Turning Of Our World

Turning Of Our World
© Surazeus
2016 12 31

No bells are ringing in the chilly night
where homeless refugees from brutal war
are huddled hungry in the bombed-out church
while fireworks explode in the empty sky
to celebrate the turning of our world.

No candles are glowing in roofless hall
where tables are not heaped with plates of food
and no sweet melodies from violins
vibrate with beating hearts at midnight hour
to celebrate the turning of our world.

No children gather at the giving tree,
no teens dance carefree at the party pool,
no lovers kiss in the light-flashing hall,
for all were burned to ash by flaming bombs
to celebrate the turning of our world.

The fallen sun god who gazed at the light
of ten thousand exploding nuclear bombs
walks empty highways sea to poisoned sea
and holds radioactive rain in burned hands
to celebrate the turning of our world.

Though blinded by the light of war for power,
he kneels in the meadow of broken skulls
and breathes on the last flower that may bloom
since all the honey bees crumbled to dust
to celebrate the turning of our world.

The girl who talks to ravens looks at me
through swirling cloud of smoke from blasting bombs
and tells me why the moon will weep tonight
then writes history of kings in bleeding runes
to celebrate the turning of our world.

Though millions of people will die in war
girls and boys will hold hands and kiss with love
and so regenerate new tribes of souls
who tend lush gardens on clean river shores
to celebrate the turning of our world.

We gather on the pyramid of eyes
and vote for who will play our tribal god
then first mother will give him sword of truth
so he can fight the beast who slouches near
to celebrate the turning of our world.

Though all our cities burn from falling bombs
hurled by greedy kings to enslave our hands
we lift high cups of wine at midnight hour
and drink to memory of our long-dead god
to celebrate the turning of our world.

Another year our world of aching hope
spins swift around the mindless glowing sun
whose beams of flaming light inspire our souls
so we express the zeitgeist of our angst
to celebrate the turning of our world.

Mask Of Your Superstar

Mask Of Your Superstar
© Surazeus
2016 12 29

When I push through the light of the glass door
and browse characters in the story store,
am I searching for new costume to wear
so I can stride on stage of life with flair?
I wear pretty mask of your superstar
so I can play your queen till we all die.

When you gaze in the mirror of my eye
you see nothing but the empty blue sky
where I must play the fateful tragic role
that was written by the bard on lost scroll.
I wear pretty mask of your superstar
so you can love my soul till we all die.

When you watch me on television screen
enact the fascist-fighting heroine,
cheer me on as I break chains of your fears
while I drink the sweet sorrow of your tears.
I wear pretty mask of your superstar
so you can become me till we all die.

When I play dead after the tale is done
and we drink together in the bright sun
will you worship me or just be my friend
as we laugh and play till the world will end?
I wear pretty mask of your superstar
so we can know true love till we all die.

Where No Heaven Shines

Where No Heaven Shines
© Surazeus
2016 12 27

She rises from the flowers of the field
and dances around me with flashing eyes,
translating the secret code of our names
into the song of the wind and the stars.

Laughing like the river, she sings to me,
"We are the children of the dreaming Earth,
flashes of sunlight congealed in thick flesh
who long for the stars where no heaven shines."

Holding my hand like I might fall back down
into the gloom of the bottomless sea,
she leads me along the river of eyes
to the grove where ravens watch us from oaks.

She kisses the gray-bearded sage who grins
and shows me one hundred tablets of wood
where he carved in Runes, thin letters of trees,
the tale of his father, Godin the Just.

When moonlight gleams through branches of oaks
she holds me close to her warm beating breast
so her eyes enclose the stars of my hope
and kisses me till I become the world.

She sings in my heart as I lose my name,
"Before your eyes appeared bright in my sky
I was drowning in moonlight of despair
and now your spirit fills my heart with light."

Beneath the oak tree that holds up the sky
she suckles the daughter born from her heart
and sings to her stories of how the world
was made by the hands of the singing sun.

She places our sleeping child in my arms
and lies cold among the flowers of light
and though I call out her name day and night
she never wakes again from dreamless sleep.

I embrace the child she formed from my soul
and kneel by the river where her eyes flash
white lightning that pierces my aching heart
but it seems no kiss can wake her from death.

Her body melts into the rain-wet soil
and her eyes sprout into flowers at dawn
where I teach our daughter to sing and run
and play in the wings of the shining sun.

Beneath the oak tree that blossoms with stars
she sings with the raven who brings her gems
and listens when the moon asks her true name
though her eyes gleam blue with knowledge of death.

Holding her hand like she might fall back down
into the gloom of the bottomless sea,
I lead her along the river of eyes
to the grove where ravens watch us from oaks.

I show her one hundred tablets of wood
where an old man carved thin letters of trees
to preserve the tale of some ancient god,
but the tablets rotted away in rain.

She rises from the flowers of the field
and dances around me with flashing eyes,
translating the secret code of our names
into the song of the hills and the sea.

Laughing like the river, she sings to me,
"We are the children of the dreaming Earth,
flashes of sunlight congealed in thick flesh
who long for the stars where no heaven shines."

Cornelia Crow Mother

Cornelia Crow Mother
© Surazeus
2016 12 26

Longing for the light of their dreaming eyes,
Cornelia sits among shiny green leaves
at the top of the apple tree of truth
to count stars that disappear behind clouds,
and names them for each person she once knew,
when the moon asks the crow why people cry.

