Sea Of Dreaming Souls

Sea Of Dreaming Souls
© Surazeus
2017 12 31

I want to leave the city of despair
where flashing lights of pop tunes blind our eyes
and sit on broken rock by flowing stream
to hear the ancient song of Earth swirl soft.

Ten thousand singers dance on stage of fame
and sing about the broken heart in love
while prophet from the waste land walks alone
and buries words of truth beside the road.

Because you worship mask that hides my face
and praise me for my spells that conceal truth
I turn away and walk the woods alone
so you can only hear wind of my thoughts.

I once stood proud beside the shining king
but when I denounced his actions of greed
he threw me from the tower in falling rain
and now I limp in shadows of despair.

Now I erase my name from history books
to hide safe from the agents of his will
who plan to crucify me in the rain
since I proclaim his evil to the world.

The pretty singer singing in spotlights
how every cute boy always breaks her heart
steps off the stage to hide in silent shade
and weeps because she wants to sing pure truth.

I reach down in the dark well of my heart
to find fresh water bubbling from the Earth
that will refresh the souls of listeners
who follow my footsteps from loveless hell.

We dance in ecstasy beyond midnight,
leaping high to escape grim gravity
that always pulls us back down to hard Earth
though we long to glide gracefully in stars.

I leap on the strong wall of paradise
before it crumbles in the rain of time
to describe the strange world beyond high walls
to people hiding from monsters in fear.

All singers in the history of the world
imitate Orpheus when they descend
to the dark underworld of our weird dreams
and lead our souls back to paradise lost.

Death always walks by our side on the road
of life to teach both pleasure and pain,
so we sing to entertain Death a while
and shine to keep silent darkness at bay.

Though death will swallow us all down in time
our songs of insight shine to keep alive
the shimmering vision of heaven we beam
from aching ecstasy of melodies.

I sing against the gloom crushing my heart
and maintain sheen of illusion this hour
when the world spins on into the vast void
back toward the sun that beams life in our hearts.

Just at the moment that our spinning world
reaches the farthest point from the warm sun
that it will fly around curving ellipse
we sing in hope the world will stay in orbit.

Our world could spin just far enough beyond
in swift velocity of whirling dance
that it could snap the twang of gravity
and fly far out into the lightless void.

Yet at the turning of the year we feel
the gravity of love our warm sun beams
sling Earth back on the curve of its ellipse
so life will flourish still on spinning sphere.

I sit outside my house on new year eve
and watch the ancient stars twinkle all night,
knowing all those stars vanished long ago
while new stars connect in vast crystal web.

Perhaps each black hole forms huge crystal brain
that holographs spiral of galaxies
and channels conscious dream into my brain
so every neuron sparkles with its love.

Yet I sit alone in cool silent night
on spinning world where seven billion souls
feel sparkle of the light from flashing sun
whose atoms shimmer in our dreaming brains.

We are alone yet connected to all,
individual minds blinking our own thoughts
in ever-surging sea of dreaming souls
so I return to sing romantic spells.

Secret Of My Stream

Secret Of My Stream
© Surazeus
2017 12 31

I disappear into my swirl of words
and wear ten thousand masks of long-dead gods
who join with me in morning choir of birds
so dreaming brains grow vines from rancid pods.

I open wide the door of watching eyes
that vanish in the faces of my friends
who pretend they are not government spies
when we walk on gold hills in laughing winds.

I leave the hard cold truth of asphalt roads
to plunge my fingers in succulent soil
where I plant my heart to calculate codes
that vibrate rhythms of our mortal coil.

Each tangled tapestry of words I weave
reveals one fragment of the shattered mirror
when I assemble puzzle to deceive
believers in the deity of error.

I function as the author of my mind
when I map stories of heroic deeds
that break the mask that each great actor signed
before they leave the stage when fame recedes.

I wear my individual ego suit
when I attend the theater at dawn
since black mirror cracks when I play the flute
and seek fertile mate to generate spawn.

I ride the ram of Amon down the street
where hordes of loyal worshippers break free
to sing their own new songs instead of bleat
and cheer global triumph of Liberty.

I wear the mask of genius on the stage
where clowns must imitate Hamlet the Wise
while writing empty words on the blank page
that flashes visions at the gaze of eyes.

I fly beyond the wall of formal rules
and soar above the endless city maze
so I can build new airplane with old tools
and fly to Holy Mountain in the haze.

I dance with muses in the mountain glade
who teach me spells that may enchant the soul
so we invade your town with wild parade
to glorify the girl who bears the scroll.

I write each magic spell in ancient book
you hold now in your eager reverent hands
with anguish of desire to drink from brook
where Athena once ruled all nameless lands.

I carve my signature on mountain cliff
to prove I wrote the story you now dream
so when you crack the code of my name glyph
then you will find the secret of my stream.

I step outside my cabin on the plain
to talk about philosophy with snow
and hear the flashing colors of the rain
because the naked night is when I glow.

I disappear within the pulsing light
that beams from every atom of my soul
so you will never find me in the night
before I weave all visions in one whole.

Parade Of Fame

Parade Of Fame
© Surazeus
2017 12 31

Each new generation competes for glory,
fighting over who will wear crown of godhood
by composing songs and stories that shine
bright as the morning sun to light our way
through brutal conflict of war for control,
then they all fall dead in parade of fame.

Each person writes their own new role to play
in the psychic drama for national power
and steps up on the stage of divine voice
to speak the vision that beams from their mind,
explaining their world view for good and bad,
then they all fall dead in parade of fame.

When politicians, preachers, singers, poets,
and prophets who cry in the wilderness,
clamor in the loud cacophonous choir,
like Moses leading lost souls through the waste land,
their visions swirl together in one spell,
then they all fall dead in parade of fame.

Ten thousand people on the pyramid
of our nation, from sea to shining sea,
clamor for attention and dollar bills,
but I sit alone in my small-town home
and sing with the ravens in ancient trees,
then they all fall dead in parade of fame.

Color Of Wind And Rain

Color Of Wind And Rain
© Surazeus
2017 12 30

The book of secret stories we composed
to capture the color of wind and rain
falls on the freeway, tattered and exposed,
and calculates the neutral spiel of pain.

By referendum will the wandering king,
who sings old stories on the busy street,
be crowned the last pope of the broken wing
before sweet Ceres bakes fresh bread from wheat.

While sitting in Paris cafe last night
I listened to the colors Dali wove
in gears of timeless clocks that melt the light
flashing masks I stole from his treasure trove.

Although I ride the alligator swift
across the waste land where the thunder speaks
I stop to give Kwan Yin my heart as gift
while we meditate on ten thousand peaks.

Before the savior, sailing wooden ship
through mist of illusions, brings back my eye,
he pried from my statue that fools worship,
I will measure the spirit in the sky.

Who can measure the whole infinite void
where every particle of matter glows
with hungry energy to spin ovoid
in flashing neurons of my brain that flows?

I fold invisible wings in my heart
and sit on domestic couch in quaint home
by the sea that swirls so far off the chart
I found it only when I ceased to roam.

We sit alone on shining beach of time
and watch the characters of countless films,
based on dead heroes, monologue in rhyme
about exploring scope of surreal realms.

I found young Eliot on his hands and knees
picking fragments of civilized world view
from shattered rose window in temple trees
so I rebuild cathedral with singing crew.

Whoever reigns on golden throne of power
can never lead the seat of spoken word
for he would learn the secret in the flower
that one can only rule the mindless herd.

The shape of water forms my body shell
that nourishes my animating soul
so when we gather in the ringing dell
the spinning universe will weave me whole.

When I emerge from the cave of my birth
and sing on the shore of the lake of dreams
I will embody the spirit of Earth
to organize memory in epic themes.

Tune Of My Soul

Tune Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 12 30

We give each other secret masks to wear
and wrap our feelings as presents with bows
then set them under tree of blinking lights
where sorrow of apples uneaten rot.

The puzzle of relationships we carve
from photographs that we forgot we snapped
we scatter on the kitchen table where
children assemble stories from lost fears.

We talk about everything but our hopes
when we walk around the lake in the park
where lovers never meet to kiss in trees
so we can discard broken masks of lies.

Everything I ever said before now
swirls away like leaves on the winds of time
so I must pluck new words from tree of dreams
and design new puzzle that we must solve.

I understand the language ravens sing
whose spells explain how to navigate love
and avoid the silent secret of death
till we finish playing role we wrote ourselves.

