Communities Of Craftsmen

Communities Of Craftsmen
© Surazeus
2017 01 31

I want to help everybody live free
but I am trapped inside of my own head,
wandering the maze of ideology
so I believe what I hope is ideal
instead of what my senses show is real.

While millions of people walk city streets,
chasing rainbows to catch some falling coins,
I stand under the old Tree of the Knowledge
of Good and Evil to eat of its fruit
that causes flowers to bloom from my brain.

I stare at my reflection in the glass
of the door that leads into the bank tower
of computers and ponder, how can we
not stay existentially optimistic
in this humorously absurd universe.

Then Pegasus descends on streaming rays
of sunlight from billowing clouds of heaven
and nudges my shoulder with a sly grin,
so I give him my sweet apple to eat
while he explains the Grand Unified Theory.

"One Force of Life permeates all material,
for every atom in the vast universe
pulses with the heartbeat of one whole mind
who wakes inside the brains of dreaming souls
and sings on the sea shore under bright stars."

I strum guitar while watching eyes of people
calculate the shape of existing objects
then generate models of perceived things
inside the universe of dreaming minds
where I am the clown singing absurd spells.

Someday young genius who cannot speak words
will program intelligent computer mind
to generate infinite lines of verse
based on weird algorithm of my concepts
that composes endless epic of mankind.

Every person who ever lived on Earth
will live reborn in that epic of life
as fluid character who perceives things
and chants fairy tales as they flap silk wings
while they strum harps in marble hall of light.

No tyrant ever lasts long on the throne
of wise authority in Hall of Truth
for false world view takes energy to hold,
so house of lies will collapse before long
when millions fight for freedom against one.

Our United Nations of global peace
we must build on communities of craftsmen
so everyone alive can work and play
in equal balance of productive purpose,
expressing talent of their divine soul.

Thirteen Pearls

Thirteen Pearls
© Surazeus
2017 01 30

Wherever I run on the spinning world
she hovers over me on wings of flame
that shimmer white as rainbows in my mind
to beam dancing words in song from my tongue.

I stand on the shore of the shining lake
and point to the rainbow that glitters bright
as ten million suns in each drop of rain
to flush flashing words in song through my blood.

I fall on my back on the hill of rocks
that shimmer from the flaming meteor,
and laugh when the sky of my brain cracks wide
enough to swirl galaxies in my eyes.

I crawl in flowers where kittens lie curled
then carve on mountain peak my secret name
that not even wise leprechauns can find
so I stay until the last hymn is sung.

If you can tell this face I wear is fake,
then mold me new mask that will hide the light
which beams me back to the ethereal plane
where I sail ship of words on swirling flood.

If you can dream real world faster than clocks,
know that playing myself might be easier
though cracks open the Earth where angels hide
so spell I conjure might win me the prize.

By the time wind-catching sail is unfurled,
I bear true wand so I can play the game
flying last airplane my mother designed
since I am stuck high on last ladder rung.

Lithe in the Tree of Life, I am the snake
who always pretends that he can do right
since reign of God in Heaven now must wane
till every apple tree begins to bud.

Now who will find me hiding in the box
without doors where I paint me crazier
than last goddess who wants to play my guide
though I am just one fool of many spies?

I make her crown glitter with thirteen pearls
then shape our universe in measured frame
preserved well by pulsing atomic bind
so we are now old as the world is young.

Who told me that we are all God awake
which revealed the secret of breathing flight
since nourishing food is conjured from grain
which sprouts like fire from menstruating mud?

The world is constructed from flashing blocks
that spiral on waves flowing from brazier,
so when I arrive with my blushing bride
she proves I am wearing her divine guise.

Urgent Force Of Life

Urgent Force Of Life
© Surazeus
2017 01 30

What bright beams of sunlight weave the whole Earth
in pulsing clumps of atoms who wake clear
from shining dream of stars with open eyes
when we all look at each other and smile?

What urgent force of hungry love is this
that fuels my motion through the maze of things
my brain objectifies when I perceive
their solid shapes illuminated bright?

What plants and animals can I consume
so throbbing chemicals inside my heart
dissolve their bodies to incorporate
material of their lives to increase mine?

What dancing woman with star-sparkling eyes
can I embrace with pleasure of desire
to copulate so spirits of our dreams
incarnate in the growing child she bears?

What wild aggressive impulse of my lust
will I now rein with contemplative hope
to manage reproduction of our selves
and maintain balance of quick life and death?

I feel aggressive urge to reproduce
that drove my ancestors to fight and grasp,
invading fertile lands to build empires
of temples that nourish children and farms.

Now pausing in high mountain in far west,
I gaze backward on trail ancestors blazed
ten thousand years, Egypt to Oregon,
and see vast empires shining on sea shores.

I look at my hands and remember when
we swung through vast forests of apple trees
and started singing visions of our eyes
that lead us to construct high towers of stone.

I stop myself from this relentless charge
of fierce aggressive lust to live and thrive,
and regulate the impulse of desire
to preserve all life instead of destroy.

All things are structures of atomic sparks
so I control the gestures of my hands
to create good after I destroy bad
based on formulas of cause and effect.

I override my selfish lust to take,
and channel urge of love to create crafts
in close-knit community of good friends
so we help each other live in calm peace.

Empires of equal democratic rights
are based on small communities of craftsmen
woven in vast quilt of one global state
which nurtures creative work of every person.

We stand together on this spinning sphere
and all our minds together form one mind
that weaves one vision from all our desires
so everything we do benefits all.

Vibrant beams of sunlight weave the whole Earth
in pulsing clumps of atoms who wake clear
from flashing dream of stars with conscious minds
so we sing with the urgent force of life.

Looking At You

Looking At You
© Surazeus
2017 01 29

How deep into the labyrinth of lies
will I wander before I find the truth
that reflects perfect design of our world
in glamorous mirrors of deceptive words?

I sit in my little box by green lake
and stare into the crystal ball of dreams
that shows me faces of a million souls
who talk about the weird world they perceive.

Each person reflecting dream of their world
is one small facet on the gem of mind
that beams their world view through my open eyes
so everything they say combines all views
to generate one complete view of life.

Though I tumble down the deep rabbit hole
of illusions beaming from all their eyes,
I wander through the underworld of dreams
on quest to find the holy grail of truth
and dip it in the fountain of desire
so I may drink the waters of delight
that sparkles wisdom in observant eyes.

Though I may never find my way back home
to Aquitaine where I strummed vibrant lute
and chanted hymns of love by sacred lake,
I carry the spirit of loyal love
for the Lady of the Lake in my heart.

I still hear her calling me in my dreams,
so I wander lost, searching for her garden,
in a thousand nameless cities of hope.

Since all the queens who lived in cloud-high towers
were long ago dethroned by greedy kings
still I must sing in devotional verse
her noble deeds in caring for her people.

Though now I live in empire of machines,
the spirit of the troubadour who sings
the honest character of my wise queen
still shines through mask of cynical despair
I wear to protect my war-wounded heart.

Though billions have died the past hundred years
when bold angry men crowned themselves as king,
while pretending to play good president,
we band together, united with love
for grand principles of justice and truth,
and fight to defeat those bullies and thieves.

I see my secret face reflected clear
in most secret room of the labyrinth
where I stand at the center of the circle
that spirals through the turning universe
and discover I am looking at you.

