous mist of religious creed.

I know they are not trying to deceive me
for they were deceived when people before
told them what they heard their own parents claim
and so truth transforms through dreams of our minds.

We inherit world view our parents dreamed
based on stories their own parents relayed
but we redesign their world view based on facts
when we investigate world we perceive.

I stare at wall of wisdom painted whole
with pictures of hero they claim is god
then paint faces of people who live now
to preserve stories of their deeds and words.

We gather from rain under stoa roof
to roast beef on grill and drink sparkling wine
then sing tales of heroes who defeat
monsters and men who try to destroy us.

Turmoil of revolution when we choose
new person to play god of our great tribe
we harness through process every four years
of election to balance spin of change.

Every tribe chooses someone to play god
whose face glows clear with divine soul of truth
but when they die divine soul dissipates
so we choose yet another to play god.

Each religion that preserves tales of man
who saved their tribe from destruction of death
presents him as immortal god in king
but each new generation needs new god.

We elevated mortal man as god
but he believed delusion and succumbed
to haughty pride and crowned his young son king
who killed anyone who refused to bow.

We overthrew all gods and kings in war
for liberty from horror of their faith
when they killed all who refused to believe
and now we elect who will play our god.

Every Dreaming Mind

Every Dreaming Mind
© Surazeus
2016 05 06

Swift luminous streams of clear mirror words
spiral slow in languid joy of delight
from beaming laughter of my needle eyes
which weave tapestry of atoms in web
of blinking stars I feel inside my skin
that links my mind to every dreaming mind.

I wave both hands in wild elegant dance
to gesture play of puppets in release
of flowing wings that coil through tuneful bones
quick expressive spirit that connects tight
in woof of sentient words we try to sing
my lonely mind to every dreaming mind.

We exchange masks of faces we invent
to play roles forbidden by ancient laws
of old blind prophets in cold tower of stone
who taught us how to deceive with words
and buy with silver coins dreams we design
that binds my mind with every dreaming mind.

From flash of sunlight through tall willow tree
appears dainty woman with radiant hair
who whispers secret I should not forget
hidden in silver beams of waterfall,
teaching me secret of eternal life
that weaves my mind with every dreaming mind.

Rain Wet Words Of Allen

Rain Wet Words Of Allen
Surazeus
07 July 1995

Strolling campus of Naropa Institute
I happen on Allen Ginsberg ancient poet
wrinkled wizard hobbling with cane
looking at books for sale on a table.

I hand him my Black Book of Magic Spells
and ask ancient wizard if he would like
to scribble a spell of vision from his mind
so he takes book and fountain pen and writes.

"Sitting under light clouds he scribes dreams
short of breath in slippery rain-wet words."

Without looking at me through thick glasses
King of May who danced all over this world
like Shiva destroying and creating truth
leaves my book and shuffles into light.

Written In Stars Above

Written In Stars Above
Surazeus
2016 04 06

These endless hallways of disguised despair 
that hide me wandering down memory lane, 
lead on by signs pointing home nowhere, 
fail to lock the door of accusing rain. 

Each book I open in cold silent room 
disperses buzzing words on wings of flies 
who steal each ray of sunlight from my gloom 
and hide them frozen in your sky-blue eyes. 

We are not made of burlap sacks and straw, 
sewn with tangled thread woven from grape vines, 
and wish to replace masks forged without flaw 
with sea-worthy ships hacked from mountain pines. 

Nothing you say can convince me to climb 
treeless mountain of horrible contempt 
unless you disguise laws with divine rhyme 
that reveal results of my failed attempt. 

I built this house with hands of bloodied hope 
to protect my daughters from laughing thieves 
but now I dangle from my twisted rope 
over abyss cluttered with desperate leaves. 

Why ask me to assemble broken thoughts 
from puzzling fragments of lost memories 
when I prefer to design new robots 
who will never die without coded keys. 

Keep this spotted egg warm, next to your breast, 
for therein transforms from blood of my soul 
terrible demon with gold-feathered crest 
who wears my human face kept in this scroll. 