I made myself this pair of wings from fear
so I could fly above weird maze of hopes
that beam from minds of everyone alive
and flash across the mirror of my eyes.

I stop somewhere in the maze of the world
and map the journey I blazed across time
but find my path spells words I cannot read
so I wander on somewhere I am not.

I calculate the reason I exist
with formulas I stole from science books
and conclude I am cloud of chemicals
that generates virtual world in my brain.

We are happy when we run in the rain
that falls during Shakespeare theater show
we were watching one summer afternoon
and step through the white mirror of our love.

All the books and movies I ever dreamed
flash through the tangled neurons of my brain
to weave virtual planet inside my head
that I know but imitates the real world.

The clothes we wear to present gender roles
beam out the glamorous illusion of self
so we may attract the mate we desire
to share united journey through the world.

Whatever role I play in game of life
I hope to nourish sweet pleasure of love
so I sing visions sparkling in my brain
till death mutes vibrating tune of my soul.

Ephemeral Flash

Ephemeral Flash
© Surazeus
2017 12 29

Her laughing soul is wild ephemeral flash
of joyful angst that shimmers in the dark
of eternal gloom through the void of time
so we can hear her song in flame of love.

No eye can see the quick ephemeral flash
with transient measurement of her fleet face
that shimmers through the swirling mist of hope
when she walks backwards on the road of time.

Just when we think we clearly see her face
her personality blurs far beyond
momentary mask that captures strange soul
which surges from her beating heart of truth.

The sweet ephemeral flash of her true face
appears with snap of lightning in the rain
when she bestows the blessing of her smile
on mortals struggling through horror of hope.

Can you express the nature of her soul
and chant the spell of story in her name
that glows briefly from her ephemeral face
when she wakes outside our infinity?

We bask in the glow of ephemeral flash
that beams out warmth from blessing of her eyes
for one brief hour of pleasure when we sing
and then we vanish from infinite love.

Light Of Timeless Stars

Light Of Timeless Stars
© Surazeus
2017 12 29

When we sit together in ring of stones
under the twinkling light of timeless stars,
while the glow of the crackling flames of light
reveals in our faces the nameless soul,
we sing the heart-aching tune of desire
that gives wings to our spirits in delight,
so we soar high on melodies of love
to dance in eternal heaven of truth
till we twirl down into silence of sleep
and we wake at dawn in the silent sun.

We wake in the hungry glare of red dawn
and the visions of heaven we sang sweet
poof vanished in the cold ash of time,
and we shiver in the ring of gray stones,
staring down at the indifferent soil
of the windy shore where the river flows,
and try to remember the truth we dreamed
when the stars twinkled bright with perfect hope
that seems so strange now in the laughing wind,
so we wash our faces and sit by trees.

We sit together in the careless breeze
in the ring of stones where the river flows
and the sunlight gleams on the leaping waves
while birds chirp the secrets that we forgot
when we danced all night to the aching tune
of the song that echoes faint in our ears,
and somewhere deep in my heart I recall
dim flashes of visions conjured by words
that I sang with the melody of hope
so I hum to the beat of my cold heart.

I breathe deep the breeze of the river waves
and hum in harmony with fluttering leaves
then sing out loud the wavering melody
that spirals outward from my aching heart
as I walk among faces of my clan
and chant sweetly to inspire them with faith
that we are still alive another day
so they all rise slow and follow my steps
to the river where sunlight sparkles joy
that wells from the sorrows of anguished hope.

I kneel on the shore where the river flows
and pluck berries and mushrooms from the grass
and they gather nuts and eggs from the trees
while others pluck herbs from bushes and shrubs,
then we gather again in ring of stones
and strong hands strike stones to spark crackling fire
that shimmers bright as the sun in blue sky,
and someone watches for men with sharp spears
while we brew new potion in cauldron wine
that flashes our hearts with love when we drink.

The men from the castle on horses came
and burned our homes in hot flames of their greed
and drove us from the fertile land we tilled,
so we fled into grim hills where crags stand
and howl in bleak winds that blow from wild sea,
and here we gather in old ring of stones
to drink sweet wine of berries and mushrooms
and dance all night under the timeless stars
to sing the sorrows of our aching hearts
in ancient melodies of sweet despair.

Together Weave Our Paradise

Together Weave Our Paradise
© Surazeus
2017 12 29

Across the dew-wet meadow where flowers bloom
we walk together in the swirling mist
and sing to spark glow of our souls in gloom
by the river where we share secret tryst.
The motions of our lives is dance of love
so we together weave our paradise.

The people we love best die every year
yet still we continue on down the road
to seek happiness in the grind of fear
and rest though we carry our heavy load.
The passions of our hearts is flame of love
so we together weave our paradise.

I want to think life is simple and good
but complicated games challenge our play
so we leave town to live in quiet wood
and hope cruel men will not make us their prey.
The visions of our eyes is light of love
so we together weave our paradise.

We tend old apple trees in glow of dawn
and drink sweet cider at the twilight hour
though the hero lies dead on castle lawn
and the princess is still trapped in the tower.
The sorrows of our hearts is fuel of love
so we together weave our paradise.

Lost Seeds Of Tomorrow

Lost Seeds Of Tomorrow
© Surazeus
2017 12 28

I want to climb the ancient bridge of sorrow
and caress the stars that conceal your name
so we will sprout from lost seeds of tomorrow
and join the project of the empire game.

The beat of drums and spiral of bone flutes
swirls deeper in the heart of naked flight
because we know the pattern of the roots
that weave our spirits with nourishing lights.

We break from eggshell of the castle walls
and dance on writhing roads of serpent eyes
to chase our own shadows in mirror halls
which lead us back to flare of crashing skies.

I am the lightning of the urgent word
that flashes long before the thunder boom
so when I rise up from obedient herd
I lead my people through the silent gloom.

I climb stone stairway to glass palace hall
where statues of our dead gods stare at death
then carve red runes of visions on white wall
that teach our children how to charge with breath.

I sit with Shiva on steep mountain slope
to dream the spiral eye of mushroom beams
so when I calculate the cosmic scope
I will know why light flows in changing streams.

I break that mask that long concealed my face
and run on wings of laughter through the streets
where people chase the rainbow in rat race
and transform roles recording noble feats.

I disappear into the programmed I
that I designed to play the wizard king,
but when the world became my looking eye
I flew like Icarus on crippled wing.

Now I explore the waste land of your dreams
where you show me fear in handful of dust
so we cooperate in sporting teams,
competing to achieve the perfect trust.

The face I see in convex mirror swells
far larger than the silk balloon I fly
so tribesmen worship me as god of bells
when I descend on beams from flashing sky.

The history of the world glows in our brains,
preserved by archetypes of epic hero
who dances chanting spells to sparkle rains
so Aryabhata dreams the thought of zero.

From bottomless abyss on wings of fire
we rise from rain-wet mud to dance on hills
and tender fragile flame of soul desire
to shine the light of truth with anguished thrills.

When aching cry from broken heart ascends
to flash explosions in the lightless void
that hour on music scale my soul transcends
this muddy flesh of the duteous android.

Then I will climb hierarchic steps of power
to grasp the scepter of wisdom with plan
to base new empire on the blooming flower
and build new heaven for my wandering clan.

Should we crown as queen the hyacinth girl
who leaps through the looking-glass of my heart
so she carves model of Earth on small pearl
that reveals how to live on cosmic chart?

She gathers lost souls on flat pyramid
where we tend flame of truth in blazing night
to sing in choir of hope on solid grid
coding tales of heroes who defend right.