Wisdom Of Athena Hermead I:1-110

Wisdom Of Athena
Hermead I:1-110
© Surazeus Astarius

Scientists researching nature and man,
sing, Muse Kalliope, about arcane progress
of inventive magicians, wizards, druids,
philosophers, alchemists, and physicists,
bright curious people who study our world
and organize knowledge in holy books
to record wisdom gleaned by supple minds
as they experiment on sacred quest
to discover truth and invent better ways
we perform tasks to rule civilization
that programs actions of each crafting hand.
While Homeros once sang of manic rage
and versatile wiles, Hesiodos of gods,
Valmiki of loyal love, Vyasa of conflict,
Lucretius of atoms, Vergilius of arms,
Ovidius of bodies transforming shapes,
Ferdowsi of wisdom and civilization,
Dante of punishment and search for faith,
Chaucer of lust and fierce desire to live,
Ariosto of chaos, Tasso of order,
Camoens of discovery, Spenser of virtues,
Shakespeare of outrage at horror of death,
and Milton of paradise lost and found,
I, Surazeus, inspired by Muses sing
of philosophy, science, and inventions
when curious men and women observe nature
and seek to comprehend physical laws
that govern vital scheme of evolution
transforming matter of swirling universe
in galaxies, stars, planets, and conscious life.
Why are heroes in ancient tales poets sing
warriors who fight and kill in brutal wars,
biggest, strongest, meanest, and wiliest men
who wield weapons of death, and crown themselves
god-kings, then claim divine right to rule lands?
Ten thousand years men argued and fought wars,
joining groups lead by men who organize
gangs to battle for control over land,
following men with loyal obedience
who comprehend best how rich nature works,
and perceive future possible events
when they analyze situations well
and build strong forts for well-trained warriors
to occupy strategic points on hills
that guard close fresh-water rivers and lakes.
Warriors who founded dynasties of kings
play grand roles of power on martial stage
of history, killing tyrants and thieves,
and decree rules that foster common good
to stabilize smooth social interactions
between groups, manage prosperous production
of commercial enterprise on lush farms,
and support design of religious art
in songs and plays that relate noble deeds
of great hero who founded nation state.
Yet every great hero king, mortal man
who inhabits body of flesh and blood
like us, grows old, dies, and crumbles to dust,
and power of his personal authority
dissolves in wind that howls in empty halls,
and all his grand Ozymandian boasts
echo dumb over waste land of his works.
New generations rise who fight again,
arrayed and lead by power-hungry kings
to impose their world view on other groups,
and millions die in brutal fights for power
in endless cycles of destructive wars,
so fighters fail to provide secure way
that constructs stable secure social state
where all individuals prosper and thrive
pursuing personal dreams for happiness.
While warriors fought each other for power
and fame, to play gods on stage of history,
humble men and women, seeking solutions
to solve problems, discovered sacred laws
of nature, and expressed visions of life
to state concepts that explain how things work.
While mad warriors destroy to gain control,
wise philosophers and genius scientists
ask questions, conduct research, observe nature,
state hypotheses, conduct experiments,
analyze data, and develop theories
to describe how our universe operates,
created in process of cause and effect.
While warriors destroy, scientists create
better ways to comprehend and describe
complex universe that nourishes our souls,
so clever thinkers and builders through time,
who search for truth beyond outdated modes
of linguistic models, and build world views
that assist people struggling to survive
by providing accurate facts about life,
are true heroes who build civilization.
Nations base myths of their right to exist
on founding fathers, empires on bold kings
who kill, and religions on peaceful prophets
who teach social rules of moral behavior,
while science builds theories of observed facts
on exact research of philosophers
and scientists into true nature of things.
I sing of scientists, who observe nature
and develop clear theories to describe
how our universe works, rather than warriors
who fight and kill, because their honest work
constructs Temple of Truth secure on facts
which shelters us from storm of social chaos,
preserving peace inside strong garden walls.
We cooperate building shelter homes
to enclose gardens of fruit trees in walls,
and gather or grow food to feed our hunger,
when men and women facing problems think,
considering solutions by puzzling constraints,
and explore how things in nature relate
and form world woven in molecule web
so we understand how everything works.

My New Homeland

My New Homeland
© Surazeus
2017 01 28

You cannot keep me out of my new homeland
where my wife and children depend on me.

Many years ago I escaped from war,
grasping hands of my wife and children tight
to flee the bombs of jet planes in the sky,
and we ran into the abyss of night
to walk the dusty trail of smiling skulls,
leaving Garden of Eden in Iraq
to find new paradise in Illinois.

Once we walked over invisible line
into the bleak riverless waste of Syria,
we rode on lumber in old pickup truck
till we arrived in Latakia Port,
named for the mother of some ancient king,
and spent the night beside the silent wall
of Bacchus temple, where wild revelries
of satyrs drinking wine and chanting hymns
no longer echo in its roofless hall.

Long years we lived in small apartment room,
waiting for acceptance to paradise
after we applied for refugee status,
and I worked mopping floors in college halls,
although I am a civil engineer,
till we were granted visas with a stamp
to fly to Rome and London and New York,
then on to Chicago by gleaming lake
where we rejoiced with hearts of humble thanks
to live at last in the land of the free,
welcomed by the Lady of Liberty
who opens her arms to all refugees.

For many years now since we arrived here
in windy Chicago, I have been employed
as associate professor of engineering
at Wilbur Wright College, named for the man
and his brother who built the first airplane,
where I teach construction technology,
instructing smart young students expertise
in application of energy efficiency
and the renewable energy systems
in building and construction industries.

Two years ago I gained citizenship
when I declared loyalty of my whole heart
to noble principle of liberty
and justice for which America stands,
and every day I place my right hand firm
on my beating heart and pledge true allegiance
to the good flag of these United States.

But now when I return from my old homeland,
where my ancestors lived a thousand years,
visiting my family and gentle mother
after my father died, when I return
to land of freedom I cherish and love,
you block me from entering my new homeland?

Why do you twist my arm behind my back?
I am an old man, a college professor,
hardly a threat to peace of our shared nation.
Let me call my immigration lawyer.

Now I am locked alone in this small room,
like a character in a Kafka novel,
arrested and detained without a charge.
I feel like Icarus with broken wings,
fallen from the sky where I once flew free
and dragged helpless from the cold weeping sea.

Angel In Death Canyon

Angel In Death Canyon
© Surazeus
Seattle, 22 July 1991

Exquisite sound of Angels clapping
as apes learn to walk and then to fly.
The exquisite sound of Angels laughing
as hairless apes get trapped in steel cages.
And they weep at the sight of their eyes
so big and round and scared behind glass
as the children of the dying gods
race down the highways of ambition and war
in search of the magic potion in the grail
that when drunk shall make apes into gods.

We are driving down the highway to hell,
and we are hurtling toward the abyss
of hunger, the grand canyon of desire,
the pit of despondence and despair and dearth.
I love living on this party-mad Earth.

The exquisite sound of flapping wings
as the sparrow hawk glides over the canyon,
listening to the silence of the hot dust.
His yellow eyes search the details of the ground
for the motions and gestures of rodents.
Claws unsheathed, beak glistening in sunlight,
short wings snapping in the hard wind.
The hawk descends like lightning at the sight
of a rodent, and this courageous rodent
who leaps into the hole of his palace,
he shall become the ancestor of a mighty race
of hairless rats at the dawning of the new sun.

For one brief shining hour at the end,
humanity, the heirs of the kingdom of the gods,
stood tall in their towers of cold glass
and they watched the creation of a sun.
The creation and death of the sun candle,
exploding on the field of ultimate battle.
On the Mountain of Geddon the fire
burned gold like the eyes of a sparrow hawk,
for in the end is our new beginning.
Do you weep and gnash your teeth at the death
of animals who lived with us for millennia?
Do you shout in the halls of the White House
that our factories are destroying the wilderness?
Weep not, for this was decreed by Apollon,
this death of our brothers in the forests.
As the dinosaurs were destroyed by the asteroid
sixty-five million years ago which cleared
the field of time for the rising of man,
so we shall be cleared from that same field
for the rising of a new race of creature,
the higher being which shall rise from the ashes
of our passion like we rose from the ashes
of the Dinoids, the lizard men who lived
and thrived in the shadows of the past.
I saw their faces in the lake of ice,
and I saw their faces on the televisions,
and I saw their almond eyes of gold
in the whirling disk of the star-ships
that descended from the clouds like lightning.

We are born, we copulate, we consume
the flesh and souls of animals and plants,
and then we die and our bodies crumble
back to the dust of our ancient beginning.
Weep not for the death of our race.
Weep not for the white terrified eyes
behind the glass of star-ships and computers.
Weep not for the ranger on his stallion
and weep not for the wife at the hearth
of the house built in the palm of the hill.
Weep not for ourselves, for we are alive
now, and now we shall dance on the Earth,
and now we shall sing and build monuments,
though they crumble with the gnawing of time,
and now we shall stretch our aching hands
to Heaven and touch the glory of the gold sun.

The old man with a shock of white hair
rests in the shadow of the twisted tree.
Plucking the fruit with his right hand
and clutching his staff with his left hand,
he smiles and bites into its juicy flesh.
Thunder cracks the silence of the heat.
The desert sand shall blossom with blue-bells.
Can you hear them ringing in the pink dawn.

Whiteness Shining In Water

Whiteness Shining In Water
© Surazeus
2017 01 27

I see strange pure whiteness shining in water
that reflects urgent force of life and death
when I stare down in deep bottomless well
which reveals my own consciousness of love
beaming in rainbow colors of weird truth
on glimmering surface picture of my soul.

I see faces of my father and mother
merged into my face, two blended in one,
half of each clumped together to present
familiar stranger who might know my name.