Reaching her hand to the shining moon,
Cornelia feels her hair grow into Earth
like roots of apple trees on rolling hills,
and whistles secret code hidden in seeds
so the crow of her heart lands on her hand
when the moon asks the crow why people laugh.

Gazing into the infinite black eyes
of the crow who flutters wings in soft wind,
Cornelia kisses his long beak with faith
though soft faces of everyone she loves
turned to stone at the crack of blazing war
when the moon asks the crow why people die.

Whispering beams of light that flash in her tears,
Cornelia remembers how Sucellus smiled
when she gave him basket of apples ripe
as sunset gleaming on the cheeks of hills,
and they kissed like rain drenching fertile vales
when the moon asks the crow why people love.

Embracing her breast under silver moon,
Cornelia feels again caressing hands
when Sucellus sprouted tall tree of life
that reaches nine branches toward shining sky
and tended green buds of apples that bloom
when the moon asks the crow why people sing.

Caressing her belly that swells with child,
Cornelia whispers, "If you are a boy
I will name you Cornelius, Laughing Crow,
so you will always laugh and sing with joy
though sorrow of death strikes deep in your heart,"
when the moon asks the crow why people smile.

Leaping from the top of the apple tree,
Cornelia spreads black wings to dance on wind
and soars above the frail sphere of our world
that shimmers like cracked glass in gold moonlight
while breathing deep the spirit of lost love
when the moon asks the crow why people fly.

Folding her wings inside tattered white gown,
Cornelia kneels on the stone pyramid
where Sucellus taught her to cook and sing,
and caresses the gold ring of emeralds
which gleam green as his laughing eyes at dawn
when the moon asks the crow why people sigh.

Clutching black branches of the apple tree,
Cornelia howls in the moonlight and rain
till wailing child slides out into her arms,
so she suckles little boy at full breast
that flows with milk from the heart of the sea
when the moon asks the crow why people are born.

Holding his hand as they stroll in the grove,
Cornelia points her hand at everything
and teaches him their secret spirit names,
then together they climb the apple tree
and laugh as they pluck and eat its ripe fruit
when the moon asks the crow why people play.

Gazing in the sparkling pool of his eyes,
Cornelia sits among shiny green leaves
at the top of the apple tree of truth
and tells Cornelius how every bright star
is the soul of someone who lived on Earth
when the moon asks the crow why people search.

Reaching her hand to the shining moon,
Cornelia sings the history of the world
and Cornelius claps his hands with delight
when the crow of the moon lands on her hand
and tells him the secret of life and death
when the moon asks the crow why people live.

"The Moon Asked The Crow" by Christian Schloe
https://www.facebook.com/ChristianSchloeDigitalArt/photos/a.426541304159525.1073741828.159152167565108/468591163287872

No God Answers

No God Answers
© Surazeus
2016 12 25

On this most holy night of all the year
when millions worship the sun as a man
reborn from death to rule the world with war
I hear children of bombed-out cities cry
to god their parents said lives in the sky,
yet no god answers their sad prayers for help.

What new-born child of homeless refugees
born this night in dark abandoned garage
may rise high through swirling turmoil of war
to campaign well from sea to shining sea
and win our votes to reign king of the land
since no god answers his sad prayers for help.

The sons of Jesus and his Mermaid wife
appear each age to reign as emperor
for though he is dead his spirit is god
reborn each generation to play king
by right of bloody sword that severs heads
while no god answers our sad prayers for help.

Each president that we elect descends
from ancient bloodline of the holy grail,
Jesus, Constantine, Arthur, Charlemagne,
William the Conqueror, to Henry Lionheart,
so we sing in church and proclaim Jesus God
but no god answers our sad prayers for help.

Why must one man out of millions ascend
pyramid of the Ever-Watching Eye
to reign as emperor sea to shining sea
when we would dwell on Utopian farms
in communal peace on lush river shore,
yet no god answers our sad prayers for help.

The dragon erupts from the sea of fire
and roars to burn down the cities of men
so we huddle and pray to empty sky
till the Lion King leads brave warriors
to cast the tyrant down from tower of heaven
since no god answers our sad prayers for help.

I Want To Stay With You

I Want To Stay With You
© Surazeus
2016 12 24

If through the window I can see her face
when falling snow flakes shroud the silent world
I think I may be able to hold light
of aching love inside my heart forever.
I want to stay with you but I must go,
and so I turn to ice in shining snow.

With every bauble flashing candle light
we hang upon the drooping pine tree branch
I give away cracked fragment of my heart
I never knew I had till death approached.
I want to stay with you but I must leave,
and so I turn to rain when mothers grieve.

She reaches up to grasp my fading hand
and fills my body deep with burning flame
that warms me when I trudge in howling wind
and buffers me against the chill of death.
I want to stay with you but I must fly,
and so I turn to stars in gleaming sky.

I can afford no gift to give my child
who sighs, all I want for Christmas is you,
so I give her my last school photograph
before I vanish in the winds of time.
I want to stay with you but I must go,
and so I turn to dust where trees can grow.

I see her smiling face before my eyes
while I move forward in the hollow dark
and rehearse every word I long to tell her
to angel statue who stands on her grave.
I want to stay with you but I must leave,
and so I turn to thread that fate can weave.

