Fallen King Of Somewhere

Fallen King Of Somewhere
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

The silver river flowing through snowed field
beckons me to walk toward gold glowing sky
that shimmers aching sorrow through the trees
who whisper words my mother spoke to me
before the animating soul of life
vanished from her eyes that reflect the moon.

I limp on wounded feet that leave blood stains
shining in the dirty white snow of hope,
cracking bones stabbed by rays of freezing fear,
forward against blustering wind of amusement
that pierces me with frozen rays of light
and beams before my eyes lost memories.

Once I reigned in grand temple paved with gold,
sitting on high throne above loyal crowd
of worshippers who brought me gifts of jewels
because my father, wielding sword of justice,
saved our great nation from invading hordes,
but I ignored cries of the poor for food.

How high above this world on ziggurat
of divine power, wearing gold crown of truth,
I once stood and waved tall scepter of wisdom
to keep watch over labyrinth of homes
where powerful men ignored all my edicts
and exploited people for their own gain.

They rose in rebellion and, while I lounged
in warm luxurious hall, feasting on wealth
produced by the blistered hands of mute slaves,
they stormed the ziggurat with instruments
of death, and demanded I answer well
charges that I allowed people to starve.

Enclosed in shining walls of palace cage,
I reigned over illusion in my mind
that all the world under sway of my laws
prospered in peaceful production of goods,
but my ministers deceived me with lies
while honest people were killed by cruel thieves.

They shouted at my face that I allowed
ministers I appointed to maintain
order of peaceful production in factories
while looting treasuries of hard-earned wealth
and enslaving people against their will
to accumulate wealth from their hard labor.

Because I failed to control ministers
who abused the people for their own gain
the people blame me with just cause of rage
as responsible for causing their suffering,
so I hurled scepter to clatter down stairs,
and I threw gold crown of jewels in the river.

Descending from high ziggurat of power,
I walked through silent crowd of raging eyes
to follow winding path of penitence
into the shrieking wilderness of sorrow
where I sit silent on the stone of truth
and watch the river flowing through my soul.

I become the bird chirping in the tree,
and I become the apple hanging heavy
in the boundless sky of dissolved desire,
and I become the wind that whispers codes,
and I become the labyrinth of dreams
where lost souls carve their names on wind-blown dust.

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte

Forgotten Tomb Of Charlotte
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

Though dark mist shrouds my soul in lightless gloom
when I walk city streets in silent thought,
to contemplate the final dreamless doom
of dreaming creatures who decay through rot,
I stop before the house where I first saw
blue eyes and golden curls of sweet Charlotte,
then just as ravens on the phone line caw
I think I see her dancing in the mist,
just like when we once met in secret tryst.

I still savor the moment we first kissed
and strolled together in the apple grove,
amazed our beating hearts prove we exist,
and after she brewed cider on the stove
we traveled singing on the signless road
to her chapel in the sheltering cove,
and there I wrote her tale in secret code
so no one could reveal her ancient name
that hides my soul in glow of world-wide fame.

But while we laughed and played our private game
the specter of grim fear from field arose
and struck her through the heart with wrenching shame,
yet every spell she casts may yet expose
the shame of leaving those we love behind
so she retired to where the river flows
and now is naught but idol in my mind,
though more I wander more I stay at home
where I compose lost dreams in giant tome.

Beneath the emptiness of our dream dome
we chant the names and deeds of long-dead souls
who built weird maze of doors where the dead roam
and spark our placid brains with noble goals,
but all we build will crumble down to sand
and everyone who played their fateful roles
in tragicomedy that spoils our land
now form the garden soil where fruit trees bloom,
and we lie nameless in forgotten tomb.

Blooming Rose

Blooming Rose
© Surazeus
2017 10 30

I know he said the rose is obsolete
but each weird facet of the universe
that unfolds in the petals of each day
reveal another aspect of the world
that renews itself through endless rebirth
of physical forms when male and female
reincarnate in children of the mind,
since bees brew honey from the blooming rose.

River Of Dead Gods

River Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2017 10 27

Many of my ancestors ten thousand years
lived along the Euphrates River shore,
feasting on the sunlight in hot wheat bread.
Come and dream by the river of dead gods.

In fifty years those fertile crescent cities,
now shattered ruins of religious faith,
will gleam with the business of craft and love.
Come and play by the river of dead gods.

The prophet wandering in waste land of fear
will return with tales of heroic deeds
his grandchildren will watch on movie screens.
Come and sing by the river of dead gods.

Where Ishtar, first mother of humankind,
first sang about the secret of rebirth,
only dust blows on empty ziggurats.
Come and feast by the river of dead gods.

From Achilles to Caesar to Ragnar
human society remains the same,
god-kings leading warriors to conquer truth.
Come and dance by the river of dead gods.

The ancient spirit of Liberty burns
with flames of war in nation of my heart,
urging us to forge global state of peace.
Come and laugh by the river of dead gods.

Hands Instead Of Wings

Hands Instead Of Wings
© Surazeus
2017 10 26

When I wake up every morning to find
the entire universe completely changed,
I have to hunt lush meadows by the river
for a new name to call myself when light
beams through clouds to thread new wings on my heart.

I remove the mask my mother designed
and hang it on the tree where birds explain
principles of algebra weaving curves
so I can calibrate my soaring leap
beyond the edge of the world on new wings.

While gathering eggs and walnuts in baskets,
I wove from the tough sinews of my mind,
I find pyramid where people tend wheat
who explain that god can see all we do,
so I hide my wings in high mountain cave.

I climb the high pyramid, step by step,
and find the old man everyone calls god
who tells me he will feed me well for life
if I work each day in fields tending wheat,
then he gives me coins for my broken wings.

I wonder why people form social groups
and choose the wisest or the strongest man
to play god as ruler of all they do
so religious states live beyond our deaths
by hanging our lost wings on temple walls.