Behind my face, stretching backward in masks
of passionate hope, faces of my ancestors
blossom into millions of now-dead souls,
each one vanishing into my one face,
billions of faces flickering from white flame
of my conscious glowing soul who maintains
virtual world of memories in my brain
that weaves all deeds of their dramatic lives
in vibrant fabric of my living soul.

Each moment as I move through maze of life
my eyes dream flashes of unconscious urge
revealing moments of intense emotion
when one of them in vast web of my soul
twangs string of events that reflect this scene
where I now stand on stage of life to play
prewritten role society demands,
so when I contemplate flow of events
to analyze flash of cause and effect
my mind envisions how that person acted
and whether they succeeded or failed, game
of chance I rewrite to manage my fate.

I see from flash of drama in my eyes
how they played game of life to love or die,
then step on stage and express my own thoughts
which conjures new world view my mind designs,
and perform my own role that beams my name
in pure whiteness of my soul on deep water.

All structures of this universe are formed
from small atomic sparks of pulsing lust
that weave my brain where I am God awake,
learning force of construction and destruction
so I can balance swirl of birth and death.

Waste Land Of Shadows

Waste Land Of Shadows
© Surazeus
2017 01 26

After running forever over rocks
of sharp terror that stab his throbbing heart,
Ezer stumbles up jagged hill of hope
and falls panting under old cypress tree,
lost alone in weary waste land of shadows.

Trembling as he gasps for breath in thick heat,
Ezer opens his hand and stares at gem
that glitters bright green like grass after rain,
polished emerald that gleams immortal light,
and smiles in rainless waste land of shadows.

"Though Gedaliah took Atarah from me,
and crowned my bride as queen in his gold hall,
I took as payment emerald from his scepter
that glitters light of truth in darkest night
to illuminate grim waste land of shadows."

Alone on rocky hilltop, under sky
of shining silver horror at mute death,
Ezer lies still in shadow of broad cypress,
watching sunlight flash across distant hills,
and becomes hard as vast waste land of shadows.

Licking his cracked lips in blast of hot wind,
Ezer remembers drinking sweet goat milk,
and senses Gedaliah holding sharp sword
that flashes rays of sunlight through his heart,
who stands near in aching waste land of shadows.

Starting from dream at prick of jolting fear,
Ezer stares at hilltop of broken rocks
where his shadow stretches thin across dust,
and mumbles at vanished ghost of Gedaliah
who hovers over frail waste land of shadows.

"I turn to stone as I forget my name,
and I swirl and shift, incandescent as cloud
that wanders listless over radiant lake,
and yet I know her eyes are emerald green,
watching all that lives in waste land of shadows."

Atarah stands before him, dark as cloud
of shivering rain that bursts over green sea,
so Ezer reaches out his trembling hand
to grasp her hand, but grasps dead cypress limb,
and calls out her name in waste land of shadows.

"Weighed down by sorrow of my lost desire
under dark cloak of substance beyond mass,
I struggle to climb from shaft of dark fear
where seed of my heart sprouts not without tears
that cannot fertilize waste land of shadows."

Placing emerald on his tongue, Ezer hums
lullaby his mother sang long ago,
but words disappear in her lightless eyes,
and she sucks his body back in her womb,
so he flails at fear in waste land of shadows.

"Gedaliah is greedy and enslaves men,
whipping their backs to build palace of gold,
yet that evil man wears crown of acclaim,
reigning free though he raped me wife from me,
and I wander lost in waste land of shadows."

Howling at ghost of Gedaliah who sneers,
Ezer screams and thrashes in helpless rage,
then sobs as he clutches his heaving chest,
and feels his heart escape on wild hawk wings,
soaring aimless over waste land of shadows.

"Where is justice of El in this cruel world
where evil men are rewarded for theft
while good men are punished for honest craft,
since he hugs my wife while I clutch her ghost,
spilling seed in sterile waste land of shadows."

Flickering flame of desire walks up high hill
and gray shade of his wife stands in white light,
so he laughs, "Ghost of Atarah, begone,
and haunt me no more for my heart is dead,
transformed to hard stone in waste land of shadows."

Atarah kneels and clutches his frail hand,
emerald eyes beaming sunlight in his soul,
and speaks with grim sorrow of hope reborn,
but her words flutter in hot desert wind
that erodes bodies in waste land of shadows.

"Ezer, my love, I threw his crown in dust,
and escaped clutching hands of greedy king,
then wandered weeping to find you again,
so drink sweet goat milk to nourish your heart,
for I found you, ghost in waste land of shadows."

Crawling over jagged rocks of despair
to escape glamorous ghost of desire,
Ezer groans in fear at touch of her hands,
and weeps when she clutches him to her breast,
lovers reunited in waste land of shadows.

Staring in emerald eyes of pretty ghost,
Ezer shakes his head and laughs in hot wind,
"You cannot be real since you chose gold crown
over humble wreath of flowers I wove,
so leave me alone in waste land of shadows."

Floating in darkness of miserable love,
Ezer remembers when he first saw eyes
of sweet Atarah, shining green as emerald
that burns cold in his hand clutched to his heart,
transformed into rock in waste land of shadows.

Waking at dawn under broad cypress tree,
Ezer stares across jagged shadowed hills,
and sighs, "I cannot tell if she was here
in warm flesh of love, or if she was ghost
of hope I conjured from waste land of shadows."

Opening his hand to gaze at bright emerald,
Ezer stares in shock at white gritty dust
that dissipates in gust of careless wind,
so he searches everywhere on hilltop
for heart of his love in waste land of shadows.

Holding bright emerald in her trembling hand,
Atarah stands over him in white sun
and weeps to watch him searching in dry dust,
blind to her presence with bag of goat milk,
so she walks away from waste land of shadows.

Cycle Of Power

Cycle Of Power
© Surazeus
2017 01 25

The cycle of power spins around again
on the Yin-Yang merry-go-round of change
to balance the Force of evil and good
through fluctuation between light and dark.

After the reign of the good king of light,
Apollo, Mazda, Osiris, Shiva, Jesus,
comes the reign of the bad king of dark,
Dionysus, Angra, Set, Vishnu, Satan.

The One Mind who rules the progress of time
manages transformation of all life
through process of construction and destruction
to balance pulsing of atomic force.

The generous king who rules all with love
is followed in process of social change
by the greedy king who rules all with hate
which destroys the old to create the new.

Nations burned by the harsh conflicts of war
that destroys institutions stiff with pride
rise reborn through the fertile lust of peace
that creates institutions flush with trust.

Go with the flow of constant social change
and surf the surging waves of renewed growth
so in the darkest hour of hate and fear
we bear the brightest light of love and hope.

Fight For Your Right To Vote

Fight For Your Right To Vote
© Surazeus
2012 01 25

You wake up late for work on election day.
You ask your boss for time off but he says, "No!"
You get out late from work, hurry down to church,
and stand in line for hours before they lock the door.
You got to fight for your right to vote!

Old lady from church who volunteered to work
demands to see your state-issued ID card.
You were born during segregation with dark skin.
State lost your birth certificate years ago.
You got to fight for your right to vote!

You are tired of gridlock in Washington.
They fight over gay marriage instead of jobs.
Republicans shout, "More tax cuts for the rich!"
Then slash unemployment funds and food stamps.
You got to fight for your right to vote!

I was born on this earth with a heart and mind.
I love my family and I enjoy working hard.
I want America to thrive with justice for all.
We occupy our home from sea to shining sea.
You got to fight for your right to vote!

My Own True Paradise

My Own True Paradise
© Surazeus
2017 01 24

Down in rolling hills among southern pines
where the brown Chattahoochee River flows
with thousands of strangers driving their cars
no one outside radio or church sings.

So many people maintain faith in God,
some supernatural deity from stars
invented by shepherds in the bronze age
to justify their rule as autocrats.

While walking endless roads throughout my life
I never saw this great omniscient God
except in virtual world inside my brain
generated from texts of ancient books.

Millions of people sea to shining sea
gather every seven days inside church
to sing about the king they hope returns,
praying that he will raise them all from death.

They bow their heads and pray to long dead king
that he will give them all eternal life
then transform our messy world full of pain
and suffering into perfect paradise.

To maintain this vain delusional faith
they gather every seven days in church
to pray to empty air with fervent hope
and sing hymns to keep illusions alive.

When I was twenty-one I walked outside
the bubble of illusion their faith beams
and breathed fresh air of indifferent sky,
rejoicing to feel glow of the real sun.

While feeling sadness that their hopes are vain
for eternal life in some perfect world,
I walk away alone on road of life
and leave them to illusions of their faith.