Force Of Life

Force Of Life
from Swerve of Lucretius
in Hermead Epic of Philosophers
@ Surazeus
2017 12 28

Along trail that winds around mountain peak
Titus Lucretius and Venus ascend
sleeping volcano where crafty Vulcanus
first forged liquid fire into shining metal.
Standing with Venus on high verdant slope
of Mount Vesuvius that pulses with fire,
Lucretius gazes at gold sun that glows
beaming through clouds over vast shining sea,
and illuminates rolling hills and vales
that teem with vibrant plants and animals
along shores of flowing rivers and lakes
where towns of people bustle with commerce,
and children play laughing among fruit trees.
Wrapping his arm with love around her shoulders,
Lucretius breathes deep cool blustering wind,
and gazes in her silver eyes that reflect
vision of this world of atomic forms.
"I sense the Force of life in every atom
that composes this teeming world of forms.
Each atom pulses with light at its heart
that urges it to swerve through boundless void
from hot flashing spark of inner desire
which causes motion natural to its form
so atoms clash with others in their flight,
attracting and repulsing in wild swarms
like flocks of birds that swirl among high clouds.
When atoms clash in slight bend of their flight
they bump other atoms in pulsing waves
and cause their forward motion to decline
from first unobstructed trajectory,
then spiral around each other to swarm
in aggregating bodies which transform
into glowing suns and planets that provide
foundation for all plants and animals
to thrive from combinations of more atoms
which unify in bodies we perceive.
Democritus taught that atoms fall straight
through endless void from force of gravity
that pulls atoms along parallel lines
to solid center of our bulging world,
but I think atoms pulse with beaming force
inside their minute particles of forms
so they express subconscious will to fly
by swerving off that straight line into void,
declining forth on bending curve of hope.
Each atom swerving in vast boundless void
pulses with energy of force that beams
our bodies bright with consciousness of life.
The Force of energy that pulses forward
operates without consciousness of our minds,
pushing forward on swift trajectory
to swerve in spirals of aggressive lust
then clash and aggregate in spinning planets
which nourish forms of plants and animals,
and humans who communicate through words
to describe perceptions of our quick minds.
The Force of love flows through all living things
for our bodies are aggregates of atoms,
and each atom pulses with hoping force,
but the Force itself has no consciousness
until atoms form brains of living creatures
with five senses to perceive whole universe
which spirals outward from first flowering vortex.
When the Force awakens inside our minds,
since we perceive physical laws of nature
to comprehend acts of cause and effect,
then we can channel force of energy
through crafting operations of our hands
to manipulate matter and control
how the Force flows in processes of life,
and thus we become magicians who can bend
trajectory of atoms through our will.
We perceive our world as it exists now,
then we imagine clear how we can change
forms of atoms to fulfill our desires,
herding cows, tending crops, building machines,
and taste sweet pleasures that nourish our bodies,
then we manipulate bodies of atoms
through process of construction and destruction
to transform structures that fulfill our plan,
and thus we exercise will of our minds
to channel the Force with our crafting hands,
and attain blissful state of Ataraxia,
serene calmness in constant change of life."
Kissing is mouth with passionate desire,
Venus Hedona smiles with beatific love.
"I am blessed with love of your generous heart,
Titus Lucretius Carus, my dear love,
for your words illuminate mysteries
of unseen ideas that operate our world.
The Force of love that operates your soul
engenders new child growing in my womb
so we can live forever beyond death
in bodies of our children we create
when my womb molds atoms in their new body
which nourishes new mind separate from ours.
Our child that transforms now inside my womb
will reincarnate your perceptive soul
again in new flesh to live beyond death
so we will live together in its soul.
All our ancestors who live in our bodies
will live again in all our new descendants,
so we began to dream forces of life
when our world was first formed from swirling atoms,
and we will continue to dream its force
through all coming changes of evolution
till our planet disintegrates at last.
Through our children we will live as one soul
during all transformations of our world,
till we merge with all other living souls.
The Force of Life glows in each pulsing atom
that forms this body of our consciousness."

Empire Rises To Rule

Empire Rises To Rule
© Surazeus
2017 12 27

When from the graves of injustice they rise,
the boys and the girls shot dead by police,
what visions of their phantoms burn our eyes
that seek the angst of forgiving release?

They crowd around us with eyes full of flame
and cry out for real justice to be done,
but all we can do is recite lost name
of each hopeful soul blasted by the gun.

We scribble our outrage on cardboard signs
and march together down the midnight streets,
but police arrest us and we pay fines
that fund huge mansions for corporate elites.

I dream of his face when he raised his hands
but still the policeman fired in his heart,
and now his blood stains all innocent lands
so we watch sports while our world falls apart.

Through spin of revolution we destroy
old institutions of powerful men,
then rebuild process of democracy,
not with the gun but with the honest pen.

The republic we loved crumbles to ruin
after eighty years of prosperous peace,
but empire rises to rule global union
we manage in spite of human caprice.

Shall we dance together in winter rain,
the ghosts of people shot dead by police,
and sing till we triumph over our pain
and fight world war to earn new vital peace?

They follow me when I climb marble stairs
to stand before statue of god in court,
seeking justice for American heirs
who share the wealth of our national fort.

The warriors who fought in every lost war
howl laughing in the hurricanes of time
till Mother of Liberty at the door
administers justice for each foul crime.

When we hold hands from sea to shining sea,
all races and creeds united in faith
in principles of truth and liberty,
we sing new hymns at descent of the wraith.

We sit by the lake and search for the Force
that flows through everything in streams of light,
then journey together on the weird course
which leads to paradise without a fight.

Once the united world is ruled by the fool
and we feast with joy in new halls of power
accept that the empire rises to rule
with the Empress of Truth locked in the tower.

Lucifer On Parnassus

Lucifer On Parnassus
© Surazeus
2017 12 27

I wandered long across the land alone,
singing visions of my heart on the street
to beam the light of hope in gloom of fear
and glow bright in the darkness of despair.

Now we are all connected by the wires
of clear communication through quick sparks
that beam our voices on the internet
when we craft our persona on Face Book.

Where once I felt alone in silent gloom
I see ten thousand other poets shine
by singing visions of their hope for love
that generates strong shield against harsh death.

Though each poet sings alone in their town
we all together sing in one great choir
that vibrates visions in harmonious tune
across the crowded land of teeming towns.

Yet sometimes light of poets glares so bright
my own light seems to dim in blasting beams,
and I retreat into my secret cave
where I long tend small flame of my song craft.

Then chilling rage of jealousy for fame
swells thicker from my hungry heart of lust
and twanging note of hope for thought control
twists tighter in crippled Icarian wings.

Though I was soaring high on wings of faith
I feel the flame of power burn from the sun
and seeking fame I rise to touch the light
that beams from source of inspiring desire.

But just as darkness of jealousy yaws
to swallow down my fragile flame of song
down in deep bottomless pit of despair
I twist away from death on wings of love.

I feel the flames of inspiration burn
my frail Icarian wings, so I fall back
and tumble down into the cave of silence
where I crawl blind in darkness of my rage.

Then just as silence seems to crush my soul
in cruel war to obliterate words
of my harmonious song in silent death,
I feel the flame of love inside my heart.

Down in the darkness of the deep abyss
I see strange creatures moving in the gloom
and when they raise their faces to my view
I see my own soul beaming in their eyes.

Though many eloquent poets stride bold
in public squares to sing enchanting words,
and revel in the cheer of loud acclaim,
such moments of glory vanish in night.

I reach my hand in seething lava dreams
and clutch at concepts of my teeming brain
then mold from river mud the face of God
who dwells in every human soul alive.

I clutch the quick elusive flame of thought
and string bright molecules of flashing words
to capture flowing vision of weird truth
so words of song gleam diamonds on gold crown.

From cave of silence I ascend on wings
of winding love to soar among the clouds
where I sing visions of my aching heart
that flash as lightning before thunder cracks.

Though I fell from the pyramid of Heaven
where famous poets sing before large crowds
I walk the desolate waste land of our culture
and sing for wandering tribes of wordless souls.

I hold aloft the light of truth I spark
to beam my vision of engendering love
that guides lost souls from bleak waste land of truth
to garden haven where we share fresh fruit.

We sit around the hearth of glowing light
and share the stories of our aching hearts
then tend the fruit trees with our crafting hands
to brew sweet juice we drink in silent night.

Big Book Of Lives

Big Book Of Lives
© Surazeus
2017 12 26

Sun glares on snow of my infinite mind
that vanishes in whisper of pure light
when spirits leap from mirror of the dark
and weave my memories in singing vines.

I accept the special face you design
for me to wear at the party of wealth
though rippling waves of music shroud my heart
in tangled calculations of respect.

I climb the mountain where devils explain
how we can rein our demons to control
how quick we surf the whirling waves of change
to splash the boundless shore of trembling time.

I dance across the bridge of sacred myths
to cross the vast abyss of ennui
and metamorphose Ape to Superman
who overcomes the cracked mirror of death.

I fall into the spiral well of truth
so when I touch the mirror of my eye
all infinite selves I could be smile back
and teach me how to count flashing raindrops.

You hear me sing these magic spells far out
inside the echoing labyrinth of your brains
because we are the children of one god
who first dreamed the world before flowing time.