I am no Santa Claus in cheerful suit
nor am I Jesus born on divine night,
for I am just one man who tried to live
and failed at it all but giving you life.
I want to stay with you but I must fly,
and so I turn to spirit in your eye.

Children Of Flowers
© Surazeus
2016 12 23

December is the sweetest month when flakes
of snow from heaven, angel dust from stars,
freeze throbbing hearts of love to broken ice,
which forms vast mirror of enchanting eyes
to arch around the world in flashing skies,
but cracks in shards reflecting every face
scatter one soul into lost nameless souls
when children of flowers weep in rain of fire.

All seeds of trees and flowers hidden in mud,
frozen hard as stone under marching boots
of howling wind which sucks from fragile flesh
our soul flames that were born in distant sun,
lie dormant in the brittle mirror face
who watches mute as we shiver in cave
of gloom that swallows words in silent fear
when children of flowers stare at empty sky.

From black clouds that devoured the last warm sun
white-feathered owl of light descends on wings
that shroud the world in freezing gusts of wind,
and golden eyes that glow with dawning light
stare deep into the cold numb core of death
that yawns down bottomless beneath our hearts,
so I chant names of everyone I love
when children of flowers reach for frozen stars.

Tall white owl brings hot glowing eye of light
from naked vast of infinite despair
and places frozen apple in my hand
so I bite deep and taste wild river waves
that gush again through my numb arms and legs
till searing flame of hope from silver lake
erupts at beating of my heart to live
when children of flowers eat last fruit of love.

I wake at flash of sunlight through black clouds
and rise from heaps of rotten flesh on skulls
to crawl toward fluttering wing of anguished hope,
and so emerge from cave of mute despair
to stand on broken rock of singing words
and watch hard crystal ice melt into tears
that trickle sparkling in gold glare of light
when children of flowers rise again from death.

Alone I kneel by gushing river flood
that scatters broken ice, which melts to flames
of glittering light when fear flows from my heart
to fill the valley, where apple trees sprout,
and white petals sprout from twisted black trees
who whisper my name on refreshing breeze,
so I shout loud to vast indifferent sky
when children of flowers sleep in cave of death.

I call their names to come from cave of death
but no one appears, so I touch their cheeks,
yet see no flash of life in silver eyes
that stare blank at nothing inside my heart,
so I weep in spring rain that flashes light
of evening sun to soak my heart with tears
while standing on the river shore alone
when children of flowers dissolve into mud.

April is the cruelest month when drops
of rain from heaven, angel tears from stars,
melt throbbing hearts of love to flowing stream,
which circulates through body of my world
to fertilize the valleys full with trees,
and clear I see in every drop of rain
lost nameless souls merging into one soul
when children of flowers laugh in cleansing rain.

Puppet Of Greed

Puppet Of Greed
© Surazeus
2016 12 22

In the Tower of Love the prophet of truth,
son of Cassandra whom no one believes,
howls wordless into the blustering wind
to warn the Children of Israel with signs
that the king they crowned in the falling snow
will enslave them in his factories of wealth,
unless they defeat the Puppet of Greed.

Robed in his thin tattered messiah gown,
Cassandrus wanders the vast city maze,
staring forlorn into the blank eyes of men
whose trembling hands clutch at thick wads of cash
that change to butterflies and fly away
when he mumbles mathematical spells
before they battle the Puppet of Greed.

He stumbles alone in the falling snow
back to Wall Street through the Valley of Death
though the Raven who rules in Avalon
maps path of his quest through the labyrinth
where eyeless girls sing on tall pyramids
and explains how to win every chess game
to help them battle the Puppet of Greed.

On the bridge of lost souls he stares surprised
to see that Liberty was chained with fear
and forced to slave in factory of wealth
where shiny cars are built by new machines
so unemployed men drink beer in dark bars
instead of farming fruit in their back yards
afraid to battle the Puppet of Greed.

The Angel of Truth with sharp shining sword
strides confident on the chess board of power
and deflects ten thousand nuclear bombs
hurled by the snarling devil in disguise
as the Businessman in the Tower of Pride,
and falls to his knees at barrage of death
while he fights against the Puppet of Greed.

Breathing deep the spirit of selfless love,
Cassandrus rises on wings of desire
to wield the Scepter of Wisdom he forged
from fallen star to smash the Tower of Pride
and breaks chains of fear that blinds minds of men
who aid his war to give justice for all
united to defeat the Puppet of Greed.

United in peace of justice for all,
the people of our world, spinning in space,
gather at the Pyramid of One Eye
where Liberty holds Book of Names and Deeds
and Light of Truth that fills our hearts with love
to join the feast of fruit on globe we share
and celebrate fall of the Puppet of Greed. 

Her Song Enchants My Heart

Her Song Enchants My Heart
© Surazeus
2016 12 21

When I see the poet in a black dress
stand serene before the intimate crowd
in the city bookstore with white brick walls
and read about her grandmother who sailed
across the ocean to escape cruel war,
I see in the sparkle of her black eyes,
and the genial enthusiastic dance
of her lips as she recites secret dreams,
all her mothers of her mothers and fathers
who lived across the past ten thousand years
on the fertile shores of a thousand streams
in the lush meadows of a thousand vales
whose tender love generated her soul,
and her song enchants my heart with pure love.