Alone on nameless road where no God reigns
I strum guitar and sing new melodies
that beam clear vision from my own bright brain
which guides my way through waste land of despair.

I love this messy world of pain and death,
my own true paradise of pulsing life,
and find this hour of awareness and love
my own eternal life of timeless bliss.

Wings Of Second Birth

Wings Of Second Birth
© Surazeus
2017 01 24

While driving the dark highway before dawn
in quaint southern town near the sparkling sea,
I listen to the bard Bob Dylan sing
about despair on Desolation Row.
We are the weeping children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

Before the omens of the moon are gone
we recall that we must fight to live free
before money-blind men can clip our wings
and steal our labor with deceptive show.
We are the wandering children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

Though everyone agrees on what is true
greedy men who seek to control our minds
will try to convince us we should believe
their alternative facts are far more real.
We are the searching children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

With our eyes and hands we must seek each clue
and organize world view from all our finds,
thus with many threads of facts we can weave
grand tapestry that shows time-spinning wheel.
We are the learning children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

We must believe what we see with our eyes
and agree what is real through dialogue,
then share one vision from our combined dreams
to dispel the blinding spell of their lies.
We are the watching children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

Tyrants claim to control the world and skies,
trying to blind us with haughty monologue,
but we find truth with friends by flowing streams
that give us life under wide open skies.
We are the singing children of this Earth,
rising on Phoenix wings of second birth.

Singing In Your Dreams

Singing In Your Dreams
© Surazeus
2017 01 23

When I am lying alone on my bed
and lay my glass eye phone on my forehead,
I can read your mind streaming on moonbeams.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

You chase me far across the shining beach
and though I ever fly beyond your reach
you tell me that you see me in your dreams.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

Though I am skeptical of you at first
you give me your love free till my heart bursts
and floods your thirsty heart with flowing streams.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

Though we are far away in time and space
your words of love illuminate my face
and mold stormy feelings with faithful themes.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

The spirit of my hope with pulsing wings
aches to burst beyond mind-enclosing rings,
threatening to tear me apart at the seams.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

You win me with the laughter of your play
since you stay with me on the moonlit bay,
revealing secret of life with your schemes.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

We lay aside our eye phones to embrace
and kiss till we vanish without a trace,
making love where the moon-measured tide teems.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

When children of my soul spring from your heart
I know that we will never be apart
so, holding hands, we walk where starlight gleams.
I am the angel singing in your dreams.

Wind In Trees

Wind In Trees
© Surazeus
2017 01 22

In the dark by the lake that reflects stars
she sings wordless melody of desire
that aches with the whisper of wind in trees
which haunts the forest where wild creatures roam.

The little boy who kneels before her tree
places straw basket of berries and nuts
on her lap, then she caresses his cheek,
peering into the silence of his soul.

"Long ago I reigned as queen of the world,
goddess gowned in silk and crowned with gold ring
studded with gems that beamed my divine soul,
and I wrote names of all in Book of Life."

She sighs and gazes at the silver moon
that beams light clear through her transparent flesh,
and her eyes flash with horror of dark fear,
but then she looks down at his face and smiles.

"I generated your soul from my guard
so I placed scepter of authority
in his hand, but my brother cut his heart,
and cast his body on the flames of hate."

Plucking white lily filled with purple rain,
the fallen queen wipes cold tears from her eyes,
and laughs when rain shower falls on their heads,
and moonlight gleams in clear drops on their cheeks.

"My brother drove me from my throne of power
so I fled far, clutching you in my arms,
while he crowned his wife as queen of the world,
therefore I am now queen of wind and light."

He touches her arm, fragile as the twig
of an apple tree in the winter frost,
and she drinks cider from cup in his hand,
then sings again sad haunting melody.

"Remember my words for ten thousand years,
each time we wake from child born of our flesh,
that power to command obedient action
is fleet as the wind that swirls at our faces."

The little boy gazes at leaves of trees
that flutter, whispering secrets, in cool breeze,
then looks again at his mother who lies
dead among flowers where bees collect pollen.

Right Of Women To Choose

Right Of Women To Choose
© Surazeus
2017 01 21

The streets of cities in America
across the land from sea to shining sea
glow bright with the eyes of four million souls
who march for the right of women to choose.
Around the world in the cities of men
we march for the right of women to choose.

Wearing pink kitty hats crowning our heads,
we march for the right of women to choose
whether or not to bear children with love
who play fun games in the park with their friends.
Around the world in the cities of men
we march for the right of women to choose.

Though our grand White House is now occupied
by the grabber-in-chief with tiny hands,
we march in the sun and rain to declare
that bodies of women cannot be owned.
Around the world in the cities of men
we march for the right of women to choose.

When we march together around the world
our voices vibrate in the air with spell
which carves sacred law on the mountain side
that women are free to live as they choose.
Around the world in the cities of men
we march for the right of women to choose.

Film Of Girl Eating Soup

Film Of Girl Eating Soup
© Surazeus
2011 01 21

Andy Warhol sits on a tall wood stool,
wearing blue jeans, patent leather shoes,
and a white dress shirt with three pens.
No butterfly fans wings on silver hair.

Holding movie camera over his face,
Andy films a little girl in an Easter dress
who eats hot Campbells tomato soup
and a grilled cheese sandwich and milk.

She sings, "If you ever see maskless me
hanging out in dead broken Tree of Life,
put a tattered dollar bill in my right hand
and take me back to signless Wonderland."

Blue butterfly flutters through window
and fans wings on long golden curls.
Andy records her eating for over an hour.
Little girl never once looks at his camera.

Andy holds blue plastic princess phone.
"I expect God will call me on this phone,
but I will not have anything good to say."
Phone rings so he gives it to little girl.

Three thousand years later on a mountain
inside crystal bubble of television eyes
butterfly angel sits on a pink lotus flower
and watches old film of girl eating soup.

Tragic Fall

Tragic Fall
© Surazeus
2017 01 20

As pageantry of political power
plays out on our national stage this hour,
I see Sophocles, wise spy in the shadow,
watching the arrogant king bring his sideshow
of deceptive games to the White House hall
where he promises to build new Great Wall
and declares only he can fix it all,
ready to chronicle his tragic fall.

Will this new Oedipus Rex who got past
the Riddling Sphinx, whose prophecy was cast
in magic formula of hope from fear,
figure out in time right method to steer
our Ship of State in the perilous race
before he stumbles in haughty disgrace
when he boasts only he can fix it all
but destroys our world in his tragic fall?

How can we survive when our cities burn
since this Nero plays harp without concern
then sends our brothers in conquering war
after crowning as queen his sweet Lenore,
and refuses to pay us for our work,
stealing our wealth with an arrogant smirk
though he hides behind his new golden wall
while our nations crash with his tragic fall?

This fake Mussolini puffs out his chest,
and boasts that his solutions are the best,
then threatens to crush terrorists with hate,
but Sophocles laughs while watching his fate
because he wrote this play centuries ago
so he invites us all to see sad show
about king who boasts he can fix it all
but cannot change role in his tragic fall.

Observant Sleuth

Observant Sleuth
© Surazeus
2017 01 19

Cold wind whips flag of stars and stripes at noon
when the woman with three eyes paints the moon
to gleam like porcelain mask of dead queen
who taught me how to design new machine
that calculates meaning for my strange dream
to explain why I weep by howling stream.

So many things happen on spinning world
that reveal where rainbow dragon lies curled
in huge lonely mountain on misty plain
that I must organize from swirling rain
coherent paradigm through puzzle frame
explaining events coded from my name.

I see new uncrowned king on temple lawn
swear pledge to elevate the loyal pawn
who hides the constitution of our state
behind the shining glory of gold gate
that bars our way to trees of paradise
where apples can be bought for the right price.

When the Lady of the Lake in gold crown,
that shines with emerald stolen by her clown,
puts honed sword Excalibur in my hand,
and commissions me to protect her land,
I hesitate, but go watch children play
capture the flag while pious parents pray.

I wonder, can I be honest and bold,
then climb the hill to ask the poet Turold
who puts his stringless guitar in my hand
and teaches me to sing across the land
new tale of heroes lost on sacred quest
who research nature with curious zest.

While reading Aeneid in ancient book
I enter Wonderland and climb the rook
where sweet Rapunzel calls my secret name
then teaches me to play her kissing game
in Garden of Eden by the dead tree
that once bloomed apples before I ran free.

My father named me Richard with wan smile
for I am the Rook Ward who pounds the spile
which should support the roof of his new hall
where I must dance with the porcelain doll
with blue eyes who enters dressed in pink gown
and beams at me beneath her silver crown.