Descend with me into the Inner World
where every ancestor who forged our souls
appears from nameless mist of aching hope
and calculates the chemistry of love.

So long ago beyond the veil of rain
I disappeared into the mirror world
and still the echo of my song returns
to ripple on the shining streets of fear.

So we assemble puzzle pieces cut
from tattered tapestry of history
to weave our own new Odyssey of faith
that we will find the first homeland of Man.

But when we meet again on avenue
of singing clowns, before the winter storm,
the blind seer takes me to the ocean shore
and shows me where the blazing sun is born.

While you still wander labyrinth of words
she opens doors three turns ahead of you
so you must follow where the thread may lead
till you arrive in factory of souls.

If I could hear ten thousand poets sing
the prophet of the wingless bird might teach
the arcane spell that unlocks molecules
which shimmer in the neurons of our brains.

Since I address this letter to your heart
it flies on angel wings to find your home
and sees you standing in the window glare
attempting to remirror divine eyes.

I kneel and slide my fingers through wet grass
after clinging to the boat for thirty days
and dream I fall up high among the stars
who know the reason I may not exist.

When you attempt to read these magic spells
you might taste your dreams from bottomless wells
that burn your eyes blind to your own true tale
so you worship me as the god who saves.

I lead you to the pool of blinking eyes
where kind Narcissus drowned in blinding pride
and teach you how to drive the whirring plane
from Nirvana back home to lost Elysium.

He stands before the door ten thousand years
to wait the hour the angel without wings
descends from heaven that does not exist
and paints the number of the wisest beast.

So you still wander by my side this hour
among the ruins of our national myth
where broken statues of our heroes lie
amid the fragments of the truth we thought.

Together we can build new temple hall
and carve on granite walls eternal verse
recording formula that codes our genes
each time we engender new thinking soul.

Now let us sit together by the sea
and weave the clear mirroring eyes of stars
in clever tales of new scriptural myths
that record our names in Big Book of Lives.

Grannus Brings Life

Grannus Brings Life
© Surazeus
2017 12 26

Pushing open the wood slab frozen stuck,
Sucellus peers from chimney of the hearth
at the mountain valley covered in snow.
"So much snow fell over the past twelve days
that our feasting hall is buried in snow
up to the roof, so our doors are stuck tight."

Gazing a long time at the winter scene,
Sucellus stares enchanted by the moon
that glitters silver in the purple night.
Shivering at the blast of wind in his face,
Sucellus climbs back down the chimney shaft,
and stares at his whole family lying dead.
Sucellus huddles by the cold stone hearth
and listens to the winter winds howl bleak
like demons wailing in dark caves of gems.

Shivering in the shadowy gloom of night,
Sucellus blows on embers in the ash
but their soft orange glows vanish in the gloom.
He reaches out to touch the cold pale face
of his mother, but her blue eyes stare blank
at nothing beyond the roof of their house.
"Wise Sirona, mother who made my soul,
how often you called my name in the sun,
but now your sweet voice is forever mute."
Floating in the blackness of freezing gloom,
Sucellus sighs at the horror of death
that squeezes his heart till it almost stops.

Strange knocking sound jolts him from dream of snow
as if huge demon stomps at dread despair
on the roof that rattles in dim gray gloom.
Sharp glow of light beams down the chimney shaft
as if bright star has fallen from the sky
and blinds his eyes in flash of pure white light.
Shielding his eyes, Sucellus blinks and gasps
when bearded man in long red cloak appears,
dropping down into the ash of the hearth.

"Ho, ho, ho!" shouts the bearded man who smiles
with delight, and his eyes twinkle bright silver
when he sees the boy huddled in the dark.
"How glad I am to see you still alive,
though you are almost starved to death, I see,
one child alone from your whole village lost.
My name is Grannus, master of the springs
that bubble warm at the great citadel
of Aquae Granni, where my father ruled."

Clutching the arm of the large bearded man,
Sucellus tries to speak with raspy voice,
"We ate all our food so they starved to death.
We could not finish harvesting more food
because the cold winds blasted from the sky
two months earlier than in all previous years.
Snow fell for countless days and blocked our doors
so we could not go out to gather wood,
fill buckets of water, or dig for roots."

Dropping large bag and firewood on the floor,
Grannus drapes large wool cape around the boy,
then checks each person to find signs of life.
Frowning in sorrow, Grannus gives starved boy
fresh apple, so he bites it with delight,
and feels sweet life sparkle within his heart.
Smiling in relief, Grannus stacks firewood.
"I brought this bag of food for all to eat
so I will start warm fire and cook you stew."
Grannus strikes flint stones to spark flashing fire
that crackles in the frigid gloom of death,
and soon beams sweet glow of warmth in the room.

Together Grannus and Sucellus feast,
eating roast hen, cabbage stew, and wheat bread,
while drinking apple cider spiced with mint.
When they are stuffed and resting by the fire,
Grannus pulls large wooden horse from his bag
and gives it to Sucellus with warm smile.
The young boy gallops horse around the room,
proclaiming, "Sons of Belenus, join me
to fight for liberty against the Romans!
My father told me stories of his youth
when he joined strong Vergobretus Sedullos
to help Vercinus drive the Romans out.
Though Vercinus Geta Rex and his men
died defending Alesia from invaders
my father escaped dressed like a werewolf."
Leaning over the old man with long beard
who lies dead, Sucellus touches his face.
"Feast well, Father Abellius, in Valhalla."

Resting large hand on shoulder of the boy,
Grannus smiles, "Since you are now all alone,
Sucellus son of courageous Abellius,
who defended our freedom from the Romans,
join me as I journey across the land
and visit other villages like yours
to bring food and wood to people like you
who are freezing and hungry in the dark.
Help me bring good cheer to every lost soul."
Sucellus helps him pack and climbs the ladder,
then both emerge from the chimney to stand
in bright gold sunlight flashing on the snow.

Sitting in the large sleigh pulled by reindeer,
Sucellus holds on tight when Grannus snaps
long leather reins to urge the reindeer run.
The sleigh glides swift and silent over snow
among the pine trees standing in the sun
past towering peaks of mountains in the sky.

"I feel as if I rose again from death,
buried in the silent tomb of my home,
where my family still lies in chilling death.
Two days ago I lay still in the dark,
among dead bodies of my family,
but now I fly across the silver clouds.
How swift we soar as if on eagle wings
among the clouds of snow that sparkle gold,
and I breathe deep the flushing wind of life.
Like the flower that blooms again in spring,
and pokes its head through snow in warm sunlight,
I am born again from your generous love.
How like the shining sun your face appeared
when you descended from the chimney hearth
and brought bright apples of the sun for me.
I live again in the light of your love."

Everything We Made

Everything We Made
© Surazeus
2017 12 25

When I traverse the misty mountain trail
to see the world that shines beyond the veil
of airy words we speak to beam our thoughts
through boundless space, where gallant astronauts
search bottomless void for the face of God,
who explores the world with his curious squad,
I stumble into ruins of ancient towns
and find skulls of gods still wearing jeweled crowns.

I find carved huge on walls of windy caves
the names of every king who ruled mute slaves
and thought they were the divine sons of gods
till grim death revealed them all to be frauds,
so then I carve in hollow cave of death
the names of common folk with codes of myth
so their good deeds will flash preserved in song
when they shine out among the nameless throng.

I trace the secret songs of streams in books
to praise wise oracles who dream in rooks
so I can calculate the puzzling game
of social interaction through my name
that generates from flowering seeds our soul
we share when dreaming threads of cosmic whole
conspire to weave the tapestry of truth
though I search darkness as the loyal sleuth.

Our nation, who migrated with ideals,
from far across the sea on rolling wheels,
developed from small tribes of farming clans,
who built sea ships and houses with their hands,
into vast empires that span spinning globe
while kings play god in crown and flowing robe,
long before we were born to play our roles
and long after we die achieving goals.

One thousand years after my fathers built
castle towers from bones, that will never tilt
beyond the far horizon of our eyes,
I stand among ruins under empty skies
and feel the aching sadness of their loss
when they worshipped the dead king on the cross,
and search clouds for their faces without names
since everything we made was burned by flames.

Christmas Photograph

Christmas Photograph
© Surazeus
2017 12 25

The old man stops one of three at the mall
as they are passing windows full of toys
and shows him torn, faded photograph
while gazing down at him with moonlit eyes.