Without eyes I see the movie of her song
reveal mysteries of love between lost souls
that flash on the horizon in my head
while Orpheus tries to retrieve the dead
by singing spells that beam into our eyes
visions of how we reassemble mask
we wear to hide the animating spark
of conscious desire I forge into key
I slot to open door of ancient tower
where grey-eyed Sibyl writes on crumbling leaves
prophecies that reveal our brave new world
where every soul who ever walked this world
assembles in the stadium of my hope
while her song enchants my heart with pure love.

While sitting at the desk of singing oak
that grows tall from tangled roots of my brain
I open leather book to read my fate
but find that every page is glowing blank,
so I dip quill, delicate wand of truth,
white feather I plucked from dead angel wing,
in ink of blood that bubbles from my heart,
and write the tale expressing deeds and words
of every soul who ever walked this world
so all their memories inside their brains
will be preserved forever on white stone
while these bodies that generate our souls
dissipate to dust that blows in mute wind
since her song enchants my heart with pure love.

I enter in the vision of her song,
like dancing in the veil of swirling mist,
accepting the mask she lays in my hand,
then place it over my face to become
spirit that animates her endless quest
through narrow maze of obstacles she plays
so I can understand well how she feels
while starring in the drama of her life,
and when I wake outside the bounding shell
of shining crystal eyes that guards our globe
I will become the angel I was born
though I attempted to escape its goal
for I still dream the history of our world
though her song enchants my heart with pure love.

Welt Angst Of Rapunzel

Welt Angst Of Rapunzel
© Surazeus
26 November 2002
Lansing, Michigan

Lost in Alentejo with scarlet albacore
in steel wagon with five wheels and a sail
Aida mumbles please Absalom blind warrior
bring me Acanthus and six yellow tree frogs
so I may light gold Menorah at midnight
before menopause cripples my girl power
to create human soul from seed of man.

Walking over Bifrost ice-rainbow bridge
Odhin strides through swirling snow
to knock on wood gates of Thrudheim
shouting I found bag of Cacao in truck
so come over and share a drink with me.

Thor appears from glass green house
holding pot with Coleus painted nettle
and stands on threshold between heat
of plants and chill of sea waves to smile
after I finish contemplating frescoes
of Antonio Vivarini he painted with blood
in Church of Eremitani but his television
explodes broken guitars and wrecked cars.

Weeping from osteoporosis on park bench
in Central Park surrounded by yuppies
chatting on phones to close business deals
Aida explains menstruation to young girl
wearing white gown with long gold braids
who blushes when Beethoven appears
from woods hollering Rapunzel come home.

I had a near-death experience last year
while strolling along Ubangi River at dawn
when long silver Limousine with satellite dish
stopped and Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan asked
if I would like glass of wine and Feta cheese
so I tried to hide inside television with Jack
but he was busy counting broken masks.

Marwan took my hand and flew Limousine
over Kilimanjaro to Al-Aksa on Mount Moriah
where Solomon and Crassus play chess
over Key of Ankh that opens pyramid door
buying and selling shares on Wall Street
where young people work sixty hours a week
shuffling papers while corporate kings ski
on Aspen slopes chatting about Ava Gardner.

Rapunzel flies home to Arusha National Park
where she meditates in pagoda of blue ice
on rim of Ngorongoro Crater watching barbets
eat lizards and chatter voices from cell phones
that beam signals from Caduceus of crystal
we see beeping from Eye Ball that Sees All
on pyramid of gold bricks on Arlington Hill.

Hermes grins sweating while he bikes swift
past Aida smiling as Beethoven plays piano
in Central Park at noon hoping to find Asclepius
riding bikes with Chausson discussing Roi Arthus
to organize conspiracy for democracy and truth
in spite of white-collar sweat-shop slaves
being bought and sold by Solomon and Crassus
who own credit card companies out in Utah.

Instead Hermes finds Rapunzel with Fang Lizhi
discussing astrophysics and thermodynamics
while hundred thousand people without jobs
or unemployment benefits or health insurance
form giant ring of Uroboros around White House
chanting we see hot flames from Croix de Feu
burning over hills of America where freedom rings.

Rapunzel walks long hall way of Versailles
searching empty rooms for Andrea Amati
but finds his pupil Stradivari standing alone
in sun beam gazing at uncarved block of wood
whispering I see Pu essence of simple love
for Tao that can be carved into sweet violin
is not essential Tao so why bother and weeps.

Girl at Dojo Temple flies from Tahuata Island
with basket of mangoes and nutmeg and cacao
and capuchin monkey with cards on her shoulder
to bring bowl of honey from Matteo da Bascio
as gift but Stradivari laughs and walks outside
into glaring heat to climb slopes of Alban Hills
to gaze in waters of Nemi crater lake and shout
rise Diana from dark waters and reign as queen.

Rapunzel kneels before Saint Francis of Assisi
who hangs crucified on burning cross of steel
laughing as telephone lines and television cables
are threaded from spiraling nerves of his brain
to connect monks in Jabal Musa on Mount Sinai
with Angels in Templum Astarium that shines
crystal pyramid with spinning eyeball of vision
on Mount Tahoma where white ravens sing.