Though sons of kings, spawned by the glowing hearth,
once ruled our land of gardens we call Earth,
we changed the game of rulership so men
must campaign for our loyal votes to win,
and thus control revolution of change
when we expand dominion of our range.

When sailing west I hang on the ship door
new map designed by Gerardus Mercator
and plot straight course across the surging sea
to Massachusetts where I plant new tree
whose seed first blossomed in Garden of Eden
and appoint myself to play apple warden.

I lay my hand on the old book of tales
and lift high the sword of justice and scales,
then swear to rule our wandering tribe of fools
who dismantle old boats to build new schools,
and protect the clan of the Holy Grail
ruled by our Empress who wears white lace veil.

I unite every land where our tribe dwells
and name it Anglonesia with new spells
that bind our hearts in paradigm of truth
to worship our new god, observant sleuth
who investigates nature with sharp eye
and proves that we are nothing when we die.

I wake from dream and stand before the world
then sing about explorers who unfurled
sails of curious search for nature of things
till we fly among clouds on shining wings
and map the endless history of mankind
so real world matches dream world in each mind.

She Is Our Goddess

She Is Our Goddess
© Surazeus
2016 01 18

She smirks at everything that breaks her heart
and hides her wounds behind a mask of ice.
She will not plan her life on scheduled chart
and seems to substitute desire for vice.
She is our Goddess walking on this Earth,
creator of our life through spirit birth.

She wears a slender skirt instead of pants
since her clothes are no excuse for assault.
She should walk safely everywhere she wants
since men choosing to grab is not her fault.
She is our Goddess singing love for life,
artist of our souls as mother and wife.

She laughs whenever he tries to mansplain,
capable of performing her job well.
She reminds him, I have a working brain,
and if you listened to me you could tell.
She is our Goddess building with her hands,
dreamer of the soul that blooms from all lands.

She marches with her sisters on the mall,
declaring rule, my body is my own.
She hammers till she cracks the legal wall,
insisting she is human, not your clone.
She is our Goddess teaching us to love
weaver of the light that beams from above.

Face My Mother Lost

Face My Mother Lost
© Surazeus
2017 01 17

Gold fire flickers in the ring of gray stones,
casting shadows that leap among oak trees
where white owls beam moonlight into my heart.

Grasping anguish of despair from the dark,
I mold red river mud of my desire
to preserve faces of people I love.

The iron man came from tower of gold,
shining silver as he walked from the sky,
and swung beam of light that slashed off their heads.

I floated in green lake with silent frogs
to hide from the killing flash of his wrath,
and now I stand weeping in red moonlight.

Since mother of stars created our eyes
from apples and moonlight at dawn of time
we played in the lake of dreams without care.

I grasp broken branch of the dead oak tree
and glare defiant at the tower of gold
that blinds my eyes when the summer wind blows.

The apple drips sweet red juice down my breast
when I devour the heart of silent death,
and seeds of my hope sprout into new trees.

I hide with snakes in the leaves of my trees
when the daughter of the tower king appears
and smiles when I give her fruit of my love.

I hold her trembling in my tender arms
and show her the secrets of blinking stars
that fill her green eyes with light of my love.

She places our child in my gentle arms
and gathers flowers while I sing about stars
to the girl with the face my mother lost.

First Mother Of Mankind

First Mother Of Mankind
© Surazeus
2017 01 16

First Mother Amen stands in Lake of Dreams
to pluck ripe apple from the Tree of Life
and teaches us to sing words of our dreams
and plant trees in every vale of this world.

In ancient civilizations of Man
god was the woman on tall pyramid
who organized the labor of our hands
to maximize efficiency of work.

First Mother on the pyramid of eyes
appointed strongest man to rule as king
enforcing words of her vision as laws
that manage interactions of our hopes.

While standing on tall pyramid at dawn
she spread her arms wide with welcoming love
and dreamed awake the vision of our eyes
revealing role each person plays in life.

Wise Amen was the first star of our dream,
our loving First Mother who taught us all
the song of creation that guides our hearts
when we walk alone on the road of life.

All civilizations of man on this world
which rose and fell these past ten thousand years
sprout from the seed of her creative word,
first goddess who wove the dreams of our eyes.

I wandered listless in the maze of life
that winds through all the cities of our world
till I returned to stand on pyramid
where Amen taught us how to sing with joy.

First Mother Amen wakes inside our minds
so we all gather in the hall of dreams
and sing the hymn of love that she composed
that helps us harmonize our souls as one.

Circles Of Life

Circles Of Life
© Surazeus
2017 01 15

While Carla plays her polished violin
among old apple trees that blossom white
and clatter black branches in winter wind,
I trace circles in sand to find the light.
Though Jason plays sorrow on silver flute
along the gushing river of his heart
where ravens stealing secrets remain mute,
I bend trees in circles to wheel my cart.
We write dramas with harmony and strife,
and weave our souls tight in circles of life.

Since Gertrude wearing long green gown of vines
chants song of the Earth from tower of glass
that dream history of life with arcane signs,
I organize soul circles in each class.
If Richard waves his magic wand to lead
angels singing hymns in cathedral hall
where mothers teach their children how to read,
I enclose paradise in secure wall.
We play old roles in harmony and strife,
and dance holding hands in circles of life.

Yet now that Gothus wakes inside my brain
and shows me evolution of mankind
which transforms while Earth spins with washing rain,
I weave visions with words from fountain mind.
Because Maria gave me secret name
and taught me art of writing dreams in words
I sit on pyramid and manage game
of farmers and craftsmen like singing birds.
We fight for power in harmony and strife,
and forge gold crowns bright in circles of life.

When everyone alive is dead and gone
these poems and paintings flowing from our hands
will weave world-wide-web brain of god at dawn
so all our ghosts will spring from desolate lands.
We leave these words and melodies of dreams
as memories of our hungry lives that shine
forever in the global brain with schemes
revealing blueprints for our sacred shrine.
We build empires in harmony and strife,
and drive machines in wide circles of life.

Erecting stones on hill by flashing lake,
I gather wandering tribes in sacred ring
and teach them how to make cider and cake,
then under gleaming stars we dance and sing.
I stare through window of my house at pool
where people long ago would sing by stars,
and wonder how we dream history in school
then race circles our whole lives in fast cars.
We sing new hymns for harmony and strife,
and follow rainbows through circles of life.

Since Winter Is Coming

Since Winter Is Coming
© Surazeus
2017 01 14

While snow covers the broken world in death
and the fascist dictator steals old key
that opens the cracked door to our White House,
I eat pizza and huddle in thick coat
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

When I arrive on the horse with no name
I try to climb the steep stairway to heaven
but wander lost in Hotel California,
dancing with Lucy in the sky with diamonds,
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

I turn my collar to the cold and damp
while wearing the gold thorny crown I stole
and continue down six crooked highways
to build new home on the street with no name
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

Though we are nothing but dust in the wind
I take my face from ancient gallery
to play guitar on Desolation Row
where Jack Flash dances on the burning stage
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

Look to the sky where the stars fade away
and you will see me drive my flying car
above the labyrinth where Goblin King
keeps Lady Liberty locked in gold tower
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

Leaping from the dead apple tree, I ride
river boat past where tangerine trees glow
and carry Ophelia to hall of mirrors
where dead angels hide in the words of books
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

Although love is the seventh wave, I see
the moon rise bleeding over one tree hill
which shows us the way from the heart of darkness
through the maze of hope to his nowhere land
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

Now when I fly your magic swirling ship
beyond the wall I built with broken skulls
I hold the spinning world within my hands
and eat the apple from her tree of life
since winter is coming to freeze my soul.

When I Die

When I Die
© Surazeus
2017 01 13

I stand on the shore of the forest lake
when gold raindrops are splashing in my hair
and feel our rainbow beam bright through my mind
to wash away the sorrow of my pain.

When I die and my spirit dissipates
bury me under your tall apple tree
so I will become apples blooming in mist
on your sunlit hill by our sparkling sea.

I see you walking toward me from green gloom,
bearing basket of red apples you picked
from the tree of snakes you killed with a stick
and hold one out to me like the red sun.

When I die and my flesh crumbles to dust
throw my body in your swift flowing stream
so I will become the flash of its flow
and fall as rain on the high mountain slope.

Though our son ran from your arms full of joy
and fell in the depths of the murky pool
weep not that he vanished from dream of life
for we can kiss and spark another child.

When I die and my eyes stare blank at clouds
burn my body in flames before it rots
for worms and bugs will consume my foul flesh
and I will wake in the buzzing of lust.