"This is my favorite Christmas photograph
of me with my family on Christmas Day,
all dressed up to eat the holiday meal,
standing around the pine tree full of lights."

The young man takes the offered photograph,
then laughs and tosses it down to the floor.
"You tore this photograph from catalog
selling Christmas gifts, and glued in your face."

The old man laughs and strokes his long white beard.
"How right you are, for I am Santa Claus,
and I am testing hearts of random people
to ensure they fulfill the Christmas Spirit."

The young boy squints his eyes with skeptic sneer.
"You are not Santa Claus, you blind old fool,
since you are nothing but some homeless man
who clings to memories in eyes of strangers."

The young man shoves the old man on the ground
then walks away to join his shopping friends,
and tells them how some weird old man pretends
that he is Santa Claus, then they all laugh.

The old man sits on bench outside a store
and watches people walking past in groups
whose every rainbow-chasing step will crush
the Christmas photograph that he posed for.

"I was an orphan left on old church steps,
but when I was a child but twelve years old
I worked as a model for catalogs,
posing with fake families by Christmas trees."

Ancient Day Of Feast

Ancient Day Of Feast
© Surazeus
2017 12 25

On this cold dark day when the sun seems lost
we light warm fires and share delicious feasts
to celebrate the birth of all our children
by singing stories of heroes who fight
the greed of tyrants to free us from hate,
and give each other gifts of things we make.

Quick oscillations of the searching mind
calculate the coil of cause and effect
that spirals vibrant galaxies of faith
when we sit together by the warm hearth
and exchange stories of our families
which reveal the nexus of life and death.

When nuggets of facts, anecdotes, and proverbs
clatter on the time table of my mind,
I transform their concepts through alchemy
of artistic desire into new shapes
so I conform each puzzle piece to match
my ontological world view of truth.

We find behind the cultural masks of gods
universal archetypes of social roles
invented first by living human beings
whose unique deeds, they performed to survive,
were molded into standard characters
we love to watch in dramas of our myths.

I wear new face from ancient gallery
to strut my hour upon the stage of life
and then retreat to dressing room of church
where gods reveal themselves as fooling clowns
who rehearse the sound and fury of faith
which loyal followers recite in hymns.

So now we gather at glowing world hearth
by tree we decorate with skulls of kings,
and give each other gifts we carved from bones
of howling Earth before the burning dawn,
and sing the memories of our First Mother
who plucked sweet fruit of wisdom from our hearts.

You cannot find me in the labyrinth
of cultural tales I weave from thread of hope
because I leap the walls of normal rules
and sew new visions on world tapestry
which preserves the tales of nameless lost souls
whose faces hide behind the mask of God.

But now I sit beside the cold dark hearth
where no ancient flames of cultural myths glow
because the spirits of their stories flash
from out the anguished glory of our hearts
since we are now alive and wear those masks
our ancestors discarded on the road.

Ten thousand years we gathered round warm hearths
to share rich feasts of stories and old songs
but now state hearth is cold and all their souls
flutter silent around me while I write,
then turn on the large television screen
to watch their spirits flashing beyond death.

I see them play our ancient cultural tales,
talented actors who lived unique roles
of weird characters in dramas of love,
though every one is now dry pile of bones
buried in the breast of the spinning world,
while alone I watch in the house of souls.

Where can we find the solid truths we lost
since vibrant concepts are encased in stones
on which we build foundations of strong faith
which will articulate the standard law
of verifiable facts that we encode
in statements to explain how all things work?

In isolated systems of material
energy cannot be created or destroyed
so pulsing spirit of each molecule
will vibrate with eternal soul of love
no matter how they interact in forms
through constant chemistry of lusting change.

The idiot howling on cathedral steps
expresses anguish stoics rein contained
in graceful motions of civilized faith
to ascend the stairway of heaven high
above the crowded streets of rumbling cars
and hear blind angels sing harmonious hymns.

We kneel before old statues carved in marble
that present forms of the Man and the Woman
who symbolize those ideal characters
that priests declare we all should imitate,
but my own spirit surges bright in me
so I must fight to secure Liberty.

We mold our hearts to shape the truth we know
from each experience that we dramatize
when we go out beyond the bounding wall
of safe paradise to explore the world
and comprehend its weird fantastic truths
because we fly with Icarus through joy.

So join with me on ancient day of feast
to celebrate the process of rebirth
when all we know and love passes away
after generating forms of themselves,
and stories our parents tell us at feast
we tell our own children before we die.

Awake My Inner Wight

Awake My Inner Wight
© Surazeus
2017 12 24

I give away everything that I owned
and wander by the flashing river stoned
beyond the boundaries of sacred tales
to weigh the truth of history on scales
revealing why the fool leaves home on quest
to find the holy grail locked in their chest.

We all know something we hope to forget
while swimming homeward, caught in tangled net
of lies we weave from stories about kings
and children who try to escape on wings
of artificial faith, but memories
return to us each day as broken keys.

Strange events keep leaping out at my face
but I avoid them in awkward dance for grace
through every door that leads me from dark church
where clowns in gray suits preach that we should search
for secret to escape the doom of death
by breathing deep the sacred mountain breath.

My animal spirit leaps from my heart
and races down the road mapped by the chart
I found inside the rotten oak tree trunk
that leads me to search for treasures and junk,
and then we sit together on the hill,
watching moonlight sparkle on the clear rill.

Though I am weak and crumbling down toward death
I must compose the global shibboleth
that will express through calculating verse
how we evolve from swirling universe
because each atom pulses with pure light
which all combine to wake my inner wight.

Alone in little box that floats in space
I stare out window at my secret face
that hides the fantasies of my desires
but in circus of life I fly on wires
to fight the tyrant for freedom and love
since I must be the eagle, not the dove.

Swan Lake

Swan Lake
© Surazeus
2017 12 23

The old gray-haired woman shuffling in socks
pushes open the glass library door
and sits on the couch by the magazines
and watches children play among the books.

Deep in her eyes some ancient memory stirs
when she was nine, and had long yellow hair,
and she went running barefoot in the grass
down to play on the muddy river shore.

Because she saw on television tube
the dancer from China named Li Cunxin
leaping high on stage in the show Swan Lake
she dances among the flowers and trees.

She leaps in the breeze that blows through her hair
and she leaps toward the sky inside her eye
and she leaps higher than rainbows in clouds
and she leaps in the void where stars shine pure.

I want to fly to heaven with the hawks
and sing with angels who strum ringing harps,
yet when I leap I almost leave the world,
but something always pulls my soul back down.

What keeps me bound tight to this heavy world,
containing the flashing dreams of desire
that urge me to soar far into the stars,
and forces me to walk blind path of life?

I wanted to dance ballet on the stage,
but my father drove the town garbage truck,
and my mother served burgers in cafes,
so I worked as cleaning maid in hotels.

For thirty years I made beds every night,
and raised autistic son who died at twelve
when he wandered into traffic one day,
and I watched television shows each night.

Three little girls approach and touch her hand,
and one asks with a sweet innocent voice,
"Are you the wife of jolly Santa Claus,
and did you bring cookies for us to eat?"

Not understanding one word the girls say,
because she is deaf, the old gray-haired woman
gazes into their pretty eyes and smiles,
and nods her head as they all run away.

Pushing up from the couch at closing time,
the old gray-haired woman shuffling in socks
pushes open the glass library door
and wanders in falling snow to the park.

Lying in her cardboard box in the bushes,
the old gray-haired woman stares at the stars
and dreams she soars on wings into the clouds
as midnight winds freeze her white as swan feathers.

Way Of Negative Capability

Way Of Negative Capability
© Surazeus
2017 12 23

Way of Negative Capability
is to accept the nature of the world
as atoms which pulse with electric force,
swirling randomly in the boundless void,
and clump together in structures of things,
like worlds and organic bodies of creatures
who devour each other and breed new forms,
without imposing the meaning of morals
through judgment of what consists good or evil,
while noting process of cause and effect
of structures through construction and destruction
when we employ tools of scientific research
so we discover the nature of things
and sing the beauty of all life and death.

Game Of Life And Death

Game Of Life And Death
© Surazeus
2017 12 22

Strip off all the clothes of society
and I stand naked in the wind of horror
then slip into the pool of self-esteem
and dive down into the darkness toward light.

I float nowhere in the infinite void
and see only my own soul looking back
from the mirror of divine consciousness
so I speak the name to describe myself.