Take me back to Alentejo where my mother
was raped and murdered by government agents
who stole her mangoes and albacores for lunch
and from there I may discover trail of life
my ancestors traveled from Hellas to Arcadia
to Septimania and Aquitania on to Avalon
escaping knives of Roman puppets to hide
in Scotia mountains where giant spider weaves
web of dreams over cave of eternal salvation.

Francis hands her Dead Sea Scrolls and smiles
ask Ogata Kenzan to explain art of Hana-kago
flower baskets that contain skulls of children
murdered by bombs falling from American planes
skulls ground to powder cocaine snorted fast
by Oil Baron who grins at addiction of empire
sucking black gold from desert dunes of Arabia
then maybe you will know way back to Eden.

Rapunzel hides Damascus Document under skirt
and walks streets of Cairo to escape police
paid by Antiochus Epiphanes to steal scrolls
and they almost catch her but Indiana Jones
swoops down hanging from vine of his whip
to carry her safe to secret palace of Agartala
where Queen Nefertari protects her from harm.

Sophocles invites Rapunzel to play Electra
for movie adaptation to be filmed in London
by Peter Greenaway who hurls ancient books
of dead prophets into pool of burning words
then kisses mouth of Iphigeneia where she lies
bound to burning cross on Cathedral of Peter
hoping to save her soul from tax collectors
who fly helicopters hunting rebels in Alabama.

This world and all its games of social politics
spinning among stars is a complicated puzzle
assembling random elements of molecules
into organic tapestries of drama that record
lust of bodies transforming into new generation
of souls swirling on chessboard of world power
though women in Peru and Sweden and Ohio
were sterilized in eugenics programs of doctors
who played god stealing ovaries of our Creator.

Amenhotep known today as Prophet Moses
climbs pinnacle of Angkor Wat to discuss
with Suryavarman majestic architecture
of Petronas Towers to develop programs
that help young women all over this world
raise their children without agonizing worry
for they create our souls from wiggling sperm
therefore my reincarnation is my living child.

Rapunzel stands on crown of One Eye Pyramid
while everyone gathers silent in sunset glow
praying to unite Jews and Christians and Muslims
in one grand religion following Father Abraham
Brahman son of India who binds all world religions
with her hands weaving my heart into dream
of all world views giving wings to my Welt angst
so I may deliver message of Godin to humanity
gather you nations into one temple of love.

Rapunzel plays harp and sings hymn of creation
while Calliope holds Orpheus sitting on her lap
who gazes with awe at tall woman in gown
of diamonds that beam signals of world dream
to tablet computers when lost programmers
gather on desert in Republic of Burning Man
to praise Earth Guardians who twirl Caduceus
as they dance around Cauldron of Vision Wine.

Found in Arcadia I am King of kings on Earth
proclaims shadow man wearing robe of light
who touches my forehead with crystal sphere
filling my mind with visions of life and death
as he teaches me secrets of enlightening breath.

Gods Of Liberty Or Slavery

Gods Of Liberty Or Slavery
© Surazeus
2016 12 19

Since the Romans overthrew haughty kings
and voted for new leaders every year,
five hundred years of republican progress
passed before searing flames of civil strife
between the rich land-owners and poor workers
shattered public institutions of justice,
and brute dictators reigned with gold scepters
over vast empire for a thousand years.

Yet only half that time of peaceful growth,
since the Americans broke from their kings,
and voted for new presidents to rule
every four years over fifty wild states,
passed before searing flames of civil strife
between the rich land-owners and poor workers
shatter public institutions of justice,
and brute dictators reign with gold scepters
over world empire for a thousand years.

The god of justice, progress, truth, and light
contends to rule vast lands of working men
against the god of oppression, tradition,
lies, and darkness, fighting for souls of people
who choose which ambitious man will rule all,
the god of light giving us strength of courage
through vision of equality for all,
or the god of gloom taking all we made
then enslaving us to work for his wealth.

Some bold men who seize the scepter of power
destroy themselves and people of their empire
through arrogant lust to control all nature,
while other honest men with loving hearts
who accept the scepter of power with grace
through humble dedication to uphold
equal justice of human rights for all
create a better world for everyone
while guiding each person with gentle love
to learn special craft that flows from their hands
through humble desire to understand nature.

Our nations ever spin on wheel of change
when god of light and god of darkness fight
to rule empire with laws or selfish greed
embodied by people of mortal mind,
cooperating workers who create
or mindless slaves who long for liberty.

Contending gods of liberty or slavery
campaign across our land to win our hearts,
one offering liberty for every person
to craft works of art with creative hands,
the other offering slavery of all people
to work making wealth we never enjoy.

On cold misty morning I like to drink
ginger-tinctured hot chocolate that sparks dreams
of fairies before our world burns in war.

Hollow Crown Of Power

Hollow Crown Of Power
© Surazeus
2016 12 18

Were they to place that gold crown on my head
I would descend the tower of howling wind
and throw the ring of gold in flowing stream
where blood of honest men glows in sunlight
for that hollow crown chains my soul with dread.

Though holy men in red robes proclaimed me
bold representative of God on Earth
I shake with horror as men with sharp swords
surround me in the tower of weeping girls
for that hollow crown weighs my head with fear.

I am no God endowed with divine wisdom
who sits like shining sun in clouds of glory
since I am but mortal man made from dust
who gasps for breath as I flee in dark storm
for that hollow crown blinds my eyes with pride.