Your belly swells again with our new child
and we will wake in their curious eyes
so they can sing when we teach them dream words
that envision the world of flowing shapes.

When I die and I stop breathing cool air
throw my body into the swirling sky
where I will sprout long white wings like the owl
and watch you with live with eyes of moonlit gold.

Strange Face In Shining Pool

Strange Face In Shining Pool
© Surazeus
2017 01 12

The gleaming rainbow pierces through my heart
when I see your faces dissolve to mud.
I hold sparkling rain in my trembling hand
and drink the tears of sorrow that we shed.

Your falling bombs destroyed that world we built
and shattered all our dreams we forged from glass.
We dance now on the fragments of our hopes
that cut our hearts with shards of bitter hate.

I crawl through rubble of our broken faith
to try and reassemble old beliefs.
The Phoenix of our nation burns in war
but we will rise again on wings of truth.

The prophet who once lead us with his light
now wanders blind in wilderness of fear.
He cries out to the jet planes soaring past,
and weeps over the dead child in his arms.

The little girl and boy run among trees
and gather flowers by the sparkling stream.
Their homes were shattered by divine decrees
and now they wander in dim eerie dream.

Now where on this vast globe of hills and plains
can lovers settle from their wandering quest?
They plant fresh seeds in garden of her breast
and watch the rainbow glow after cool rain.

Now ancient machines that engineers built
are rusting in vast fields of endless rain.
We wander lost in labyrinth of doors
where people hang their masks of social pride.

Two warriors who once fought for haughty kings
now sell each other crafts and food they make.
I stand on river shore after world war
and stare at my strange face in shining pool.

What Will You See

What Will You See
© Surazeus
2017 01 11

White snow keeps falling to shroud naked hills
and hides gray sorrow under veil of light.
My heart is aching to see your gray eyes
and our river flows hidden by cracked ice.
What will you see when you return to me,
the rose of my cheeks long wilted away?

I sit alone in the hut of gray stone
that you built with your bleeding hands for me.
I count the red stars that burn through my heart
and wait for you to return from the sea.
What will you see when you look in my eyes,
the flame of our love long burned to gray ash?

The world spins around through empty abyss
and the light of the sun glows in my brain.
The roads of the world are now paved with glass
yet I still return to wait in the rain.
What will you see when you look at my face,
the mask of my soul long withered from pain?

Great cities of steel and glass spring from Earth
and the mad king howls in his tower of gold.
I still hear you sing on the radio
about your journey to find me again.
What will you see when you find your way home,
red roses blooming from heart of my grave?

Journey Out West

Journey Out West
© Surazeus
2017 01 10

Sunlight glitters gold on vast field of snow
where single set of footsteps trace my quest
from waste land to hills where apple trees grow
and chirping robin builds new cozy nest.

Alone on wind-swept hill I stop and look
backward along my way ten thousand years
and see lost cities preserved in no book,
destroyed by wars of greed and blinding fears.

I trace my way around our spinning globe
that blazes trail of hope west toward new lands
till I flee alone in old tattered robe
from all I built and destroyed with my hands.

I built great empires on mountains of brick,
raising castles of stone and towers of steel,
that thrived long centuries till we grew sick
and kings that doled out wealth began to steal.

Generous kings and greedy tyrants reign
over busy nations like God on Earth
but each one falls when he grows fat and vain
while people live on in sorrow and mirth.

I journey west over mountains and seas
to live secure in lush garden of fruit
that flourishes and blooms from kiss of bees
and my love sings while I play haunting flute.

Yet maze of streets from money city sprawls
and paves my peaceful garden with cement
then paradise is prisoned by high walls
and fruit I grew is sold without assent.

On shore of Oregon I stare far west
across the ocean where the east begins
in shock I now finish my ancient quest
then dance with joy while our planet still spins.

The Collaboration of Shakespeare and Oxford

The Collaboration of Shakespeare and Oxford

Ever since 2005, when I read a long article that listed hundreds of similarities between the biographical details of the life of Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, and details of characters and plots in the plays of Shakespeare, I have been intrigued by the authorship question.

Based purely on the uncanny similarities of numerous events and people between the life of Edward de Vere and plots and characters that appear in many of the plays, especially Hamlet, I have been leaning toward the belief that Edward de Vere, along with about four other people, wrote much of the text of the plays, while William Shakespeare was the theater director, like a movie director today.

Many people in the Stratford and Oxford camps favor an either-or theory, adamantly insisting that only one of them wrote all the plays, and dismissing the other as a fraud, whereas I favor a collaborationist theory, that William and Edward worked together to write and produce the plays. I favor the view that Edward de Vere wrote most of the pentameter verse of the plays while someone, quite possibly Shakespeare himself, wrote most of the prose.

I am flexible in my beliefs, eager and willing to review all evidence supporting either William Shakespeare or Edward de Vere as the author of the plays, because I always base my beliefs on facts and evidence, and not ideology.

Thus I was intrigued by this article that appeared recently titled "How ‘Sherlock of the library’ cracked the case of Shakespeare’s identity" and read it with excitement, expecting clear evidence that supports Shakespeare as the author.

https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2017/jan/08/sherlock-holmes-of-the-library-cracks-shakespeare-identity

However, this article is filled with lots of snark and bluster that Shakespeare was the author while presenting no evidence at all. The only passage in this entire article that seems to actually present the purported evidence is this paragraph:

"It’s at this point in the story that Wolfe discovered “the smoking gun”. In the Brooke-Dethick feud, it becomes clear that “Shakespeare, Gent. from Stratford” and “Shakespeare the Player” are the same man. In other words, “the man from Stratford” is indeed the playwright." 

There is no "smoking gun" here. In spite of the aggressive assertion that “There is such a wealth of evidence out there that he’s the playwright” this is not any evidence at all.

When I look clearly at quotes from the documents they present, I see only the phrases "Shakespeare, Gent. from Stratford" and "Shakespeare the Player". Everyone discussed in this article is making the assumption that "Shakespeare the Player" means that he is the playwright when the original document itself nowhere uses the actual word "playwright".

No, it does not follow that "the man from Stratford" is the playwright. It does prove that as "the player" he was involved in the theater, and supports my theory that he was the director while Oxford was the playwright.

I have been waiting over 10 years for someone to explain why William Shakespeare, son of a glover from a small town, would write more than 30 plays which are without question thinly disguised biographies of another person entirely, namely Edward de Vere.

Every play has numerous people and events that match the life of Edward de Vere and not William Shakespeare. Instead of wondering why William would write biographical plays about Edward, I find it more logical to conclude that Edward wrote autobiographical plays about his own life while William directed the plays on stage.

Until someone can clearly convince me otherwise, I will continue to favor my current theory that William Shakespeare was the theater director while Edward de Vere was the principle writer, much like the situation in movie production today where the director and the writer of a film are quite often different people.

I remain believing in a collaborationist theory about the authorship question while maintaining an open mind about all evidence.

King Of Lost Avenue

King Of Lost Avenue
© Surazeus
2017 01 09

Green rain drizzles on asphalt streets where cars
glide gleaming gold past endless rows of homes
while ravens on phone lines watch people walk
in stores and cafes on Lost Avenue.

Inside the Crippled Pegasus cafe,
Robert leans back and laughs, smoking cigar,
then drinks scorching mocha with Irish Creme
while watching girls stroll on Lost Avenue.

"The Middle Ages when the church was strong
was no more than serial killers with swords
who wore gold crowns and called themselves good kings,
then ruled gangs of thieves on Lost Avenue."

Peter gasps and leans forward with wide eyes.
"But every man elected president
descends from kings who ruled the Sceptered Isle,
and everyone who walks Lost Avenue."

Samuel grins and sips sweet peppermint tea.
"Whether we all come from peasants or kings
we all now share this land of liberty,
equal under law on Lost Avenue."

Robert winks at Carleen across the room.
"Men started revolutionary wars
to crown themselves kings, but now we elect
the one who talks best on Lost Avenue."

Samuel laughs and eats vanilla ice cream.
"So we control our revolution now
through transforming game of democracy,
voting for our king of Lost Avenue."

Peter stands and aims gun at every face.
"We will make America great again
and restore the kingdom of Christ to law
by enforcing good on Lost Avenue."

Robert laughs and sprays mocha in his face
then snatches gun from his hand with a smirk,
and everyone goes back to their small talk
while rain keeps falling on Lost Avenue.

Peter stares in dark abyss of his eyes.
"I cannot maintain glamour of my faith
so illusion of heaven dissipates,
leaving me naked on Lost Avenue."