Our wandering tribes of hunting gatherers
expand into empires that contend to rule
resources of rivers in fertile plains
where we worship our first father as god
since he first taught us how to invent wings.

I fly my small white airplane in vast sky
and glide in clouds from sea to shining sea
like Icarus to touch the glowing sun
that weaves our world from flashing molecules
since we humans have hands instead of wings.

On lone street corners of small nameless towns
I play guitar and chant the ancient spell
that Hermes programmed in my sparkling brain
so I can cause flowers to laugh in rain
while draped in wet cloak of my useless wings.

Why Are Men Aggressive

Why Are Men Aggressive
© Surazeus
2017 10 25

Alison stands on the hill in moonlight
overlooking the city that shines bright
with perfect lives of people inside homes
and offices, where forest elves and gnomes
watch television and talk on cell phones,
and waves her hands over pile of cat bones
while chanting spells in arcane languages
to calculate the cost of averages,
but nothing happens except gentle breeze
swirls around rotting tree where honey bees
brew visions of gods that glow in our dreams,
so she whispers to shadows on gold streams.
"Why are men aggressive with sexual hope,
forcing all molested women to cope?
We follow light of visions in our minds
to calculate how spinning Earth rewinds
our social interactions through the door
that mirrors when we step on new world shore
to wrestle tangled vines with measurement
and organize our thriving settlement
that grows from colonies of fertile farms
into vast empire with nuclear arms
I wield like sword she named Exalibur
but leave my kingdom to play traveller
to other worlds where people wearing masks
brew love potions preserved in crystal flasks.
I hide no secrets in this riddling verse
you cannot find in any private purse
that women carry when they shop for clothes,
then stop to ask me what the wizard knows
who transforms broken wings of fallen angels
preserved in books set neat on market tables
in rows like coffins in old cemeteries
where blinded children gather ripe blueberries
so you will have to open my dark heart
then load all your possessions on the cart
that creaks while refugees on rain-wet road
flee persecution, weighed by heavy load
of monetary debt that king incurred
who listened to the plotting of the bird
that stole my magic ring when I played dead
so they would take this crown back off my head.
We play our roles in power games of control
on public stage with ostentatious goal
of ruling every nation on this globe
while dressed in jeweled crown and ermine robe,
but though I wield scepter of wisdom well
in elegant battle to tolling bell,
I stop in watchtower to contemplate truth,
while I fancy myself the clever sleuth,
and realize simple truth that makes me laugh
while duplicating souls with hectograph
how we all fall into abyss of death
and consciousness vanishes without breath.
To understand why men cannot control
aggressive lust, with biological goal
to impregnate every warm fertile womb,
and decide who is worshipped in grand tomb,
observe how men in every age of change
kill kind respectful men whom they find strange
and sire new generation from their seed
who act on impulse of their thrusting need
and force young virgins against their free will
to bear reincarnations with honest skill
who then compete through political games
over who will charter our social names.
Ten thousand years the toughest men would fight
and kill weaker rivals with hateful spite
then chase young women by the sparkling pools
so they bore their children, while witty fools
played games of hide and seek among the trees,
and honest lords kept rings of shining keys
to open solid doors where pregnant brides
gave birth to children with the ocean tides.
So with each generation of strong males
who through aggression further tip the scales
and fight in fiercer wars that blast the world,
since all our souls are from molecules purled,
our men become much more intent with lust
and seek their own gain over what is just.
With every generation stronger men,
who wield both the sword and the lawful pen,
sire more children from their reluctant wives
so every bolder generation strives
through strength and wit to rule the fertile lands
and commission projects from crafting hands,
and thus through evolution of their seed,
that favors survival of those with greed,
our men are driven blind by lust to breed
and build empires based on national creed.
My body is puppet of my free will
but I must retreat to this private hill
when men try to manipulate my heart
and treat me like I am some mindless tart.
Though I know why they act without control,
programmed by success of masculine role
to procreate new souls before they die,
I will look every man straight in the eye
and insist they transcend animal nature
to act with respect toward every live creature
with civil performance of human role,
and thus confirm their soul with self-control.
Men are responsible through honest goal
to control their actions with legal thole
and sail their ships along bright river flow
from honest intention to learn and grow."
Alison lies back and watches glowing stars
while listening to the hum of passing cars.

Spirit Of Takoma

Spirit Of Takoma
© Surazeus
2017 10 23

Mist swirls among pines to reflect the eyes
of people who lived in this pungent grove
ten thousand years before this silent dawn
I sit beside the greenhouse full of ferns,
waiting to work before attending school,
and feel Mount Takoma throb in my heart.

After living in flat Texas ten years
since I was four years old, I stare in awe
at sleeping volcano scraping the sky
named Takoma, mother of all clear streams
that flow from the snow sparkling on her slopes
so I kneel and drink water of her eyes.

I climb steep trail that winds around high peaks
and name each flower blooming from dark soil
with secret words I find in sparkling snow
on sacred mountain that spews flames of love
the past five hundred thousand years of breath,
for she is the mother of singing wind.

On Naches Peak I stand on waves of wind
and gaze at Mount Takoma looming large
as wild Olympus where human gods sing,
so I sing the journey of my ancestors
from Ararat to Parnassus on wings
of ravens who guide me across the sea.

I see the mouth of Nichiwana River
where travelers from Sibir and Alaska
sailed boats into the heart of Onatah
and spread to every corner of the land
where Sun Spider Woman in canyon cave
weaves sunlight into my heart-warming cape.

While Hesiod played bone flute on Helicon,
and Apollo played lyre on fertile slope
of Parnassus to chant legends of Heroes,
I play guitar on adamantine slopes
of Mount Takoma where wise Spider Woman
weaves new body for my eternal soul.