Our concept of the world of pulsing atoms
swirling in the boundless void of the mind
we sing into being with words we invent
by breathing the spirit of mountain wind.

While floating in the mountain lake at dawn
I remember when the first single cell
of carbonated life woke in the void
and felt the bubbling sparkle of desire.

Through all the weird forms of organic life
presented by our fetus in the womb
we metamorphosed from sperm into god
who sings on the shore of the shining lake.

The only god who created my soul
looks down at me while I suckle sweet milk
from her breast and hums lullaby of peace
that molds my soul with the name she gives me.

I become the halo of glowing light
that shines around her head in ring of gold
where jewels glitter eyes of ancient stars
to reveal how the universe was born.

Rising from dream lake with the reborn sun,
I dress in the persona I design
and walk the labyrinth of society
to play myself in game of life and death.

Edwin Raven Of Kennebec River

Edwin Raven Of Kennebec River
© Surazeus
2011 12 22

Edwin Arlington Robinson
22 December 1869 - 6 April 1935

Through sunny streets of Gardiner every day
while laughing carefree children skip and play,
brooding ghost in long black coat and silk tie,
puffing scented smoke from polished wood pipe
and peering through spectacles with fierce eyes,
pauses often, lost in fantastic dream,
and stares forlorn in Cobbossee-Contee Stream.
Memories of his childhood in river town
flicker behind silent veil of his eyes,
swimming in Kennebec River with friends,
picking apples from misty sunlit fields,
collecting tiger beetles and butterflies
in grove of oaks where red boxberries shine,
and listening to girls play piano and sing.
Prophet of miserable hope, stalking streets
filthy from arrogance of thieving lies,
wields pen sharper than swords of generals
to peel away masks of upstanding folk
and crack ice facade of their social pride,
exposing frauds disguised as honest men
that reveals brass statues are empty shells.
Ravens gather on twisted branch of oak
to follow Edwin Robinson through mist,
eager to feast on corpse of piety,
rotten apple cores spilling from cracked masks
of blind statues that rust in hungry rain,
while he gathers seeds of forgotten souls
and plants their eyes in meadows of old faith
for hymns of honest hope to sprout new leaves
on Tree of Life before library hall
where Laura Richards writes at oaken desk.
Plucking apple from ancient twisted tree,
where Yellow House shimmers on star-blessed hill,
Edwin offers fruit to Laura, Star Queen,
then bows before sweet gentle Rosalind,
woodland maiden in white sun-gleaming gown,
who dances among trees while Alice plays
music of rippling river to enchant
his heart, piercing clouds of grumbling black death
with rays of light that guide his trudging steps
from cliff of despair to garden of songs.
Young Edwin, raven of Kennebec River,
gazes backward through swirling mist of time
and listens to ancient music of gods
who danced long ago on swift-spinning Earth
and tries to translate their forgotten dreams,
carving letters in sand with magic wand,
twisted tree branch fallen from apple tree,
to record fears and hopes that plague our minds
and urge our steps forward on road of life,
singing from birth till death swallows our souls.
Yet his voice still echoes in wind of trees,
half heard behind roar of cars on gray roads,
beaming bright in sunlight on apple cheeks,
and whispering secrets buried in our hearts.

Matter And Consciousness

Matter And Consciousness
© Surazeus
2017 12 21

While matter can give rise to consciousness
consciousness can never give rise to matter.
Matter exists before our consciousness.

Consciousness is a quick function of matter
that has evolved into perceptive brain
of an active and sensing organism.

Matter can exist without consciousness,
but consciousness of our perceptive brains
cannot function without matter at its base.

Particles of matter pulse with energy
that evolve through chemical interactions
into organic bodies that support
brains which generate consciousness in love.

This is proved by the absolute fact
that we have no memories before birth,
and we blank out when we fall into sleep.

If consciousness of spirits could occur
without the chemical function of matter
then we would always have been clearly conscious
before our bodies were formed by our mothers,
and we would never then lose consciousness
when we drift into the dark state of sleep.

We are each conscious spirits in the world,
learning all about the functions of matter
so we can generate children through love
who will remain conscious after we die.

We are nothing before our bodies form,
we savor the conscious dream of this life,
then we vanish into nothing at death,
while our children continue on the path
and dream again the consciousness we lose.

New King Of America

New King Of America
© Surazeus
2017 12 21

When I go running from clan home I burned,
searching for ghost of my father in mist,
I stumble down into the winding cave
where jewels glitter like bright eyes of snakes.

I break the fragile harp Orpheus gave me
when I fling it at snapping jaws of fear
and run into the darkness of despair
to escape the king on high throne of gold.

The maimed king shuffles in the labyrinth
of broken mirrors, but he cannot see
the face his son Narcissus reflects back
from rancid pool of rotting fish and rinds.

Wild Arthur, my only begotten son,
I tricked the crippled king and stole his bride
to engender your soul in her fertile womb,
so now you wear the crown he dropped in muck.

From darkness of the cavern, bearing torch
of vision that he snatched down from the sun,
Lucifer shouts at me when I snatch flint stones
which I can strike to spark the flame of truth.

My father Jupiter taught me the secret
of making fire, so I walk the vast sky
and bring the light of salvation to all
who wander in the dark cave of despair.

I stare into the deep abyss of truth
until the abyss stares back up at me,
but laugh when I perceive my own blue eyes
reflecting the face my father once wore.

I follow Lucifer up winding trail
to mountain grove where Jupiter stands tall
before the stone altar where he roasts beef
and gives me wheat beer in bull horn to drink.

The Unconquerable Sun rises from death,
so we bury seeds in the soil of Tellus
and wait for the light of eternal love
to rejuvenate vines and trees of fruit.

That wretched man Jesus, the crippled king
of the desert kingdom, wanders his wasteland
and curses his stormy father Jehovah
who abandoned him on the cross of war.

The lame-foot boy who hobbles dusty road
stands before the Sphinx by ruined tower walls
and throws the head of Laius at her feet,
then hobbles away on the wand of Hermes.

Since Oedipus was crowned the king of fools
I reign on the high ziggurat of skulls
to brainwash children attending my schools
that my father is immortal god who rules.

When Ishtar returns from land of the dead
she places ring of gold on my bowed head
which renders me invisible to eyes
of men who look for God in empty skies.

When Cain runs past me in the labyrinth
I find his brother Abel by the altar
beaten on the head, so I drink his grapes
and dance in drunken revelry of love.

Old and wrinkled as the dry desert land,
Adam slouches lame by the stone of power,
and holds heaps of apple seeds in his hand
from apples he stole from Garden of Eloh.

Aeneas strides from the cavern of smoke,
bearing his old lame father on his back,
and runs down to the shore where Chiron waits
to sail away in search of paradise.

From lost Avalon to misty America
I sail in ship of fools on stormy waves
toward evening land where Atlas stands alone,
heaving the cornerstone of a new empire.

I bear the Holy Grail in trembling hand
that I find at last in the Cave of Ideas,
and drink the blood of the crucified king
which flashes visions in my soggy brain.

I rip the wand of vision from the soil
and race toward the shadow of tyranny
to free Tellurians from his fascist laws
and swing to smash the mirror of my face.

Fallen lame before the statue of Zeus,
I reach to grasp the hand of my god father,
but smear blood on the statue of King David
as police escort me from the Museum of Art.

Endless Song Of Sea Waves

Endless Song Of Sea Waves
© Surazeus
2017 12 21

Flurries of blue snow in the freezing wind
blast our faces with bitter memories
as we stand stalwart on the jagged cliff
and sing the ache of sea waves crashing wild.

While we were holding hands in ring of stones
to celebrate the rebirth of the sun,
fierce men on horses, wielding sun-flash swords,
thundered through our village just after sunset.

Shouting that Jesus is king of the world,
they hacked off the heads of our chanting men
and bound the hands of our women with ropes,
then took them to their castles to bear sons.

Clinging to each other in shock of death,
my sister and I stare out at black sea,
and listen to lamentations of waves
that crash against broken rocks of our hearts.

The burning sun sinks down into the waves,
extinguishing all hope at end of time
on the longest night of the year when death
clutches at the frail beating of my heart.

Hugging each other in the small cliff cave,
we spiral dizzy into starless sky
and drift on buffeting wind of despair,
sure that warm sun will never rise again.

I see them flock around me in the gloom,
the spirits of my family glowing silver
as the moon that shimmers through apple trees,
but their eyes burst into rivers of tears.