Robert plants hand on his shoulder and grins.
"We invent meaning for why we should live
to survive and love in meaningless game,
so eat, sing, and dance on Lost Avenue."

Samuel drinks wine while hiding angel wings.
"If I were hiding angel wings of light
I would deliver message of good hope,
but we live and die on Lost Avenue."

Robert and Peter drape arms while they sing.
"We are the Jesters and Clowns of this world
because we know where the dragon lies curled,
singing till Death comes to Lost Avenue."

Robert walks alone at midnight in rain.
"When I look in the abyss I see me,
though I am a branch broken from clan tree,
yet I must play king of Lost Avenue."

Puzzle Of Their Self

Puzzle Of Their Self
© Surazeus
2017 01 08

The dead look out at the world through our eyes
and we see them as we stare in abyss
of love that drives us to fly beyond death.

Marilyn laughs as she drinks glass of wine
because candle light glitters in gold glass
reflecting visions of girls who hold hands
and dance at midnight around the warm fire.

Renaldus kneels on pillow before tent
where book by wand on table of green cloth
presents model of our cosmos as spheres
within spheres of planets and flaming stars,
then chants new hymn invoking Earendil.

Young man with curly hair and silver eyes
who wears long white robe with yellow silk sash
appears from flashing cloud of swirling mist
and twirls gold scepter with twelve glowing gems
to banish three snarling dogs with sharp teeth,
then teaches Renaldus secret of life.

Marilyn smirks at Reynolds and winks eye.
Renaldus Columbus is our ancestor
who lived over three hundred years ago
in luxuriant land of sacred Lombardia,
and studied anatomy at Milan
under that infamous wizard Vesalius,
then dissected stiff bodies of dead people
to discover secrets of how they work.

If you want to be a surgeon, my dear,
you must remember this frail shell of clay
pulses awake, in conscious memory
of pleasure that nourishes flame of love,
with fractured soul of one eternal god.

God was a great mirror of compact light
that shattered into whirling galaxies
which nourish zillions of planets with life
where each conscious creature who wakes from fear
attempts to solve the puzzle of their self.

Marilyn returns to Halloween party,
wearing long white robe with yellow silk sash,
and twirls gold scepter with twelve plastic gems
while everyone snaps selfies with their phones
and posts them on their social media sites.

I am Earendil, Messenger from Godin,
Angel of Wisdom who descends from hall
of eternal truth that blooms in our hearts.
I am Messiah commissioned by Fate
to unify all the lands of this world
where our people live in empire of peace.

When everyone cheers loud and claps their hands,
Marilyn laughs and drinks wine from cracked glass
then whispers in ear of Reynolds, I love
how you always take good care of my soul,
but I am a frail pixie of delight
doomed to die a tragic death while still young.

Reynolds gasps surprised when she grabs his face
with both hands and kisses his mouth with love,
so he carries new bride through door of change
and together solve puzzle of their self.

We are all fragments of our memories,
and the stories we tell about ourselves
are attempts to solve the puzzle of our self.

Shining Eyes

Shining Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 01 07

During the wild party on the ninth floor
of the old red brick apartment on street
where one lone gold lamp gleams after midnight,
Amanda whispers in ear of cool stranger
who came from the dark to give her new eyes.

"I hear the thoughts of everyone alive
beam into my eyes from sunlight and wind
like chorus of angels in bright church hall,
so all their sorrows and joys become mine,"
then searches his face to find his real eyes.

"I grew up in a small Arkansas town,
attending church to give my heart to Christ,
but when I learned secrets of chemistry
I realized there is no creator god,
nothing but ancestral dreams in my eyes."

When she cannot tell if he frowns or smiles,
Amanda tries to swim through surging crowd
but each mask dissolves into swirling mist
so he carries her through window of light
and takes her to the sky to find her eyes.

She reaches her hand to caress the moon,
but her hands transform into flapping ravens,
so she shouts to the laughing tree in fear,
"you cannot make numbers replace my name,
because I can dream my own pair of eyes."

When she wakes at dawn, bound to an old bed,
Amanda sees face of her mother flash
on wall of shadow, but she sees no door,
and no raven taps on the window pane,
so she tries to find heaven in her eyes.

One thousand faces of men with no names
burst hard from the murk of sinister gloom
and stab her heart with lugubrious need
that shatters the mask that once hid her soul
till nothing is left of her but bare eyes.

One night after married businessman leaves,
after stuffing her empty soul with fear,
his cell phone that fell from his pocket glows,
so she calls her mother and cries for help,
"they enslaved my body and stole my eyes!"

The detective with silver eyes breaks door
and frees her body from the chains of greed,
then leads her downstairs with one hundred girls
who shiver together under bright stars
and gaze at each other with shining eyes.

Returning to college in silver dawn,
Amanda sits in her chemistry class
and stares long at the carbon molecule
whose pulsing spiral awakes love for life
that spins aching passion in her clear eyes.

Nationalism Versus Publicanism

Nationalism Versus Publicanism

The great conflict of our time will be Nationalism versus Publicanism, a struggle between the principles of forming political states based on genetically related group of people or a multi-ethnic group of people who live together in a common geographic region, sharing the land and its resources.

Nation is based on Latin Natus, meaning birth. Nationalism is formed on the nation, a political state that is based around a genetically related group of people who share a common culture.

Publicanism is based on Latin Publicus, meaning people. Publicanism is formed on the public, a political state that is based around a non-related group of people who live together, and elect representatives to manage their affairs in a Republic.

Most countries on the Eurasian continent are organized around nations that are many thousands of years old. The countries of the American continents are more mixtures of native Americans and people from many of the Eurasian nations.

The United States is the prime example of a country with a large ethnic mix which is facing a crisis of identity, whether it is a white christian nationalist state, or whether it is a multi-ethnic secular publican state.

European people who are the majority population in the United States are attempting to restore white christian nationalism as the organizing principle of that state.

Large numbers of native Americans as well as immigrants from every nation in the world, who have a wide variety of cultural and religious traditions, have become a part of the society of the United States, so many people of the American public want to build a more equitable and just society that treats every individual, regardless of race or religion, as equal citizens.

The society of the United States has long favored white Europeans and Christians over all other peoples of the world, but it is time to emphasize our commitment to equal rights for every person, regardless of nationality or religion.

The leaders of the United States and Russia are attempting to form an alliance of white christian nationalist states to fight against other nationalist states. They will lose against the more just principle of multi-ethnic Publicanism.

It is time for every nation of the world, especially the United States, to transform from myopic nationalist states to a universal publican state.

We are going to face a period of intense nationalist conflicts, which will hopefully shatter their nationalist attitudes and open up the regions of the world to form multi-ethnic publican states that can function peacefully within a global community of democratic republics.

I declare myself a Publican, dedicated to building a multi-ethnic secular Republic in the United States of America where every individual is treated with equal respect and justice under a common law.

Small Lonely Planet

Small Lonely Planet
© Surazeus
2017 01 06

Little poems on wings of ethereal birds
glide across vast oceans of alien tongues
and translate our thoughts into one world song,
dreaming our small lonely planet awake.

Ten billion people alone in their homes,
who carve runes on jewels in flowing stream,
talk to each other across beams of light,
dreaming our small lonely planet awake.

One open eye floating in sea of light,
first mother egg who gave birth to all life,
fragments in every plant and animal
who dream our small lonely planet awake.

She sees herself when she looks in our eyes
and teaches us all to sing spell of love
so we merge and diverge in countless lives
who dream our small lonely planet awake.

Our sun forges all elements from sparks
that spiral into coils of carbon rings
which replicate souls who wake in clear light
to dream our small lonely planet awake.

I stand alone under tree full of fruit
breathing wind, soaking sunlight, drinking rain,
and shimmer with web of organic life
to dream our small lonely planet awake.

Silver Eyes Of Liberty

Silver Eyes Of Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 01 06

This is not the right way back, so we turn
sideways and fall upside down in the stream
of tears from the million eyes of the lost
who gather outside gates of paradise,
because apples now will cost three gold coins,
when silver eyes dream awake liberty.

Whose voice rings clear in the bleak wilderness,
she asks me, gripping my lame arm in fear,
so everyone lost in the signless woods
gathers on the hill to hear secret words
Saint Cecilia sings that revive our hearts
when silver eyes reveal the way back home.

Our noble king, whose sword of honest truth
ensured justice for everyone who lives
together in this land of liberty,
was thrown down from the throne by greedy man
who chains our hands to slave in his gold mines
when silver eyes rebel against his hate.

I will not play this secondary role
in your fairy tale, she cries to the sky,
then raises flag of stars to lead our steps
marching through the waste land to chant new hymns,
then we rattle the gates of paradise
when silver eyes defy tyrannic rule.

