Kindler Of Stars

Kindler Of Stars
© Surazeus
2016 08 31

After many long quiet hours alone
in the library filled with printed books,
reading histories that detail the exploits
of noble kings and wise philosophers
who ruled a thousand nations and empires,
that sprouted, grew, thrived, decayed, and dissolved
on every hill and shore of spinning globe
over ten thousand years since man first rose
from lake of dreams and left the cave of fire,
I close the dusty tome of silent words
and listen to the beating of my heart
as I stare out iced window at vast city
of steel and glass towers which shimmers bright
after sunset, watch streams of metal cars
that beam two gold headlights in spreading gloom,
driven by brothers and sisters in flesh
through continent-wide metropolitan maze,
and chuckle when I realize every tale
written in books about people long dead,
lead by bold heroes blessed by divine gods,
are now fictions written by hands of fools
who dreamed fantasies from experience,
for lives of so many people who lived
vanish unrecorded in winds of time.

Nothing remains now but stars shining bright
in eyes of each new generation born
from mothers who taught us how to sing spells,
for all those people who died are now dust
while we who live this hour of spinning hope
contain in our dreams history of our souls
that migrate body to body each life
seed of father sparks egg of mother, love
generating new bodies for old souls.

So we stand, holding hands, on flower hill
in circle of eyes to lift our sight high
and sing praise to Mother who creates life,
giving thanks to Wartha, Kindler of Stars,
Mother of all creatures who dream alive.

We are the children of First Mother Wartha,
Kindler of Stars who teaches us to sing,
so we drink water of her flowing tears,
we eat bread of wheat sprouting from her breast,
and we breathe her spirit to sing new songs
as we generate children by making love
for after we die our children will live
and their children will live after they die.

Thus we live and die in cycle of love,
singing praise to Wartha, Kindler of Stars.

Our Paradise

Our Paradise
© Surazeus
2016 08 30

Instead of dragons I see airplanes soar
high over pyramids of steel and glass,
and I hear millions of motor cars roar
as they drink blood of dragons brewed in gas.

Instead of wizards casting magic spells
I see men in suits at computer screens
tracking numbers that calculate work wealth
from factories that produce food with machines.

Instead of kings and ministers in court
who manage peasants in shops, barns, and fields,
I see presidents and lawyers play sport
with laborers whose sons die on battlefields.

How far we have come from medieval days,
escaping oppression of monarchy
when we fought game of thrones in castle maze,
to elect our kings with democracy.

Instead of sharp swords to chop off our heads,
if we refuse to obey their commands,
kings in suits wield money to chain our minds
and control us with invisible hands.

While working to earn money to live well
how can I confirm honor of my soul
through freedom of action in social cell
and progress safe on wheels of self-control?

Ten thousand years our tribes followed wise fools
who fought bloody wars over who plays god
but apple trees blossom from broken skulls
as their brains now fertilize farming sod.

After eating ripe apples in warm sun,
scatter seeds in soil by clear sparkling stream,
then feast and dance, singing with carefree fun,
since our paradise is now a lost dream.

Silver Eyes

Silver Eyes
© Surazeus
2016 08 29

We are not what we want to be since time
pushed us off the mountain so we fall far
from the crackling star into stream of ice
that throws us over rocks of hope and faith
and drowns us deep in the bottomless sea
before we can pretend that we are free.

I trudged harsh mountains of bone-freezing ice
ten thousand years toward gleaming flash of light
in search for warm garden of apple trees,
and all the brown of sunlight and fish lakes
was blasted from my skin till I turned white
as snow and vanished from dream of your eyes.

I stared forever into blasting winds
of swirling snow that shrouded trees in death
of frozen horror sluicing in my veins
till lush green hills froze to ice in my eyes
and now my eyes are gray mirrors that shine
more clear than bleak sky over mountain peaks.

With silver eyes I see through swirling mist
ten thousand miles of endless shining hills
that enclose vast wilderness of harsh winds
and jagged peaks where gushing rivers sing
inside ice dome of frozen sky since flakes
of lost souls accumulate tears of ice.

With brown skin, black hair, and brown-river eyes
I ran from slaughter of my family
to follow gushing river of blue ice
while searching for cavern of dancing flames,
and wandered lost so long in swirling snow
I changed into white ghost with silver eyes.

When you look now in my eyes you may see
whatever bright color they reflect back,
small green island in swirling blue sea
where I dance around apple tree and chant
tales of wise snow-dancers who rose from death
and taught me how to inhale sun-warm breath.

One Mask Of Many Gods

One Mask Of Many Gods
© Surazeus
2016 08 28

Our eternal spirit of consciousness
wakes in every creature born with a brain
who walks spinning world in terror of hope
and aches with hunger for pleasure of love.