I know you think I am your father who 
taught you secrets of fire and fruit trees, 
but listen close to this ambitious clue 
to learn how you were born from angel bees. 

Yet still you misunderstand each word I say, 
because you are my son, sired by my seed, 
so peer in this jewel to see divine ray 
that beams hidden safe in orthodox creed. 

Descend to underworld on signless road 
and search for your face in cavern of fear 
to extract wisdom from gold shining lode 
and comprehend size of our spinning sphere. 

Each sparkle of light that beams from the sun 
clusters in raindrops that soak soil of Earth 
which transforms into apples, by wind spun 
from spirit of love to nourish rebirth. 

Each door that leads you forward one more day 
spirals you backward on way of desire 
till you embark on ship from wave-soaked quay 
and sail to Heaven to join ancient choir. 

This city of towers forged from steel and glass 
we built on graves of our fathers from faith 
each new life we graduate one more class 
till we evolve form into deathless wraith. 

You will not find written in holy books 
read by people who pray in church of lies 
these secrets concealed by preachers and crooks 
except what you decode with your own eyes. 

Wear this cloak sewn from the skin of bold wolf 
and run through forest of illusions swift 
till you stand in free wind by strange bright gulf 
where she will reveal deep bottomless rift. 

Wear your hair long as the gold willow leaves 
and carve your wand from the bone of the oak 
and chant ancient spells till your son perceives 
vision of truth woven on your long cloak. 

Follow this river from the sparkling sea 
winding around hills where apple trees grow 
to find the cave where first mother set free 
our souls to sing visions where clear stars glow. 

When I pluck this string, forged from pure sunlight, 
hum your voice in harmony with its ring, 
and when you soar with winged horse in flight 
accept whatever visions your words sing. 

Though every four years in cycle of time 
arrogant men fight over who plays king, 
preserve stories of heroes in strong rhyme 
that shows who deserves to wear the Word Ring. 

This world where we dwell continues to spin 
and each new generation born from love 
plays old drama how who loses will win 
and whose name is written in stars above. 

Metamodernist Conceptual Birth of the Hermead

Metamodernist Conceptual Birth of the Hermead

While a student in the library at Washington State University in 1986, I read at least a hundred academic books written about the themes and techniques of the epic poem. As I stood there looking at all the rows of academic books that far outnumbered actual epic poems, I wondered to myself, if all these critics were so knowledgeable about epic poetry, why had none of them ever written an epic?

I decided to write an epic, but it took 25 years till 2011 for me to discover the best type of character I want to depict in a metamodernist conceptual epic of American values.

Over the years I wondered, what heroes are there in the world worthy of depiction in an epic that encapsulates the values of a national culture?

The warrior who kills to defend his clan?

The king who organizes tribes?

The prophet who teaches people how to better understand and control human behavior to give life rather than take life?

The detective who follows clues to catch the killers and cheaters who hurt other people?

While reading the Western Canon by Harold Bloom one hot summer afternoon by the pool on 16 July 2011, I realized what type of people have been the most consistent over the millennia in designing the concepts basic to the development of our civilization were the philosophers and scientists who investigate the world, revealing its deepest secrets in illustrations, formulas, and words.

Since that day, I have been writing the Hermead, my epic about philosophers and scientists. I love dreaming their lives and thoughts in elegant verse.

Writing an epic is like climbing a gigantic mountain of ice and howling winds to find a single diamond hidden in the snow that shines with the light of the universe.

So far I have written 125,000 lines of blank verse about philosophers from Hermes to Thales to Plato to Lucretius covering more than 600 years in the Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic ages of Greece and the early Republic of Rome.

Though the Hermead presents ancient Greek philosophers as cultural heroes, the Hermead is essentially an American epic because the concepts those philosophers developed over 2000 years ago still form the foundation on which our civilization is based. It was their concepts of geometry and physics which have ultimately lead to the incredible developments in technology over the past 200 years.

I plan to continue writing about alchemists and the earliest scientists in the Renaissance all the way up to the current age. I write as much as I can in the evening while working a full-time job as a cartographer.