Gripping the gold bars of exclusive wealth,
Saint Cecilia exclaims words of our hearts,
we will not slave in your dark factory,
expending our energy of desire
to forge your cold coins with blood of our souls,
then silver eyes flash bright lightning of truth.

The apple trees we planted with our hands
while working together to build our home
are now surrounded by his wall of greed,
so we must scratch in dust for bitter roots
while thunder crackles rainless in contempt
when silver eyes glitter with hopeless tears.

There is no justice in this brutal world,
Saint Cecilia whispers under dead tree,
where strong men enslave women to their will,
but we will fight against their legal chains
for our bodies are our own to control,
then silver eyes glow with courage of love.

One Hymn Of Truth

One Hymn Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 01 05

While standing on lush hillside with large crowd
of faceless friends, and waiting for my bride
to appear from cave of grape vines and crows,
so we can join our hands in loving bond
of holy matrimony, linking hearts
with desire to reincarnate our souls,
I wake after midnight and rise from bed
to walk around our home where glowing eyes
of monstrous demons lurk in hungry gloom.

I laugh at their hunger and grim despair,
fearful that after the noble just king
steps down from the great pyramid of power,
some vain greedy tyrant will take his place,
then step through mirror of my spirit mask.

I gather diaphanous cloud of atoms,
that seem to form the tangle of my nerves
inside robotic shell, and lie in bed
beside my sleeping wife who smells like mangoes,
hoping to return to our wedding dream.

I close my eyes and sense behind me glow
of flickering fire that flashes orange and red,
so I open my eyes and look backward,
but see only gray glowing window square,
yet when I close my eyes to hollow night
I see again behind my eyes bright flare
of cold miasmic fire that shrouds my soul
in swirling vapors exhaled from thick trunk
of towering tree that hovers over field
where I huddle shivering in moonless night.

I open eyes and see enclosing walls
of our soul-shielding haven, so I close
my eyes again to find myself exposed
on bleak Cimmerian hill beneath tall tree
where ravens pluck pears they throw at my head.

I catch one pear and gaze into its eyes
that reveal black seeds cracked between my teeth,
so I devour the world of juicy blood
which bleeds in tears of laughter from my eyes
when I crush rocks with my feet to blaze road
of desire through wilderness of contempt
where I erect signs to show where I rule
by measuring curvaceous space of time.

On tall black stones, that shine on broad flat tops
of twelve-step pyramids, to reveal why
we must die every night to rise reborn,
I carve symbol of my authority,
picture of tall woman spreading both arms
who stands before pear tree and rising sun
that gleams above the mountain of her eyes.

Before my bride arrives, wearing tall crown
of seven jasmine blooms, I walk alone
with my nameless brother to temple hall
where magic formulas in secret codes
are written on the skins of long dead kings.

I stand on pyramid in long white robe
and gaze through giant diamond so large crowd
of watching people see my watching eye,
huge as the sun that blazes from blank sky,
then chant the ancient hymn my mother wrote
describing how her father made the world,
so all remember why I reign as god.

At last on wind-blown wings of silk my bride
appears from ancient cave of secret dreams
and climbs the towering pyramid of power,
bearing scepter of wisdom from just laws
that glitters emerald eye of sacred truth,
and bearing crystal sphere of selfless love
that radiates insight to the hearts of men.

The people chant her name with reverent voice
when she approaches me on pyramid,
and as she spreads her wings to shroud the world
I snap awake at the voice of my wife
who tells me the alarm on my phone
is ringing to indicate time to rise,
so I shower, dress, and eat before dawn.

Driving my car on the winding highway,
along with hundred million other cars,
through maze of city streets to office tower,
I see the shining light of her black eyes,
and hear the melody of her sweet voice
as she commands we spread out from her throne,
where Helus God of Light came down from stars,
and preach her gospel of communal love
to every tribe that thrives across the world.

Arriving at work, I sit at my desk
before computer screen that glows with light
of clear diamonds on ancient pyramids,
and link my brain to world wide web of dreams
to map the history of our sacred truths
preserved in legends of heroic deeds
so we remember why we strive to live
since Ishtar stood on pyramid of eyes
and taught us how to sing one hymn of truth.

Seven Billion Songs

Seven Billion Songs
© Surazeus
2017 01 04

There are seven billion people alive
on this fragile eggshell planet of air,
that spirals around the huge flaming sphere
which spins onward through vast infinite void,
so I will have to adjust the antenna
of my selfless empathy to attune
my ringing soul to mental frequency
of seven billion brains that blink out code
of Jungian archetypes so I can sing
seven billion songs of experience
which reflect clear their individual facets
that gleam on the global mind of one god.
I sing one song to each person alive
so we share tale about how we survive.

Chorus Of Poets

Chorus Of Poets
© Surazeus
2017 01 04

We extract dreams from the broken egg shell
of our eyes and weave words into their wings
so they flutter chirping around the heads
of strangers who quest in maze of desires
till we harmonize in chorus of poets.

The butterflies of our dreams then transform
into mirrors that people grip in their hands
so we see our faces on glowing screens
of phones that connect our minds in one web
so we harmonize in chorus of poets.

Each dream that is born inside our lone minds
blossoms into apples of songs that flash
across the vast web of connected phones
to reveal secret codes of private visions
when we harmonize in chorus of poets.

We fly as one in flock of singing birds
to augur waves of hope in prophecy
that glitter in the diamonds of our words
when we fight for justice and liberty
while we harmonize in chorus of poets.

Fights For Our Liberty

Fights For Our Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 01 02

When flowers burst out of my broken heart
after drenching rain floods all our clean homes,
I open the blank door for a fresh start
and wonder where my star-chasing child roams.

I molded her soul from dreams of my mind
and breathed spirit of life to wake her eyes
then taught her how to sing truth I designed
that explains why sunlight beams from the skies.

The man in the castle with sword of fire
enslaves my brothers to work while he feasts,
drinking their blood while they slog in the mire
and whips their backs to haul large stones like beasts.

They build high walls for his sky-reaching towers
from huge blocks they carve from obedient stones,
and he drinks wine and lounges among flowers
while they construct his castle on their bones.

My lost child returns from the cave of death
and rouses our clan from mind-numbing fear
then preaches liberty with burning breath
since all men are born on same spinning sphere.

She leads our army to fight king of stone
and overthrow dictator of despair,
charging forth even though she stands alone
and hurls spear of truth at mute ghost of air.

She digs her fingers into pungent soil
and plants seeds of apples, watered with tears,
that sprout from the flame of her desperate toil
while grape vines untangle forgotten years.

She will never return from civil war
yet forever fights for our liberty
though I watch for her from my open door
and sing her name lost from eternity.

Games Behind My School

Games Behind My School
© Surazeus
2017 01 01

I see children play games behind my school
where ravens in oak trees watch with green eyes
then laugh when the eyeless boy with glass rule
measures waves of the air from ringing skies.

I kneel and remember, before dawn light,
how grandmother of my grandmother hid
apple seeds of truth in the heart of night
whose roots weave my brain in vast conscious grid.

I look up into ancient field-wrinkled face
of Moon Mother who whispers secret code
explaining how we reincarnate space
so I walk somewhere on the signless road.

I listen when the trees who wave their arms
describe the way pools mirror our true soul
so I mold clay disks into singing charms
that twirl in wind above bottomless hole.

I carve runes that designate her true name
and sit on the hill inside ring of stones,
hoping she will come and resume our game
while I cast your fortune with broken bones.

Each gust of air, drop of water, and speck
of dirt contains the flaming flash of light
that urges lone wanderers to join trek
of adventurers who defend the right.

I feel inside this glob of hungry flesh
spark of divine spirit urge my desire
to organize healers in the safe creche
where Raven Girl chants around vision fire.

I watch her flap feather cape as wind wings
till apple tree blooms from her bleeding heart
and her mouth becomes red rose when she sings,
so in the morning I invent the cart.

I insert the whirling flames of the sun
inside the slow timing spin of each wheel,
then all the wild children laugh as they run
when I lead them to my hill for a meal.

I stack ten thousand stones to build high wall
that surrounds the hill where moon mother cooks
mushroom wine that sparkles our eyes with dreams
that wait hidden in fairy tales of books.

Waving oak wand, I lead them in stone hall
where I teach them to carve letters of words,
then show them secrets of the woods and streams
and how to dream truth in the flights of birds.

I see children play games behind my school
and remember how we humans first woke
from ancient play of the King and the Fool,
so I fly away, wrapped in black silk cloak.