When I am wandering lost in ancient wood
I step through mist to stand on narrow peak
and feel this giant sphere of dirt and water,
which nurtures our souls, spinning in vast void,
and gaping emptiness of vast abyss
fills my beating heart with soul-vibrant atoms.

Before my eyes, in beams of singing sun,
the Spirit of Takoma flashes bright
as young woman who generates our souls
and sparks my brain with fingers of moonlight
so I can dream whole history of our world
and how pulsing atoms evolve to man.

Divine Harmonious Chord

Divine Harmonious Chord
© Surazeus
2017 10 22

The quiet dusk of evening in the trees
reveals ancient secrets of life and death
encrypted in the writhing chirps of birds
that carry my memory on quick breeze
deep enough into the sun of my breath
that I must invent ten thousand new words.

Though men, who fancy they act on the stage
of political power, play frantic chess
of public spectacle on glowing screen
of televisions, I hide on the page
of my new bible key to the address
of Heaven where all die in the last scene.

The old woman in the dead raven tree,
who teaches my aching heart how to sing
magic spells written on petals of flowers,
gives me lyre to set every trapped soul free,
but I wander lost with my broken wing,
locked in some blind room of her stricken towers.

The laurel crown she once placed on my head
withers in the red wheel barrow of truth
where white chickens lay eggs in my mute heart,
so after the last king has fallen dead
I will escape Heaven as the blind sleuth
who weaves legends in our national chart.

I walk the wind-battered beach on wild sand
that whispers down dunes to calculate wealth
stolen from the hard-working hands of fools
whose mute ghosts still haunt their lost renamed land
so I enter temple of gods through stealth
I learned from the clown who invented tools.

I mold mud into faces of the dead
and hang them staring on the cobwebbed wall
while the many-faced god recites their names
to record their deeds on thick plates of lead
that stand ten million years in shining hall
where generations of children play games.

Look deep enough into the blank abyss
where horror churns sweet chaos into honey
and you will see in mirror of my eyes
true face of the goddess who demands a kiss
but keeps my hands if I cannot give money
though I still know the light code of the skies.

Everything that ever happens persists
rippling waves of cause and effect through force
of atoms woven in vast web of souls
who dream the moment swirling atom twists
through spiral of time from the beaming source
that spins the world forever on light poles.

So when I rise from lake of eyes at dawn
I watch the sun originate from gloom
to beam the world of forms from naked dreams
though I am the child of both king and pawn
when I sing geometric shapes in room
where my heart waterfalls in wrenching streams.

Though we explore the endless labyrinth
of social rules beyond the wall of law
we cannot find the hall of singing girls,
yet she stands in white with blue hyacinth,
translating for me the wise raven caw
whose spell explains why atomic world whirls.

I wake astonished from ten thousand years
of copulating to attain rebirth,
and thus evolve monkey to man to god,
but stand now on the mountain, gripping spears,
to battle for the unity of Earth,
while worshippers hide within its facade.

If anyone finds their way through the maze
of our memories, mapped by cosmic tales
that calculate how archetypes record
fierce contest for power through nostalgic phase,
translate our lives in intricate details
that vibrate our divine harmonious chord.

Because I Wake Each Dawn With Death

Because I Wake Each Dawn With Death
© Surazeus
2017 10 20

Because I wake each dawn with Death
and walk the road of hope
the sun threads through my dreaming brain
sharp rays of aching love.

I search for Death who calls my name
along the river shore
then climb the mountain cliff to reach
the garden of her fruit.

With sticks and stones I fight the snake
to chase him from fruit trees
then pluck ripe apples from their limbs
to give each soul I meet.

We sit inside the ring of stones
where white-haired women chant
and share old tales of warriors
who freed us from dark caves.

When darkness falls and stars gleam bright
I wonder if tonight
my glowing soul will fly away
and leave my body dead.

I dance in gold moon light with Death
who kisses me with love
but when I fill her with my soul
I sink in dreamless gloom.

I wake at dawn and see her face
as she walks by my side,
sweet Death who took my flashing soul
and generates new child.

Because I wake each dawn with Death
I give her fruit to eat
and while she suckles our new child
I build high walls of stone.

Woman In Silver Mist

Woman In Silver Mist
© Surazeus
2017 10 18

While sitting in my quaint suburban home,
listening to Mozart on the radio,
I gaze out the window past shimmering veil
of our great nation of America
and see frail woman in white on dark road
who grips a knife that drips with burning blood.

Through swirling sparks of mist that blur my eyes
she rises from shadow of ancient woods
and grips my arm with hands of gnarled oak bones,
then her blue eyes, red as the sun at dawn,
pierce my heart with anguish of nameless horror,
and then she faints into my trembling arms.

I carry her through wood of laughing ravens
to river shore where water sparkles bright,
but all the houses of our little town
groan as black skeletons in heaps of ash,
burned by wild flames that sear my aching heart,
and she hisses as she weeps in gray smoke.

"The raiders stormed our feast hall at midnight,
chopped off the heads of all our honest men,
and raped the girls who could not get away,
then burned everything we built with our hands,
while I hid all night in the old oak tree,
shivering in the rain of horror and fear."

I carry her to grove of flowers and herbs
where I clean her wounds, feed her apple juice,
and sing sweet melodies to soothe her fears
when she wakes frightened in moonlight and weeps.

We sit together when the robins chirp
cheerful tunes in the swirling mist of dawn
to eat strawberries and walnuts while they play.

She wakes in evening twilight with soft smile
that shimmers with joy of her healing heart,
so we hold hands and walk on river shore
where moonlight gleams on white wings of the swans
who glide on the pool that reflect gold stars.

I smile with joy and give her blooming rose,
then her blue eyes, clear as lake ice at dawn,
pierce my heart with desire of aching love,
and we kiss like honey bees on white blossoms
of apple trees that fall on our moist skin
as we make love under the singing moon.