I would strip these robes embroidered with gold
to expose my bare soul to howling wind
and dance on verdant heath where shepherds play
rather than play war games with brutal men
for that hollow crown bends my mind with dreams.

Skull Of My Father

Skull Of My Father
© Surazeus
2016 12 17

The small white cricket on the bare white wall
will never be the emperor of all
or play the violin while the world burns
but will teach me wisdom while the globe turns.

The tall granite mountain that shimmers white
in the clear blue mountain lake of cracked light
explains to me the power of gods and kings
who all lie dead while the blind angel sings.

I hold the skull of my father and muse
on the meaning of life I dream from clues
written in runes on the mirror of time
which reveals divine truth in coded rhyme.

I wander the labyrinth of great towns
to recruit noble heroes from drunk clowns
and form new army of righteous police
to assassinate god and maintain peace.

The young boy who cannot see my true face
orders scattered blocks in each destined place
to imitate chemical play of life
while carving formulas with beaming knife.

At midnight when the sky glows red as blood
I see the girl make flowers bloom from mud
and when I least expect to feel her eyes
she gives me apple that fell from blank skies.

So forth I go from ruined church of lies
and stop before each soul who lost their eyes
to sing new name from star light and sea waves
while leading them back home to mother caves.

We gather on the pyramid of flames
where Ishtar gives countless lost souls new names
then sends us out to every distant vale
commissioned to teach secret of the grail.

I point to stars and tell them, high above
our spinning sphere dwells mother of true love
who molds our bodies from warm soil and light,
then lead them dancing in her rebirth rite.

Whoever rises from the common tribe,
as chronicled by the rebellious scribe,
and dares to rule nations of men this year
will fail to control fate on our vast sphere.

We see so many proud kings rise and fall
and strut without restraint in palace hall
but we the people will continue on
helping each other survive night till dawn.

I follow owl and wolf through misty grove,
tracking the last angel of truth who slove
from maze of superstition and built wall
where the dead girl is mistaken for a doll.

I stand on street corners at night to sing,
angel of liberty with broken wing
will fall forever from the golden tower
when Odin kills Saturn and seizes power.

Athena leads me through the hall of kings
and shows me every man who wore gold rings
and reigned as ruler was transformed to stone,
but now I walk the ocean beach alone.

When you all find the prophet of truth dead
read his deep analysis carved in lead
that calculates wild waves of war and peace
which smash empires till games of greed cease.

Who knows the reason why we are alive,
so we gather all tales on one archive
that record the names of men who played god
in power games that only the dead applaud.

Owl Heart Of Genevieve

Owl Heart Of Genevieve
© Surazeus
2016 12 15

The white owl with four wings crippled by hope
sleeps dreamless in the thunder-throbbing heart
of the girl who laughs to create the wind
for no reason that can be spelled with code.
She cuts her name into letters like shards
of glass from the window shattered by night
and gives each puzzle piece of her bruised heart
to anyone who refuses to ask.
Wrapped in cold sheets of aluminum foil,
her body pulses with rivers of blood
that imitate the owl who flies on wings
designed by the blind maker of mute clocks.
My body is mine, she cries to the sun
who weaves fabric of her soul with glass laws.

You cannot call me Genevieve, she smiles
at the television camera that beams
mask of her face on rays of shimmering light
ten thousand miles to the gold satellite.
The satellite flies circles around Earth
where people once thought angels danced on light,
and beams her face to television tubes
that glow blue in one hundred million homes.
My father Stephane reigned as king of dreams,
the swan frozen in the lake of desire,
the clown of spells crucified on the pole
that bears telephone wires from town to town.
My body is mine, she sings to the moon
who weaves atoms of her soul with silk wires.

Despite the golden dreams of the Word Clown
the ringing guitar sleeps in his blank heart,
till he wakes and cries, I forgot her name,
haunted by the blue void of ideal sky.
I heard him in the gloom of the cold church
speak the word flower, and the eternal flower
bloomed pure and perfect from oblivion,
given true shape by the light of his voice.
He gave me the concept of the true flower,
the ideal flower absent from all bouquets
of this ever-changing world where all flowers
live and die in unfolding flash of days.
My body is mine, she laughs to the air
that puffs structure of her soul with bright words.

My father Stephane gave me an owl heart
so we could fly together to the spheres
where angels move stars to create our world,
but we drifted lost in limitless void.
Copernicus shattered the crystal spheres
that Aristotle forged around our world,
and now we humans who suffer and die
are angels who change the shape of the world.
I sit by the bright hearth of glowing flames
and murmur names of every soul who lived
while counting every star that shines in heaven
till dawn recreates the real world we dream.
My body is mine, she howls to the sea
that waves ripples of her soul with clear drops.

Last Orange In Aleppo

Last Orange In Aleppo
© Surazeus
2016 12 14

Amid the broken rubble of stone homes,
blasted into fragments by falling bombs,
the little girl in a brown tattered dress
clutches a dead tabby cat to her breast.

Strands of black hair curl on her blood-stained cheek
and black eyes dart like bees looking for flowers
while she steps gingerly among cracked stones
in dusty dawn that mutes her songless voice.

Staring at the splintered wall of a mosque,
stained with blood of bodies blasted by bombs,
she sees the face of her mother, who called
her name for dinner, vanish in blue shadow.