Vibrant energy of atoms awakes
inside our heads when flash of light
conjures virtual hologram of real world
in miniature model our brains design
based on perceptions of our gazing eyes
so we walk around in landscape of dream.

Though I am this solid body of flesh
you see but my ghost in your waking dream.

Rays of sunlight bounce off bodies of flesh
and eyes beam images of bodies bright
to generate models that represent
ideas of those real thing in our dreams.

I sail boat I built down swift-flowing stream
and step on shore lush hill of flower blooms
to pluck plump ripe apples from sprawling tree
then sit on stone and pluck ringing lyre strings.

I sing enchanting rhyme of sparkling words
that conjure spirits from cold cavern gloom
who drink wine from cauldron on crackling fire
and dance around my pyramid of eyes.

I stack stone to build star-gazing spire
where I long to soar high in gusting skies.

Every great god worshipped by tribes of men
were shells of flesh animated by soul
of eternal consciousness we all share
whose face I see on everyone alive.

All gods are symbols living men design
based on people who taught us how to live
so we invoke their spirit to fill our brains
and we imitate them to give them life.

One God, that first single cell who awoke
in swirling sea of light, mother of life,
created every living soul who breathes,
plant and animal, who sprouts from her egg.

One mask of many gods reveals my face
in face of every soul who ever lived,
and will ever live while our spinning world
pulses alive from waves of singing light.

Though you are all ghosts living in my dream
I know that emanation of your souls
issue from source of your atomic shells
to sustain your conscious minds beaming dreams.

So before death breaks our bodies of flesh,
and scatters our souls into mindless gloom,
kiss me and share pleasure of love with me
so we may generate children from seed
who will explore this spinning world awake
long after we vanish into their dreams.

Though I am but one mask of many gods
I want to dream you while I am awake.

Ghosts Of Our Memories

Ghosts Of Our Memories
© Surazeus
2016 08 27

While reading a book in afternoon light
I feel them walking from shadows of doors,
lost souls with long gold hair like willow leaves
who giggle and throw flowers in my hair.

I laugh and turn to pinch their freckled arms
but they all vanish when I wake alone
as sun flickers out behind distant hills
and words in books transform to butterflies.

Now I understand why people who lived
long before I was born came to believe
people who died lingered here after death,
haunting us as ghosts of our memories.

My brain generates ghosts of ones I love
and makes them dance like puppets on the stage
of my imagination, glowing ghosts
who vanish when I wake to the real world.

Their ghosts are nothing more than flash of light
on shimmering mountain lake where I stand
staring in mirror of infinity
where everyone who ever lived is not.

When conscious glow of my self-aware soul
flashes at death, and energy of light
that sustains me returns to blazing sun,
I will vanish to nothing more than dust.

Ghost of my body may linger some time
in brains of those who saw me with their eyes,
image of my face reflected on water,
but even that will vanish when they die.

My fingers dance on keys to type these words
that show I was here on this spinning world
like footprints in mud hardened by sun heat
that remain long after death snuffs my soul.

Whoever you are, awake in sunlight,
a hundred or a thousand years from now,
feeling light of my soul beam from these words,
sing your own words, surrounded by your friends.

While reading a book in afternoon light
you feel us walking from shadows of doors,
lost souls with long gold hair like willow leaves
who giggle and throw flowers in your hair.

Children Of Oval Dreams

Children Of Oval Dreams
© Surazeus
2016 08 26

Nobody ever taught me how to fly
so I grow a pair of wings from a book
and go running in the blank mirror sky
to soar nowhere with the heart of a rook.
We gather on the shores of sparkling streams
with our singing children of oval dreams.

I follow her across the spinning world,
my blind angel in a robe of black silk,
who shows me where the last dragon sleeps curled,
dreaming for the land of honey and milk.
We gather on the shores of sparkling streams
with our singing children of oval dreams.

I land on cracked mountain of shining ice
where weird wizard with thousand-mile-long hair
carves recipe for cancer-curing spice
on emerald tablet that hides our soul flare.
We gather on the shores of sparkling streams
with our singing children of oval dreams.

She hides secret of life in arcane spell
that calculates code of eternal life
so I build paradise around her well
and bring fresh fruit to my charm-singing wife.
We gather on the shores of sparkling streams
with our singing children of oval dreams.

Awake Now

Awake Now
© Surazeus
2016 08 25

We are what we seem but not what we are,
living awake in the cell of a dream
for we are but atoms born in a star,
reborn from angels swimming the light stream.
I am awake now in the lake of dreams,
plucking juicy fruit from the tree of life.

Take off the mask of your face to reveal
eternal soul of energy that glows
in sparkling flash of the great spinning wheel
designed by the Craftsman whom no one knows.
I am awake now in the lake of dreams,
plucking juicy fruit from the tree of life.