I bring her stew and apple juice each day
where she sits singing in sun-dappled grove
while her belly swells like apples that grow
large and round in the kiss of sun and rain,
and I sing as she smiles with pleasant joy.

She bears young boy with eyes blue as the sky
glowing like bird eggs after storm clouds pass,
and he smiles while suckling milk from her breast
as she sits among apple trees and stares
through swirling mist at the red glow of dawn.

Returning with rabbits for evening stew,
I find our boy alone among gold flowers,
giggling as he reaches out little hands
to touch the wings of scarlet butterflies,
so I run through woods of whispering fear,
searching for the lost woman in the mist.

She sits among the ruins of her home
where skulls of her children lie cracked in ash,
and she weeps, clutching at her broken heart.

I cuddle her close to my loving heart
while her gnarled oak hands cling to me in fear.

I lift her from the cold ash of the past
and guide her through the woods of swirling mist
to grove of apple trees where our new child
coos bright at the sight of her tear-streaked face,
and reaches out his hands for her embrace.

She lifts him from the flowers with soft sighs
and cradles his head while she smiles through tears,
then gazes at him with adoring love
while he suckles fresh milk from her warm breast,
and hopeful sorrow clutches at my heart.

Returning to the present in my home,
I wonder at their names and where they lived,
and if that boy, born from sorrow of death,
was my ancestor who lived long ago.

I smile while watching birds play in the trees
outside my window where red apples hang,
and wonder with weird sensation of awe
why that memory glows in my mind now,
and what sparked it to play in waking dream.

Rising from my seat, I walk through my home
and watch my children in computer room,
one painting pictures and chatting with friends,
and the other editing video clips
to make a movie of her friends at school.

All our ancestors live inside our minds,
and the memories of their lives glow warm light
to dispel the shadows of ancient fears
which guides our way as we live each new day.

Global Empire Sonnet

Global Empire Sonnet
© Surazeus
2017 10 17

While watching evening news on television
about our new president threatening war
against some small and weak commonist state
imprisoned on the far side of the world,
I saw Homer, blind sage of brutal war,
strumming his harp in the Capitol Dome.
I whistle for Pegasus to descend
from clouds where Plato and Jesus play chess,
then direct his swift flight to Stone Henge plain
where I snatch Excalibur, blade of Justice,
from the ancient heart of the Stone of Scone,
then hide my face with mask of Hercules.
When Destroyer and Creator contend
our nation mushrooms into global empire.

Patriarchal Walls

Patriarchal Walls
© Surazeus
2017 10 16

Snow swirls at midnight on the Bridge of Spies
where the Weeping Clown waits in tattered cloak
to be exchanged for young Bellerophon
who carries broke wings of Pegasus.

Appearing from the swirling mist of fear,
the Eyeless King, clutching his silver gun,
holds out the ancient Book of Secret Tales
for Cinderella who receives its spells.

"The names of everyone who ever lived
are written on its pages with my blood,
so when you read their secret thoughts in code
their idols beam from holographic gem."

While Cinderella turns each crumbling page
the letters fly away like buzzing bees
and drink the pollen from our dreaming brains
that sparkle as honey in falling rain.

She gazes from the tower of laughing skulls
and strums gold harp while chanting wordless spells
that sew wings of Pegasus on my back
so I can fly above her labyrinth.

Then Cinderella pauses from her song
and tries to tell me how she was abused
by her uncle, boyfriend, date, and professor,
but all her words are twisted into flowers.

I wander lost in labyrinth of mirrors
where every man reigns in his home as king
but women dressed in long white gowns who fight
for liberty are smeared with tar of hate.

How shall we smash strong patriarchal walls
and build new social system that portrays
woman as the goddess who creates life
by planting seeds that sprout to apple trees?

American Pastoral Of Death

American Pastoral Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 10 15

Halfway through my life, lost in city streets,
I meet Richard Wilbur by garden gate
who teaches me trick of Dionysian beats
so we rewrite weird formula of fate.

From crowded city streets of honking cars
moon-eyed Richard leads me to fertile fields
of lush Arcadia that glows from white stars
and teaches me secret of sparkling seeds.

The roots of flowers and trees from ancient core
of our huge pulsing planet curl through gloom
deeper into granite mountains to bore
cracks across spinning galaxies that bloom.

Inside each egg that beams from eyes of stars
living creatures wake to dream evolution
so we grow fish to monkeys driving cars
till everyone sings spells with elocution.

At gleam of dawn when Aurora will kiss
my sponge brain awake from oceanic dreams
I kneel in meadow to tend blooming herbs
while singing hymns in tune with flashing streams.

When ancient father with long snow-white hair
lies weak among flowers to drift in death
I plant seeds in his heart and eyes that share
woven vines of memory through my breath.

Leaning on staff under broad willow tree,
I tend sheep like sun herds fluffy white clouds,
and sing my love for the girl of the sea
who veils our marriage grove with wind-blown shrouds.

Ten thousand years of armies crossing plains
pave webs of roads from stone and asphalt sheen
so villages mushroom from bitter rains
into vast cities that conquer the scene.

Alone in small glass rooms of city towers
the blind shepherds paint quaint pastoral scenes
of couples making love among lush flowers
that sparkle in the memories of our genes.

When I left wild rugged hills of Arcadia
on noble quest to save the world from war
I got lost in American Bohemia,
searching in vain for the world-linking door.

I stood for years on street corners to sing
about the age of pastoral innocence
in meadows now paved with vast parking lots
where cars instead of sheep and horses play.

While wandering through the labyrinth of tales
I swerve sideways off the expected path
and blaze through the waste land new secret trails
that calculate truth with soul-slanting math.