Gushing river of horror floods the world,
and laughing hordes of water men, with hands
of shearing ice, clutch at my racing heart
while I tumble dizzy in swirling waves.

Eternal blackness swallows me in doom
and all the sparkling stars inside my soul
wink out at gusting wind of whispering sorrow,
and all life vanishes in boundless void.

Naked in the dark I wake at dim flash
when dawn sun gleams green through swirling rain clouds,
and I touch my sister in the blue cave
but she lies frosted white, peaceful in death.

The new-born sun gleams gold into my cave
and red rhythm of my heart beats with joy
as I savor the sharp tingle of heat
that pierces my soul with infinite love.

I am not yet dead, I shout to the sky,
and walk the sandy beach in sparkling waves
that kiss my feet with smiling eyes of light,
while breathing deep the green wind of rebirth.

Eating plump strawberries from sea-cliff vines,
I sing the glory of the reborn sun
and feel the spirits of my family glow
when I stretch my arms to embrace the world.

Though all the vibrant people whom I loved
disappeared from the bright dream of my eyes
I feel them still alive inside my heart
that beats with the endless song of sea waves.

What Makes Liberty

What Makes Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 12 20

Way out beyond the light of ancient stars
we flash our brains toward vast infinity.
We drive around city mazes in cars,
arguing about what makes Liberty.

Our world keeps spinning in the boundless void
while we keep eating with the ones we love.
What makes us human beyond the android
who believes in a powerful God above?

We crouch in muddy field after pouring rain
and twist thin stick to spark new warming fire.
We search for God among clouds in the plane
but find the last king on his funeral pyre.

I will visit your cathedral to sing
these visions that flash in my dreaming eyes.
Who remembers why we replaced the king
with the president who employs quick spies?

Sordello taught me how to sing weird spells
that inspire us to dance in falling light.
We walk through gray mist at the peal of bells
to hear greedy priests discuss wrong and right.

The woman cries, my body is my own,
so I will act according to my will.
When the maiden transforms into the crone,
will she show me her lost apple-tree hill?

I follow her steps in bright swirling mist
beyond the crumbling walls of paradise.
Alone, I remember when we first kissed,
how her heart tasted of honey and spice.

I stand in cold wind under Tree of Life
and watch glass cities sprout from castle towers.
How can we convert peace from civil strife
when bankers charge us to remember flowers?

When Orpheus descends to the Underworld
we follow his song in the blinding dark.
I dream when atoms of creation whirled
to generate my soul from neuron spark.

I agree that swords and guns do not kill,
but angry people use them to kill more.
Who chooses to fight than learn crafting skill,
to make and sell goods in the market store?

When I was young I wandered city streets,
lost in vast maze of opportunity.
I followed weird rhythm of chanting Beats
who defied bankers with impunity.

Enclosed within this frail body of flesh,
we explore our world to map mystery.
Who can better measure my heartbeat rate,
the goddess of love or of liberty?

Torricelli measured pressure of weight,
raising water with force of Mercury.
I sit on the top of the ziggurat
to eat salad of figs and succory.

I explore maze of your heart with loving stealth
to understand what motivates your core.
Why does one person gain great fame and wealth
when another deserves success much more?

The gods we worship are but idols beamed
as vivid characters from words we read.
When the blind fool wakes up and is redeemed
we rejoice and admire their noble deed.

The young boy, aided by the wise old man,
defeats the tyrant who controls our souls.
Who rewrites history according to plan
that can activate our progressive goals?

The man whose children rule nations for years
they worship as god who transcended death.
We leave our home to colonize frontiers
and build global empire on psychic breath.

Though my ancestors ruled kingdoms of men,
I want to build river boats with my hands.
Who is that cute girl singing in the glen,
who one day will rule as queen of all lands?

I walk Onatah, sea to shining sea,
revealed as America melts away.
I will fight to keep this land ever free
from fascist preachers who demand we pray.

We humans are God waking up from dream,
for consciousness glows from our brains alone.
Who will sail with me down time-winding stream
to infinite sea of the twilight zone?

Poetics of Cinemism

Poetics of Cinemism

There are so many aspects of poetry. They can be broken down to how language is used, and what vision the language conveys.

First there is the basic linguistic level of words. Individual words signify objects, actions, and qualities. Phrases are strings of connected words that convey a more complex aspect of reality, objects with qualities performing actions. Juxtaposed words become pregnant with meaning. Phrases of words molded into metrical lines convey a musical vision of life in visual images.

Then there is the more complex dramatic aspect of character performing within a social context. Poetry at a higher level presents a vision of a group of people and how their actions are constructive or destructive, exploring interactions that lead to marriage in comedy, or lead to death in tragedy. Great poetry explores the pattern of character archetypes whose interactions follow a trajectory of cause and effect by presenting a character who expresses their view of the world, and makes a decision to act a certain way, and then presents the consequences of their actions.

The best poetry molds a string of words into a memorable phrase of metrical verse that easily replicates itself in the people's minds. In ancient preliterate times, lines of singable verse that was easily memorizable was the essence of poetry. Then people began writing poetry on paper, so it conveyed the singable simplicity of lines. Dramatic recreations of action and reaction on stage developed in drama. With the development of printing, people abandoned the singable metricality of lines and began writing prose to convey longer more complex tales of life. Now with film, the drama has returned as the main way of telling stories with actors performing the roles on film.

The individual poet can choose so many methods and techniques now to convey a vision of the human character interacting in the world. For myself, I have chosen to write narrative poetry, using flexible metrical lines of blank verse by composing complete conceptual phrases in loosely pentameter lines, as I recount the lives and ideas of philosophers and scientists.

Christmas Of Christ Mithras

Christmas Of Christ Mithras
© Surazeus
2017 12 19

At the first coming of the howling winds,
that freeze our souls down to our brittle bones,
we seek the fresh warmth of companionship
in the lights we string on houses and trees.

We celebrate the honest life and death
of Jesus, uncrowned king who walked the Earth
two thousand years ago, whose spirit lives
in people who feed the hungry and poor.

We walk the snow with good King Wenceslaus
to bring warm food and gifts to snow-bound homes,
and sip hot chocolate by the glowing hearth
while children open presents with delight.

We gather around the giving pine tree
to watch Saturnus, son of Kronos, dressed
in scarlet robe, descend the tall tower stairs,
who pours hot spiced cider in every cup.

We hang the gifts we made with our own hands
on the giving tree to honor the birth
of Christ Mithras, born on mid-winter eve,
who lead us from hell to the promised land.

We gather in the warm cathedral hall
on the darkest, shortest night of the year,
and sing while Santus Nikolaus presides
over feast to give every soul a coin.

We climb the winding trail to mountain top
when sunlight glitters gold on fresh white snow
where wise Meroveus raises wand to heaven
and sings the mystery of rebirth in children.

We build castle towers on ten thousand hills
where families sing around the glowing hearth
harmonious hymns to celebrate the birth
of each new child in the Holy Grail clan.

We journey through the rugged mountain vales,
escaping crosses of the Roman Empire,
welcomed by Christ Mithras to his safe Heaven,
to celebrate freedom on Christmas Eve.

We celebrate the sacred marriage rite
when Jesus son of Jesus, King of Israel,
marries Queen Sophia daughter of Christ Mithras,
and reigns as Christ Jesus in lush Galatia.

The sons and daughters of the Holy Grail,
the Blood of Israel from Adam and David,
through Jesus and Maria Magdalena,
spread out far to Avalon and America.

Though Jesus died two thousand years ago
his spirit lives in children of the Mermaid
as we expand the empire of his sword
to rule the world under crown of his wisdom.

Now I, Surazeus, messenger of love,
declare that Christians have all lost their way,
grasping power and wealth for their clan alone,
rather than join United Nations of Earth.

So celebrate the Christmas of Christ Mithras
who welcomed refugees to his safe Haven
where everyone works together for good,
sharing wealth so every soul feasts in peace.

I Still See Her Face

I Still See Her Face
© Surazeus
2017 12 18

The juice that glitters in the broken cup,
congealed from sunlight through the frightened glass,
encloses sorrow in the spiral eye
where words were first invented before dawn.

The flames that writhe from fractured bones of Earth,
expressing breath of wind from rhythmic beat
of river-gushing hearts, dissolves the mind
of nameless fool in flashing waves that sing.