I take your hand as we swing through the trees
and we dance together in surging waves
then race star river with inspiring breeze
and melt stone to swords in the starlit caves.
I am awake now in the lake of dreams,
plucking juicy fruit from the tree of life.

I hold the star stone of immortal life
and twirl the scepter of wisdom and truth
while reigning on pyramid with my wife
who teaches me secret of reborn youth.
I am awake now in the lake of dreams,
plucking juicy fruit from the tree of life.

House Of Mist

House Of Mist
© Surazeus
2016 08 24

Wind blows long coat around his striding legs
and raindrops splotch fedora on his head.
Gold streetlight glimmers in his sea-blue eyes
that see your faces glow behind brick walls
while he constructs the hidden house of mist.

Small camera clicks when he captures your face
and writes your name in his little black book.
He writes long biography of your life
that no one else will ever read or judge,
and files your life in the blank house of mist.

Though you wander city streets many years
walking through ten thousand doors to small rooms,
you will never stand on dramatic stage
to play hero or villain in grand role
that shows forever in the house of mist.

Since you were first born in this world of pain
he walks by your side as shadow unseen.
He stores story of your life on book shelf
in vast library where history is lost
that you will find within the house of mist.

Wherever you go, whatever you do,
he follows you and watches your life show.
Only the tree by the lake is more true,
and your grave stone cracks, hidden by mute snow
that falls whispering lies on the house of mist.

When you have performed every deed you will,
raised children to continue song of life,
and spoken every taboo thought you dream,
he will appear from shadow of despair
and lead you silent to the house of mist.

Bruised Rose Of Winterfell

Bruised Rose Of Winterfell
© Surazeus
2016 08 23

I have no joy, faith, or love left to hide
inside the tangled labyrinth of my heart
for everyone I ever loved has died
and ghost of hope pierces me with his dart.

My dress is torn from running among trees
and blood-smeared face stares at me from deep pool
till moon rays behind storm clouds flash to freeze
my beating heart to statue of a fool.

They snatched me while I strolled market to home
and men flashed coins for hour to pierce my soul,
but I escaped their clutching hands to roam
burning woods and hide in deep starless hole.

I blossomed long ago in garden walls
like a red rose beside the singing well,
but now I weep alone by waterfalls
for I am the Bruised Rose of Winterfell.

The blue-eyed bard sang spells to charm my heart
and praised the fragrant glow of my pure soul
but now my fantasies all fall apart
and now I float unnamed in listless shoal.

I once paraded wearing silk in court
but now I gather apples in the dell
and brew sweet cider hidden in lost fort
since I am the Bruised Rose of Winterfell.

All Forgotten Names

All Forgotten Names
© Surazeus
2016 08 22

Though eyeless clown with broken hand is crowned
king of fools, after he rose from the sea
reborn and baptized clean, since he was drowned
by waves of horror at truth he could see
reflected back by the mirror of death,
he humbles himself in service to light
and returns to us all the holy breath
we need to resume our exploring flight.

Far beyond the wall of hope, we must build,
reside wise witches who know how to heal
hearts wounded by meaningless despair, killed
by naive hope of the last broken wheel
that clatters alone on the highway, lost
without the map that I drew to reveal
secret way past ruins of towers that cost
our life blood to restore the shattered keel.

All living spirits, born from egg or womb,
to swim in seas, crawl on plains, fly in clouds,
or float in beams of light piercing my tomb,
must die alone while celebrating crowds
dance on beating wings that sprout from my brain
who walk back and forth on frail bridge of lies,
then wander at dawn, mute in thoughtless rain,
and dream about cinnamon apple pies.

Standing on first pyramid built by hands
of dreamers, long before the first sunrise
cast rays of lust that burned lush hills to sands
of hopeless horror, I open three eyes
and map progress of my quest to conserve
paradise of fruit orchards where wild games
of children weave love in spiraling curve
that carves on mountains all forgotten names.

Singers Without Eyes

Singers Without Eyes
© Surazeus
2016 08 21

I hear ten thousand singers without eyes
who wander lonely sea to shining sea
cry out the sorrows buried in our hearts
and give our anguish wings to fly off free.

Out on the western plains where hot winds howl,
and letters on street signs are faded blind,
I hear mute singers with the devil prowl
who catch cold falling stars with laughing mind.

We all dance together in starlit skies,
and chant death spells of singers without eyes.

From desert wind they blow into small towns
and play guitar to sing weird spells that charm
our aching hearts which see but weeping clowns
who ran away as boys from family farms.

I see ten thousand singers without souls
chant magic spells on stage of flashing light
who cover human face with plastic mask
for broken wings that fail to power flight.