With eager hands before apocalypse
I gather sweet blackberries for Amelia,
returning to Elysium on weird trips
to swim the Mississippi with Ophelia.

When we both enter the museum hall
to sing the ancient myths in new pop songs
we dance forever on the broken wall,
unable with magic to fix all wrongs.

We gaze beyond the veil of skin to dream
how swirling clouds reveal the naked truth
that though we must bathe in the flowing stream
we die drinking from the Fountain of Youth.

That shining idol, image in your mind,
you think is me, is but ghost your words conjure,
so take my hand with trust and we will bind
weird visions into one world view we ponder.

These calculations hidden in weird words
trace intricate tracks of psychic details
so I protect my brain with mental wards
that weigh cause and effect on moral scales.

The banker with quick calculator brain
gazes at pastoral paintings on steel wall
while glass towers blink in forever rain
and shepherds now work to build border wall.

Virgin Maria bearing the Christ Child
huddles behind cactus in blistering sun
to hide while agents patrol border wall,
hoping to reach the wealthy Promised Land.

Shrouded by blackness of eternal night,
Maria counts stars that flash through the gloom,
and maps Golden Way through the blinding light
till she wakes in the doorless Oval Room.

While sketching faces on cracked glass of hope,
Maria calculates process of change
that helps herd electric sheep on steep slope
before the satellite glides out of range.

I am the last robot composed of flesh
since my mother generated my soul
by weaving atoms from rays of the mesh
that links our hearts in superconscious whole.

Rising from cool stream in the heat of June,
Maria leads me through the brambled night
where laughing skulls of kings and gods are strewn
so spirits disperse in psychotic flight.

So through the woods by stone walls on old lanes
we pick blackberries by prophetic cave
and brew sweet rum from timeless sugar canes
to drink as Maria sings in the nave.

How words convey my thoughts on each brain wave
the eyeless wizard in the ruins chants,
so when Ophelia in clandestine conclave
revives me, we see God blossom in plants.

Join us on stage before the end of time
to sing American Pastoral of Death,
though secret of life is hidden in rhyme
that we reveal with our last dying breath.

Temporary Clusters Of Atoms

Temporary Clusters Of Atoms
© Surazeus
2017 10 14

Perched on the park bench like a hunting dog
about to run while chasing down a prey,
Joshua watches people in picnic halls
or walking around the lake at sunset.
"How I wanted so much, with aching heart,
to believe that we will live after death,
that, if we believe with unwavering faith
that Jesus is God who created all,
he would resurrect our eternal souls
after we die in this material plane
to live again in perfect body forms
for all eternity in realm of light.
Yet when I observe this world with clear eyes
I see the truth that we are nothing more
than temporary clusters of quick atoms
that vibrate with soul of hungry desire.
Each atom of this boundless universe
vibrates with energy of conscious flash
that when composed in neurons of the brain
attains higher level of consciousness,
evolving through each generated body
to transform from fish swimming in the sea
into potent god soaring among stars.
But for now we are frail humans of flesh
who struggle to survive in hostile nature
so we can copulate with fertile mate
to generate new body that sustains
dreaming brain which records all memories
each generation of ancestors lived,
and hope we develop society
that fosters talents of each individual
so we can evolve beyond mortal coil
and become supernatural gods with power.
Thus I can understand why people cling
to archaic belief in the afterlife,
desperate to live beyond blankness of death,
but I extract those lies from my world view
and seek to understand nature of things
so I can reincarnate in my children
since I will know nothing after I die
and vanish from the seething flow of time
while my atoms reassemble again
into another person with bright soul.
I long for the superpowers of a god
but I am content with the simple powers
that humans gained in game of evolution,
tasting the fleeting sweetness of this life
before I vanish in the lightless void."

Fantasy Of Solarian

Fantasy Of Solarian
© Surazeus
2017 10 13

Across the galaxy of sparkling stars
the god Zarathian with flowing wings
soars singing on wild waves of flashing light
and weaves lush planets from his brain neurons.

From sloshing ocean waves on countless spheres
new life forms bubble from hot thermal vents
and crawl up silver sparkling streams to lakes
to stand in waterfall with dreaming eyes.

The ancient cosmic god glows in the mind
of every living creature who first wakes
from mute atomic dream to hum weird words
in magic spells that conjure dreams in brains.

We look into the mirror of the pool
and see our own face looking back at us
and so we dance in grove of apple trees
with others who reflect our secret face.

Old bearded man appears from swirling mist
and tells us he created us from mud
and breathed the animating breath of life
to flash our eyes awake with beams of light.

"I am Zarathian, father of all,
and you are replications of my soul
whom I created when I sowed my seed
in womb of Mother Yartha before dawn."

I run on leaping legs back to the pool
where I stare down at mirror of my mind
and see my own face separate from the others,
and whisper, "I am me, Solarian."

Young long-haired boy runs leaping through the trees
and climbs the mountain high to touch the moon
but shining silver eye gleams out of reach
and all the world spins far below his feet.

"Each time I talk I hear his voice, not mine,
speak words I heard him speak since I was born,
and when I gaze in mirror of the pool
I see his face behind my unique face."

Solarian descends steep mountain slope
and steps into the ring of giant stones
where white-haired Zarathian sits on throne,
gripping beam of light he pulled from the ground.

"I am Solarian, son of the sun,
and I created all this world from light,
weaving mountains and seas from flashing beams,
so I will sit on throne of words to reign."

Leaping quick from the throne with howling scream,
Zarathian lunges to smash his head,
but wily Solarian ducks and strikes
swift to thrust sharp diamond blade in his heart.

Eternal soul of light gushes as blood,
red beams of spirit spurting from his breast,
and old Zarathian falls on his back,
chanting wordless music of aching death.

Grasping ring of gold that glitters twelve gems,
Solarian places crown on his head,
snatches scepter with gleaming emerald,
then sits on throne before astonished eyes.