Bright among tangled wires and split concrete
an orange and a gilded Koran gleam, lit
by the indifferent sun of numb hope,
so she grasps the orange and sniffs its tart skin.

Slipping out through a narrow alleyway,
she sits on small patch of brown grass and weeds
by the yellow river, and lays her cat
with tender care by an Oregano bush.

White blossoms smile in the red morning sun,
and two warblers talk about light on water,
as the young girl washes blood off her cheek
then peels and eats the sweet succulent orange.

Lost City Of Taratha

Lost City Of Taratha
© Surazeus
2016 12 12

Since Taratha, sweet lady of the sea,
first walked the white city of Halab,
the children of Zobah play chase in groves
and sing with birds at sunset by the stream
that flows now with the red blood of lost souls.

Who hears their voices cry out in the night
when the lion son of Baal stalks old streets
and devours the children who played in groves
where birds twitch mute at sunset by the stream
that shines now with the red blood of lost souls?

The lord of death soars among weeping clouds,
hurling thunderbolts of pride at white homes
where children of Zobah hide in burned groves
and clutch dead birds at sunset by the stream
that howls now with the red blood of lost souls.

Grieving Taratha returns to the sea,
where she emerged eight thousand years ago,
bearing bodies of children in dark waves
while wind erases their steps by the stream
that weeps now with the red blood of lost souls.

The white city that long rang bright with songs
of love and sorrow from the hearts of lovers
lies ruined in rubble of broken dreams,
ancient streets cluttered with skulls by the stream
that moans now with the red blood of lost souls.

Whose voice will ring now off white marble walls
where Taratha clutches the bleeding child
who once played games, laughing in sunlit groves
where birds dissolve to white dust by the stream
that screams now with the red blood of lost souls?

Red Moon Of Love

Red Moon Of Love
© Surazeus
2016 12 11

After I walk from the house of the dead
I go down to the valley where trees bloom
and stare at the flowers that grow from skulls
of people I once loved whose names are lost
and walk till I find the red moon of love.

I see their faces nowhere anymore
except when I stare in the lake of stars
at shining reflection of my own face
till seven tears fall from my dreaming eyes
and dissolve to light the red moon of love.

I talk to the trees who talk back to me
and tell me the secrets of life and death
then I laugh with their stories of true love
though nothing but cold wind blows in my face
and whispers about the red moon of love.

Though the hard rain falls and drowns the whole world
I grasp the white ladder lost in the pond
where I was reborn from atomic egg
and lean it high against the apple tree
and climb till I reach the red moon of love.

When I Die

When I Die
© Surazeus
2016 12 03

Moonlight on the river that flows nowhere
preserves the secret sorrow I forgot.
I cut pieces of light from my dark soul
and give them to people hungrier than me.
I become apples and wind when I die.

We walk together on the river shore,
holding hands with memory and desire.
I peel away regret to expose fruit
that drips forgiveness from our kissing lips.
I become flowers and light when I die.

Flocks of birds that nest in trees near our home
bear stories of our lives to distant lands.
I watch them play in drama of their lives
and they watch me, but our eyes never meet.
I become rivers and dirt when I die.

I give my name away to all I meet,
and receive their names I hang on my tree.
I write the names of every person killed
on beach sand so ocean waves claim their souls.
I become mountains and birds when I die.

I tell her she is the Muse of my songs,
and then she sits mute for ten thousand years.
She never speaks but I hear her sweet voice
from every creature who dreams the weird world.
I become lions and oaks when I die.

I gather fruit and herbs from the waste land
and plant them within walls of paradise.
My love becomes the fountain that flows free
when I search for her, bearing honeycombs.
I become honey and bees when I die.

I walk the highway past fast-zooming cars
and explain to them the names of all stars.
She leads me away to the mountain grove
and teaches me the secret of rebirth.
I become children and rain when I die.

I hide in the cave when flashing bombs fall
and watch without tears when rich towers burn.
Though the king destroys everything we built
we will rebuild it all when he is dead.
I become mirrors and eyes when I die.

You Shoot Us Down

You Shoot Us Down
© Surazeus
03 Dec 2014
Columbus, Georgia

While I was walking on a sunny day,
whistling happy that I am not yet dead,
I heard a cry echo across our land,
so I turned around and saw a black boy
shouting, "What are you following me for?"
Trayvon Martin was shot and bled to death.
I see people gathering town to town
and their cries of anguish ring in my head.
"You shoot us down because our skin is brown."
"You shoot us dead because our skin is red."

While I was editing maps at my job,
still hearing his cries of desperate fear,
I heard a cry echo across our land,
so I turned around and saw a black man
gasping as he struggled, "I cannot breathe."
Eric Garner was grabbed and choked to death.
I see people gathering town to town
and their cries of anguish ring in my head.
"You shoot us down because our skin is brown."
"You shoot us dead because our skin is red."

While I was walking with daughters and wife
by Chattahoochee River after noon,
I heard a cry echo across our land,
so I turned around and saw a black boy
who cried, "I don't have a gun. Stop shooting."
Michael Brown was shot down and bled to death.
I see people gathering town to town
and their cries of anguish ring in my head.
"You shoot us down because our skin is brown."
"You shoot us dead because our skin is red."