We all dance together in starlit skies,
and chant death spells of singers without eyes.

Their voices echo loud in city streets
to calculate how Death cheats every man
who dances without care to rocking beat
and follows him to bottomless abyss.

Down into cave of doom we dance alone
through ring of fire on wings of bitter hope
where Orpheus sings spells on shining throne
while atoms of our souls swirl back to stars.

We all dance together in starlit skies,
and chant death spells of singers without eyes.

Philosophers As Heroes

Philosophers As Heroes

The great epics of the past presented warriors as cultural heroes who founded the world view of action against the powerful forces of nature as gods.

All religions are book clubs that worship the main character of their founding myth as a supernatural human who defied the gods, and thus became a god.

In the Hermead, epic of philosophers, I present ordinary humans in a world formed of atoms who seek to understand the nature of matter and cause, a world where forces of nature are unconscious, a world where there are no gods, only humans seeking truth.

In the past, poets wrote about gods, warriors, and kings. Since Wordsworth, poets have been writing about themselves, reasoning that their own subjective experience and its messiness might be the only reliable method of understanding themselves and the world.

In the Hermead I write about ordinary humans seeking to understand the nature of the world based on their subjective experience while attempting to discover objective truth in concepts that are universally true outside the mind of the perceiver.

Though few have bought one or more of the 5 out of 7 volumes of the Hermead I have published so far, and though no one has yet written a review, I am very proud of this epic I have written, exploring the lives and ideas of ordinary people whose ideas form the foundation on which our entire civilization is built.

Sales, reviews, teaching jobs, and prizes are all shadows on the cave wall. The fire of truth burns bright in the enchanting words that generate a vast and complete view of the world where we live and die as it spins through the vast infinity of passionate hope.

Hermead Series Page:
http://facebook.com/Hermead

Hermead Editions for Sale:
http://tinyurl.com/Hermeadeditions

What Mountain Remains

What Mountain Remains
Surazeus
2016 08 09

Blind on cold highway overpass at midnight,
I watch long river of memories flash
in headlights of three hundred million cars
that weave our souls in tapestry of dreams.

I sit on high mountain of contemplation,
watching cities sprout like mushrooms after rain,
and feel people work like flocks of wild birds,
till old mountain swallows our singing bones.

Why am I so awake inside this skull
out of all the zillions of dreaming skulls
that throbbed awake with memory of lust,
and how soon will I vanish in mute wind?

What mountain remains after wind of breath
and rain of our eyes washes them away
since time generates our bodies from soil
then grinds our bones to soil where flowers bloom?

I sit on young mountain in sun and rain,
becoming every soul who ever lived,
and write their memories in soil of Earth
that glow with light of atoms forged by stars.

Grinning, Li Po hands me bottle of wine
and points to soft petals falling from trees,
then we follow white moon in shining stream
and vanish into children who forget.

Spirit Of Jupiter

Spirit Of Jupiter
Surazeus
2016 08 03

How long ago we walked long sacred way
that winds through ancient misty woods at dawn,
ascending Mount Albanus in sunlight,
while singing sacred hymns at festival
of Latinus to share communal feast,
and gathered in Temple of Jupiter,
who taught us how to cultivate grape vines,
to celebrate strong league of Roman tribes.

Long since those centuries of sacred feasts
our lofty temple of Jove Latiaris
was demolished to rubble, and replaced
by hermitage and hotel, while good name
of our kind honest father Jupiter
was scuffed by winds of time from altar stone
when they tried to erase him from our hearts,
but his face lives in contours of my face.

Whenever I look in mirroring glass
I see first face of loving Iupus Pater
who still lives within my body and mind
three thousand years after he walked high hills
where his father Albanus, running swift
through dark tangled woods, taught him how to hunt,
and construct safe haven on mountain crown,
so he still lives in children of his blood.

Today if I climb ancient sacred way
to top of Mount Albanus at clear dawn
of reborn hope to remember his deeds,
I will find, instead of his feasting hall,
tall communications tower that beams far
invisible signals of dreaming visions
which connect our hearts with cellular phones,
so spirit of Jupiter still glows bright.

No statue of wood or stone, that embodies
living man of flesh and blood, whose bright eyes
glittered bright with kind laughter when we sang
hymns to celebrate great Mother of Life,
stands in temple where we feasted all night
on bread and wine to symbolize his spirit,
for though Father Jove is long dead and gone
he lives in children who forgot his name.

Now every cell-phone tower, that I see
gleaming bright and tall on every high hill
in every land around our spinning globe,
embodies spirit of wise Jupiter,
honest father who taught us all to sing,
and weaves seven billion souls in one web
of shining souls, connecting all our minds
in one vast Super Soul of human hearts.