"I am Solarian, born from the Earth,
reincarnation of Zarathian,
so now I reign as wizard on high throne
and speak with voice of eternal stars."

Crumbling mushrooms in brass cauldron of juice,
Solarian stirs potion while he hums
melody about how bees brew sweet honey,
then drinks it deep into his thrumming heart.

Across the galaxy of spinning stars
the god Zarathian on beating wings
soars singing on wild waves of pulsing light
and weaves lush garden from his brain neurons.

Looking up from the vision of his face
in shimmering pool, Solarian sees
young woman with silver eyes gleaming stars
who smiles and hides her face behind gold mask.

Opening his eyes in the meeting room,
Samuel looks around at his counselor
and circle of patients who heard his tale,
then smiles nervously and spreads his arms wide.

"I love to fantasize I am a god
or powerful wizard in ancient times,
because this wretched world we live in now
gnaws like rat poison at my aching heart."

Atheist Prophet Of Wise Ungod

Atheist Prophet Of Wise Ungod
© Surazeus
2017 10 12

I am the atheist prophet of wise Ungod
who weaves our dreaming souls from beams of light
and sends us spinning through the universe
like a rock skipping across the vast sea.

The Ungod was lounging by her Black Hole,
drinking atoms from pulsing fountain flow,
when from one tiny drop of spinning atoms
she forged our star system by accident.

While sipping hot helium wine from stars
the Ungod snapped her fingers with a laugh
and sang sweet ecstasy of aching love
to float in dream inside our molecules.

Her endless dream of flashing beams of light
that flicker in our sloshing ocean waves
still sparks awake the neurons of our brains
so we remember her first conscious thought.

Deep down inside the core of our sponge brain
we dream that moment when Ungod awoke
with beaming consciousness of molecules
that spiral flashing through the void of death.

I hear her call my name at flash of dawn,
my mother singing, "Wake, Zarathian,
and teach your children how to sing in words
clear visions of our eyes that guide our way."

The Ungod who created nothing sings
deep in the urgent passion of our cells
so we invent her face from random swirls
to personify her galactic soul.

I am the atheist prophet of our Ungod
whose conscious hope inspires our searching eyes
to see her face shine on mountains and clouds,
our own mothers who taught us how to sing.

Equal Citizens Of America

Equal Citizens Of America
© Surazeus
2017 10 12

After discussing the latest statistics
about sports teams on television show,
the sports journalist pauses and folds hands
as he gazes into the camera.
"Now I must express stark fear in my heart
in commentary on social events.
I watch my children walk out the front door
every morning on their quest to learn truth
with classmates who live in our neighborhood,
and worry about how they will confront
various threats and dangers of this world,
hoping they will grow wise and perform deeds
that benefit with equal force of good
everyone who shares our society.
Yet since the tincture of their skin is white,
because our ancestors dwelled in cold lands
where clouds blocked the burning rays of the sun,
which caused them to grow more pale over time,
they benefit from extra privilege
that our white-based society affords,
attending college and attaining jobs
so they can purchase homes and working cars
and raise a new generation of children
who will advance far in wealth of success,
building on the success of my own life
as I built on the success of my parents.
While children of families whose skin is dark,
because their ancestors dwelled in hot lands
where burning rays of the sun were not blocked,
which caused them to grow more dark over time,
they struggle against systemic racism
and must work twice as hard to gain success
while facing constant aggressive remarks
designed to lock them in the lower class.
I worry enough about my own children,
but I cannot imagine how much stress
black parents of black children must endure
as we watch events unfold on the news
where police in too many of our cities
shoot and kill unarmed black people in fear,
more than thirty over the past five years,
yet suffer no punitive consequence.
We must ensure that opportunities
for education and jobs in our cities
are open for attainment from hard work
for every person dwelling in this land
who applies imagination and heart
to work in ways that benefit us all
who cooperate through competitive work
to build a better nation where all people
are equal in the justice of our law.
No matter the color that tints our skin
we share this land as equal citizens.
That is the news for today, so good night,
and may God bless land of America,
nation of liberty for every person
where black lives matter in justice for all."

Statue Of Truth

Statue Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 10 11

The azure of the window traps the sky
of my eyes within labyrinth of your heart,
so every morning when I ask you why
you give me keys that activate the cart
I drive along the winding road of death,
and lie among flowers to catch my breath.

The cup of every flower brims with blood
that drips from my eyes in lost memories
so honey of my heart fills your rosebud
which generates robots from my brain keys
before I swim down into bright abyss
on quest to find Truth, inspired by your kiss.

The steel bridge with wires ringing in wild wind,
connecting our hearts across silent void,
by mutual spells of fake destiny pinned
to yet unravel light from true ovoid
from which all eye-wide dreaming creatures spring,
shimmers with the fear of my broken wing.

Behind this oblique veil of gliding words
lurk demons who animate our sponge brains,
expressing diagrams through chirping birds
to demonstrate calculus of lush rains,
so I now understand cause and effect
that programs our universal aspect.

No matter how deep in the maze of tales
you chase elusive butterfly of spells
you must weigh your brain on the spinning scales
then baptize your soul in the stagnant wells
to cleanse your mind of deceptive beliefs
and map myth with new pattern of motifs.

The endless beforetime before our birth
and endless aftertime after our death
extend before atoms swirled into Earth
since I am the wizard who designed chess
so now I mold stone in statue of Truth
that keeps me wise as I begin to sleuth.