While I was strumming sad aching guitar,
wishing I was Anansi or Robin Hood,
I heard a cry echo across our land,
so I turned and joined ten million people
shouting, "Treat us with respect. We are human."
Who else will get shot down next and bleed to death?
I see people gathering town to town
and their cries of anguish ring in my head.
"You shoot us down because our skin is brown."
"You shoot us dead because our skin is red."

Birth Of Abelius

Birth Of Abelius
© Surazeus
2016 12 02

Then Lugus stands before assembled crowd
whose faces glow gold from bright roaring flames
that light the feasting fall at dark midnight
and strums tall harp that rings like wind in willows.

"Hark to my good tale, Children of Belenus,
about his clever grandson, wise Abelius
who first planted apple trees in rich soil
he brought from lush valley where he was born.
His mother Sirona, Queen of the Lake,
gave him bag filled with small black apple seeds
and bade him walk along the flowing stream
and scatter seeds so apple trees may grow.
His long gold hair shone bright like morning sun
as wise Abelius walked on river shore,
and after he counted one hundred steps
he kneeled and planted small seeds in wet soil.
Thus wise Abelius walked from Aquitania
to nourish apple trees in every land,
remembering how his father, lithe Silvanus,
taught him how to tend sapling apple trees.
When young Abelius came to river vale
he saw pretty Litavis in long gown
woven with flowers dancing among trees
while sun beams glowed bright on her long gold hair.
Abelius danced in meadow by her side
and woven thick wreath of flowers for her hair
and on the hillside where white sparrows play
he kissed her lips and pledged his heart as hers.
But fierce Cocidius, warrior with long spear,
returning from the hunt with hart for feast,
shouted in rage, claiming her as his bride,
and challenged Abelius to fight for honor.
When sweet Litavis clutched his hand in hers,
she urged him with hope to run by her side
and hide in secret cavern from his wrath
and so they ran together through dark woods.
While leaping over stone on river shore
Abelius spilled large bag of apple seeds
and stopped to scoop them with his trembling hands
while frightened Litavis called out his name.
Forget the apple seeds, she cried in fear,
and follow me into my secret cave
where we can live in haven of my heart
and raise your child who grows now in my womb.
But when wise Abelius stood up to run
fierce Cocidius leaped down before his face
and thrust long spear into his beating heart
and left him bleeding on the river shore.
Litavis kneeled in sorrow by his side
and cradled his head in her loving arms
and tears of her sorrow fell on his face
as she gazed weeping in his smiling eyes.
Though you lie dying in my arms, she cried,
your spirit lives again inside my womb,
so I will name your son Abelius
and teach him how to grow lush apple trees.
Bright blood of life that flowed from broken heart
sparked all the seeds in fertile soil
so now one thousand trees with apples grow
rustling in spirit breeze on river shore.
And now you know how the king of our tribe,
clever Abelius of ripe apple trees,
was born to rule our land Litavia,
so raise cups of cider and cheer his name."

Accepting cup of cider from Epona,
Lugus raises it high to shining moon
while wild Belenians cheer and call his name,
then everyone drinks deep and howls at stars.

Clown Of Aleppo

Clown Of Aleppo
© Surazeus
2016 12 01

Blind Saturn falls asleep in the White House
so Bacchus leads zombie army of fools
to raid the Garden of Eden again
where Satan plays chess with skulls of the dead,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Now King Bozo nominates Gomer Pyle
to direct the Department of Defense,
so he knocks Humpty Dumpty off the wall
to let Daffy Duck steal gold from our bank,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

After Santa Clause arrives back in town,
riding his silver limousine of wealth,
he climbs gold tower protected by dump trucks
and sits on the huge throne to drink our blood,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Laughing as he steals keys to every home,
King Midas sends his sons in army tanks
to pillage the peasants who crowned him king
and basks in their praise as he robs them blind,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Though Gandalf roams from sea to shining sea
to fight the balrogs in gray business suits,
the people cry for Galadriel to save them,
but she weeps in tower where Rapunzel died,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Tyrion hides in the cave where Plato dreams
shadows of truth that dance on wall of hope,
while Frodo wanders lost in city maze,
trying to sell some ring for a bite to eat,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

After Athena frees all men from chains
and gives every woman the jewel of love,
who will arrive on the dragon of justice
to topple the Golden Calf Christians worship,
when the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Be a good person and do the right thing,
no matter how the president may act,
by following the star of your own ideals
to transform waste land into paradise,
though the wise Clown of Aleppo is killed
protecting nameless children from his greed.

Glow Of Sunlight

Glow Of Sunlight
© Surazeus
2016 11 30

The gold oval leaf, tinted red, lying prone
on gray sidewalk under roiling storm clouds,
contains the glow of sunlight in its death.

She picks up each leaf and, with feather quill
dipped in lemon juice, she writes secret name
of each dreamless person who died that hour.

The pile of leaves that represent the dead
rises far higher than the tallest mountain,
deeds of their lives vanished in silent wind.

The memories and hopes that glowed so bright
in the tangled neural net of their brains
swirls around her head as dust in sunlight.

She can envision every dream they lost,
faces she threads in tapestry of souls
that hangs from gray wall of her doorless tower.

I find another leaf on the sidewalk
imprinted with blush of her hidden face,
then sing her name as wind swirls it away.