I could write a lot more if I did not have to work all day but, because I self-published this epic after it was rejected by more than 30 publishers, I do not qualify for any grants such as the National Endowment of the Arts or the Guggenheim. Nevertheless, I will write as many tales of philosophers and scientists as I am able before death snuffs out the flame of inspiration.

I am currently editing volumes 5 and 6 out of 7 volumes, while volumes 1-4 are available for sale in four editions each which are listed on this page:
http://tinyurl.com/HermeadEditions

I hope you all enjoy reading the Hermead as much as I have enjoyed writing these tales of human experience in discovering the nature of the universe.


Like the series page on FaceBook for news, excerpts, and discussions about the Hermead, the longest epic in Western Literature:
http://facebook.com/Hermead

Voice Of An Angel

Voice Of An Angel
Surazeus
2016 05 03

The most beautiful girl who ever lived
with the most charming and sweet voice,
who enchanted everyone when she sang
heart-aching love songs with voice of an angel,
got stuck in mud while walking in bright woods
and no one ever heard her cries for help
so she died alone while singing with birds,
and no one ever found her rotting corpse
devoured by rats and ravens in moonlight
because they thought she ran off to Paris
and became a star of the silver screen
then lived alone in a castle of dreams.

Choirs Of Poets

Choirs Of Poets
© Surazeus
2016 05 02

Across the boundless expanse of our lands
I hear above the rumble of car engines
choirs of poets floating over steel towers,
that thrum with computer servers in rows
of sizzling wires, who sing in coded verse
prophecies of transformation and growth.

From countless villages on river shores
blasted away by restless winds of war
our ancestors scattered from ordered lives
and assembled in vast cities of hope
to dance in seething waves of ecstasy
and mold us from mud before they all died.

Now that our living god of mortal flesh
retires from throne of power, and lays down sword
of judgment, whom shall we choose to assume
role of director who composes chorus
we sing in cathedral of grand illusion
to celebrate the hero with no face?

Though every poet in their little town
wanders in vast labyrinth of private dreams,
passing each other in shadows of ennui,
our many little songs in harmony
vibrate throughout cement maze of despair,
and all our small candle flames beam bright glow.

Drawn by quick rhythm of our beating hearts,
chanting spells in starless forest of fear,
we gather on mountain top of Parnassus
to hold hands in ringing ring of tall stones,
pillars that support dome of blinking eyes,
to weave many songs in one symphony.

When flash of lightning strikes tall central stone,
transforming granite to diamond of truth,
we see appear, combining separate souls
in one ideal Idol, our Mother Muse,
primal mother who rose from lake of dreams
and taught us how to sing dreams into words.

Astraia sings in flowing waves of verse
history of human kind since we first woke
on river shore, as sun rose behind tree
of ripening fruit, and spread to every land
in groups of curious exploring children,
and carved our names on sand of ocean shores.

One hundred thousand years our globe of eyes
spins in spiral dance around glowing sun
as we gather each night under clear stars
and sing visions of strange world we explore
to preserve deeds of heroes in sweet verse
that encode ethics in dramatic action.

We see her when we open wide our eyes,
mother of us all with long flowing hair
grasping wand of wisdom and gem of sight
as she rides winged horse of loyal love
to harvest ripe apples on river shore
while singing visions in words of our eyes.

Now again after long centuries of war
we wake from harsh struggle for liberty
to gather on mountain of ringing stones
in choirs of poets sea to shining sea
and sing wild symphony of human life
that weaves all our visions one grand tale.

How Flowers Bloom

How Flowers Bloom
© Surazeus
2016 05 01

We are born into this transforming world
hungry for beauty and pleasure of love
so we explore shores of immortal dreams
and write our secret names on sky of light,
then we sing true vision of our own minds
while holding hands with everyone we love.

There must be a mathematical law
that defines how flowers bloom on a bush,
how sparkling waves ripple across a pool,
and how clouds billow in a dreaming sky
which reflects how people form social groups
in slow evolution of life and death.

We all transform through passion of desire
into young children who reflect our face
so immortal flash of genetic soul
through many new generations evolves
from dreamless atoms into conscious brains,
and kiss as we wonder how flowers bloom.