Tenets Of My Religion

Tenets Of My Religion
© Surazeus
2017 10 10

Brenda leans against the dead willow tree
watching gold sunrays beam like flaming brand
through swirling black rainclouds after wild storm,
and drapes her pale arm tight around his shoulder.
"Whenever I was hurt and got upset
my grandmother would laugh and kiss my cheek,
then stare at the burning sun and declare
in raspy voice grated by cigar smoke.
My dear, in case no one told you today,
I must remind you of the facts of life.
We are born from the lust our parents felt,
we must kill other life-forms to survive,
then we decay in misery and pain
till we die and vanish from the dream time
of this giant ball of dirt that spins lost
in the boundless void of the universe.
On the road of life we will always go
alone in the silent despair of hope,
and, though we attempt to communicate
complex thoughts that clatter inside our mind,
no one will understand our secret soul
like we will never understand their secret soul
they hide behind their mild congenial mask.
Though we deem ourself central to the play
of social life in which we think we star,
important to the process of survival
of our tribe in fierce contests for control,
commissioned by authority to act
with noble intention to produce good,
we are expendable in game of power,
replaced by other people with our skills
when we are damaged or destroyed by time.
All events that happen to us in life
happen for no good particular reason,
just random events of blind chance that clash,
undirected by any conscious mind
who plans and controls events of this world.
No mastermind directs the play of life
so we are each alone on road of time,
designing our own reason to maintain
passionate intensity of desire
that motivates our lust to reproduce.
We did not exist through infinite time
that calculates billions of years of change,
before our parents generated this body
of frail flesh that sustains our dreaming mind,
and after this brief flare of light in gloom,
we call living, we will die, and our mind,
now flashing with visions from memories
that record our experiences of life,
will disperse to swirls of unconscious dust
as the universe sparkles on without us.
After we die our name and all our deeds
will be forgotten, and our memories
will all vanish lost, like tears in the rain,
as if we never existed in flesh.
So cheer up and drink some sweet apple cider,
then invent some meaning for your own life
and live with passion of pleasure and love
to the full capacity of your heart,
so you taste its sweetness and bitterness
before death snuffs out the flame of your soul.
Her words are branded on my beating heart
and illuminate the road that I blaze
through the hostile wilderness of despair.
These tenets form the base of my religion
that guides my progress through the labyrinth
of this weird indifferent waste land of life."
Brenda drinks cider, gulping down sweet juice,
then hands him the jug with a crooked grin,
and birds chirp as rain drops drip from lush leaves.
Kissing his mouth, she pulls him down to lie
hidden among flowers and buzzing bees.

Charismatic Flash Of Fame

Charismatic Flash Of Fame
© Surazeus
2017 10 06

When I heard the famous poet on stage,
whose eyes exude the charismatic flash
of fame from adulation of the people,
declare in sing-song verse their folksy wisdom
through surreal jumps of leaping images
that reflect slanting beams of divine truth,
when I was shown distorted metaphors
that fragment in collage of references
archetypal concepts of mental states
which dissolve our persona of the I,
through fleeting memories, to cosmic self
of timeless soul whose vast butterfly wings
accelerate our flight on quest for truth,
how soon accountable I became weird,
till rising from the silent audience
I glided from hushed auditorium
and wandered through the labyrinth of doors,
each one opening to another world,
from the castle of their exclusive club
in the mystical night-air of the spirit
to stand on the highway of moving cars
and sing to the deaf as they chase the rainbow,
while gazing at the stars of flashing eyes,
about the flowing of the universe.
You cannot see my true face in the mask
that hides galactic neurons of my brain.

Onatah The Bountiful

Onatah The Bountiful
© Surazeus
2017 10 05

O bountiful for fertile farms 
where everyone shares work,
for orchards lush with apple trees
that sparkle in sunlight.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless our souls with love,
and welcome home all refugees
from sea to shining sea.

On Onatah, this sacred land,
where golden corn grows tall,
we give each soul a helping hand
to build one feasting hall.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless us all with life,
confirm our souls with self-control,
our liberty in law.

The spirit of the evening land
appears from swirling mist
and bears in hand the brimming cup,
inviting all to feast.
Lush Onatah! Vast Onatah!
You bless us all with truth,
and guide us to your pyramid
with Light of Liberty.

Where Old Spirits Abide

Where Old Spirits Abide
© Surazeus
2017 10 05

Sun shimmers through the leaves of distant trees
who whisper secrets I forgot through breeze
of tense despair in flutter of their leaves
since everyone knows why the widow grieves.

I walk somewhere on seven beams of light
to fly beyond the bounding wall of sight
and touch the atoms that vibrate inside
our flashing cells where old spirits abide.

I hear the birds in trees discuss my fate
how I attempt to transfer chords of hate
on trembling stairs of hope to higher plane
so I can sing with you in kissing rain.

But when that bullet splattered out your brain
I heard your scream halfway across the world
and try to stand tall as the Earth is hurled
through empty void that swallows my full heart.

I walk alone on every road in town
to map Cartesian grid of aching hope
but I must follow our crucified clown
who guides my way with mountain-climbing rope.

I paint the names blank from every street sign,
then perch on bridge to drink this glass of wine,
tasting blood in remembrance of my friend
and husband, now a mute ghost in my mind.

Pleasure Of Light

Pleasure Of Light
© Surazeus
2017 10 04

While floating on my back in the dark lake
I feel beams of sunlight thread through my cells
on piercing needles of knowledge that spark
endless visions of bodies which transform
nine stages of evolution through eggs,
sperm to worm to fish to lizard to mouse
to monkey to man to angel to god,
in fertile reproduction of our souls.

When I at last transform into a god,
with flaming wings that spin white puffy clouds
into wild thunder-blasting hurricanes
that flash strikes of lightning into dark souls,
I want to dance across tall city towers
of steel and glass, forged from granite bones
of dinosaurs, and orchestrate swift flight
of molecules that spiral through the web
of neurons sparkling in our dreaming brains.

But I am nothing more than mortal fool,
wide-eyed dreamer of ideal paradise
encased in fragile shell of skeleton
stuffed with meat and vessels pumping hot blood,
imaginative spirit trapped in flesh
of tangled neurons flashing memories
to generate world-view vision of truth
like a soap bubble beaming rainbow eyes.

While walking on the singing beach of time
I see the face of every breathing soul
who ever woke with dreaming brain of hope
in history of this spinning ball of dirt,
eyes drinking streams of light to generate
hologram that reflects real perceived world,
and so I sing their names in whirling wind
to weave persona masks on tapestry
recording epic tale of conscious life.

I crawl over mud under gleaming sun,
eyes searching for shapes in colorful blurs,
and follow the scent of water to find
shimmering pool of delicious delight
where I float in timeless motion of change
as waves of liquid envelope my soul
and cleanse aching sorrow of hungry fear
so all I know is the pleasure of light.

While staring at white clouds, I laugh amused
because my brain always attempts to see
creatures alive in ever-shifting shapes,
causing me to understand with insight
how my ancestors thought huge clouds were gods,
so I gaze beyond illusion I design
at the clouds themselves to see their true essence,
swirling clumps of water vapor congealed
in elaborate shifting patterns of fractals,
water drops that beam light into my soul.

Eternal Fame
© Surazeus
2017 10 04

So many human beings who live and die
in the slow turning of our world in space,
rise from the soil and gaze at the vast sky,
lost in the waste land far from the power race.
While wandering on the beach I read each name
of famous kings and warriors who achieved
wealth and success in the world of bright fame
who ruled heaven of the vain and deceived.
The waves of time wipe all our names from dream
so each new generation who begins
to play the game of control land and stream,
will contest over who loses and wins.
Yet those whose stories last beyond all death
are sung by poets with immortal breath.

New Patriotic Hymn

New Patriotic Hymn
© Surazeus
2017 10 03

Standing on busy street corner at noon,
David tunes guitar and strums vibrant chord,
then sings new patriotic hymn he wrote
while people toss coins in his upturned hat.

"I love this land we call America
where spirit of the corn maid Onatah
enchants our hearts with love for liberty
and equal rights in just democracy.
This whole continent of mountains and streams
encourages pursuit of noble dreams."

Crowd of people on their lunch hour applaud
while he plucks melody of ringing tones
that leap around the fountain sparkling bright
and scatter flower petals on the walk.

"The honest eagle of America
needs her left wing and her right wing to fly
straight between the mountain of tyranny
and the soul-twisting swamp of anarchy.
This whole continent of mountains and streams
nourishes success of communal teams."

Leaning backward, David plucks rapid riff
that zig-zags through the labyrinth of lies
and leads them laughing to the Promised Land
where they eat apples from the Tree of Truth.

"Come play in Garden of America
while Jesus searches for lost Ithaca
to kill intruders and win back his bride
while wearing jeweled crown that swells his pride.
This whole continent of mountains and streams
is passive stage for chess games of regimes."

Twanging last chord to end his playful song,
David raises both arms to empty sky
while audience of office workers cheers,
then all vanish in mirror of his eye.

"We live in haven of America,
heirs to philosophy of Attica,
enchanted by the forms that matter takes,
baking wheat and eggs in holiday cakes.
This whole continent of mountains and streams
disappears in the calculus of schemes."

Waking alone under the highway bridge,
David sips beer and listens to the cars
driving circles while they chase rainbow hopes
under the distant indifferent stars.

Lost Cause Of Liberty

Lost Cause Of Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 10 02

When the angel in tower of steel and glass
fires bullets at the crowd of dancing people,
who will defy the wizard with the wand
and defend our lost right to liberty?

I hear their screams as people run away
and climb the high wall of rules to escape
from strict theocracy of paradise
and search the waste land for lost liberty.

Though their brains are splattered on easter flowers
the Christian zombies rise from graves of death
on judgment day to march for noble war
and fight for the lost cause of liberty.

Give every man and woman their new gun
so when the devil in the apple tree
tempts them to defy their god, king of fools,
they will fire back to shoot down liberty.

We fight to defend our right to live free
by shooting at fantastic ghosts of hope
then sing our national anthem with pride
after we kill that tyrant liberty.

When lightning strikes the tower down in flames
will angels fall nine days and nights to Earth
where we awake as humans with clear eyes
who dance around statue of liberty.

Theater Of Lost Tales

Theater Of Lost Tales
© Surazeus
2017 10 01

Rising from his seat in the theater
of lost tales after the movie is done,
Ron stretches arms and legs, then thumps his chest
while breathing deep the shimmering rays of light.

Turning slowly in the dim twilight glow,
Ron gazes at the crowd of skeletons,
who stare back at him as spiders and snakes,
and bows with a flourish of his right hand.

Reaching out his red right hand, Ron grasps skull
of the bearded king, who still wears gold crown
studded with jewels that resemble eyes,
and lifts it high above his head in moonlight.

Following the light that glows from its eyes,
Ron climbs trail winding around mountain side
to grove where young woman with long gold hair
sits meditating in the tholos temple.

"I sat in the temple of ancient tales
and watched every movie composed by hands
that depicts history of social conflict
replay process of human evolution."

Ten thousand skeletons in the vast hall
watch him give the woman a golden rose
while he leans to kiss her marble lips
the minute rain pours and drenches their souls.

"I watched so many movies about heroes
that the mask of my own face fell away
and I transformed into the human soul
of every person who has ever lived."

Picking up the skull of a German nun
who wrote poems about divine meditation,
Ron holds it over his face, and then laughs
when white butterfly flutters from its cranium.

Holding her arm bone, Ron draws in the dust
Cartesian grid to calculate the curve
that atoms thread when beaming through the void
to weave souls from the pulsing of our brains.

Lights flash in the theater of lost tales,
so Ron stands on stage before staring skulls
and sings weird haunting melody of love
about how the universe beams from light.