We are not yet dead, we whisper at dusk,
and carry cold fear in handfuls of dust
to search for seeds of herbs lost in the wind,
and each one slips soft feather in their hair.

The last seed from the ancient tree of fruit
glistens black in pale dust, so little girl
pinches it tight between her fragile fingers,
and holds it up toward the approving sun.

We must bury seeds, hidden in moist soil,
and they must die in the darkness of hope
so they may rise reborn at flash of love
to blossom fruit from the heart of the world.

Rising up from the dry dust of the ground,
she stretches her arms toward white swirling clouds
and transforms into the tall tree of fruit,
for I still see her face though she is dead.

Choir Of Our Universe

Choir Of Our Universe
© Surazeus
2017 12 17

I look inside the abyss of my heart
and see countless billions of flashing worlds,
teeming with conscious living souls, that spin
around all the stars of the universe.

This strange quotidian multitude of souls
that bubbles from the hot chemical soup
of countless worlds, spinning so far apart
in the void, nourishes my heart with love.

I lounge in safe phrontistery of truth
to gaze at twinkling stars so far away
till I can see the individual souls,
on each distant world, looking back at me.

The rich diversity of conscious life
who rise from lake of dreams at dawn of time
explore their strange worlds that mirror our own
since we live in one vast galactic sea.

How vulnerable we are, fragile life forms
composed of atoms that pulse with desire
when molecules interact through weird flash
of electrons that spiral carbon rings.

No conscious spirit designs or creates
this proton-woven tapestry of worlds
but God is transgender spirit of life
who divides itself into male and female.

The single cell spirit who first evolved
in the warm chemical womb of the ocean
mutates into sperm who swims swift toward light
and egg who preserves souls of our ancestors.

When transgender God, first mother egg cell,
divides itself into thousands of eyes,
we seek some mate unlike our own gene coil
so we can weave new spirit in the brain.

Split from ourselves, in the transforming womb
of mothers who weave our bodies from matter,
we seek the other half of our mirrored mind
so we can engender new dreaming souls.

Born in the communal group of gendered souls,
we organize ourselves around wise leader
who plays the role of God that we designed
based on our highest values of good action.

When honest gods rule based on principles
of social interaction to achieve
greatest good for each person in our tribe
we thrive to populate the wilderness.

When cruel gods rule based on entitlement
of blood inheritance, to maintain state
of power for their own good over all others,
we stagnate to wander the sterile waste land.

When sperm of the father will fertilize
egg of the mother through pleasant desire
eternal tribal soul will reincarnate
in the fetus who transforms into new person.

I feel every planet, that teems with life
in the vast shimmering sea of pulsing stars,
spinning bright through the neurons of my brain
to populate the abyss with our love.

From beach to grove to cave to ziggurat
to palace to castle to house I move
through labyrinth of doors to find the gate
where children play secure in paradise.

I feel them in the abyss of my heart,
every world that will ever foster life
sparkling alphabet to transmit their dreams
as we sing in choir of our universe.

Children Of Astaria

Children Of Astaria
© Surazeus
2017 12 16

My heart gushes with love for all the world
so I would bid every person alive,
all seven billion souls with conscious minds,
drink from the overflow of my abyss.

I see reflected in their dreaming eyes
the bright eternal soul that we call God
which glows from rich pulsations of our atoms
which vibrate more clear when combined in brains.

I dug into the darkness of my mind,
remembering the lives of all my ancestors,
how they struggled through Hell to create Heaven,
and thus released the fountain of my love.

While wandering in purple rain of Seattle,
I ate the mushroom, Manna of the Negev,
then Guilhelmus, ninth Duke of Aquitaine,
woke inside me and urged I sing new spells.

I walked across the land of Onatah,
and in the waste land of the western wild
I kneeled before the Goddess of the Corn
to offer worship, working for her good.

Accepting my service with generous heart,
the immortal Spirit of Liberty
commissioned me to write new epic tale
relating how wise minds explore the world.

I cartographed the history of the mind
how we perceive rich forms composed of atoms
and design Ideas to categorize
myriad species that populate our world.

We are composed of atoms pulsing bright
that swirl in spiral dance of sparkling joy
to aggregate in warm organic bodies
sustaining brains who sing the deeds of heroes.

We worship noble heroes who perceive
true nature of the world and then perform
deeds of supernatural strength to save mankind
and teach us how to organize great empires.

Religions bind our minds with common tales
that praise the founders of our nation-states,
strange stories of their lives as holy scriptures
which guide our own way through the maze of dreams.

I wrestled with the angel of my soul,
reforming myself as the Messenger,
till I became the Light Maker of truth,
new Lucifer who bears the torch of faith.

I fell nine days and nights from tower of power
then explored thirty years the wilderness
where characters from every tale once told
wander whispering proverbs to the dry stones.

I dug from clay Earth the scepter of wisdom,
forged by volcanic lava cooled by rain,
and fought the hungry dragon of the waste land,
then wore its skull as crown of divine knowledge.

Returning from the waste land of my heart,
I entered the gate to our citadel
and climbed the gold steps of the ziggurat
to stand before Ishtar, Mother of Man.

You are the great Eye of the Pyramid,
I sing before Goddess of Liberty,
and you see all that happens on the Earth,
so you assign each human role of fate.

We are the dreaming children of Astaria
who sent us out to colonize the world,
so we sailed east and west along world coasts
to build small pyramids on every shore.

Drink from the fountain of my bleeding heart
for our visions of love will flow forever
and gather in the ring of stones at dawn
to celebrate the birth of Mother Ishtar.

Astaria touches every human breast
and opens wide our hearts with generous love
so we cooperate to build one empire
that unites all nations in one world tribe.

We Fight For World Unity

We Fight For World Unity
© Surazeus
2017 12 16

We see in the mirror of other faces
reflections of our own dreams we forgot
because we walk somewhere we must design,
mapping our life as we explore the world.

We read the forgotten biography
of lives we might have lead on packages
of things we purchase in large shopping malls,
hidden in the names of people who made them.

We hear our own voices on radios
singing strange feelings for lost memories
we gave away while closing our tired eyes
and stayed silent in the face of hostility.

We forge shields of silence around our hearts
to protect the paradise of childhood,
surrounding our garden of innocence
with stone walls of stoic indifference.

We kneel at the fountain of narratives
to drink the purified dreams of lost hope
and tell stories to strangers that relate
the victimhood of our struggle to live.

We laugh in the weird hurricane of history
and fly on bold Icarian wings toward heaven,
wishing God had created a universe
where we can drink nothing but light to live.

We claw nuggets of wisdom from the Earth
and scatter them on the table of church,
but we must forge them into swords and grails
to fight for freedom and drink juice of love.

We drive cars speeding on highways of hope,
chasing the rainbow of wealth to ascend
the thousand-step pyramid of success
where the president reigns as global god.

We open the fridge of desperate hunger
for epic adventure battling the forces
of tyranny which oppress our vast nation,
but find only the last bottle of soda.

We surf the information highway of lies
and battle the trolls of racism and hate
with swords of compassion and logic forged
in the flames of civil war that we stoke.

We cheer our heroes who defeat the tyrants
and weep when they fall in battle of wits
then send another hero forth to die,
hoping they are David for their Goliath.

We wandered too far from the harping bridge
to the twenty-first century to retreat
from the fight to forge hostile nation-states
into strong United Nations of Earth.

We fight for world unity and peace
that we must forge ourselves in flames of war
for tribes always merge into large empires
and share the cultural wisdom we invent.

We kill the killers who oppress good people
and overthrow the tyrants of blind greed
to enforce strict rules of honest Utopia,
creating Heaven on Earth out of Hell.

Unreal City

Unreal City
© Surazeus
2017 12 15

When all the wise angels who lost their wings
gather in the streets and hold up blank signs
to protest the king in a gray business suit
who wants to charge us for breathing fresh air
we enter the maze of the Unreal City
and snap photos of our faces on doors.

The old woman who dares defy the king
raises high the torn flag of Liberty
then leads the social justice warriors
marching to war against the cross crusaders
who attempt to capture the Unreal City
where the blind prophet paints our names on doors.

We thought he was Tiresias reborn
when we first heard the blind prophet declare,
no man is above the law, not even the king,
but they hung him on the telephone pole
where he watches over the Unreal City
while we try to break through numberless doors.

Who stops on the bridge and howls in the mist
the madness of fools wandering through the maze
of wealth and power where clowns in business suits
steal visions from the man without a clue
who races for wealth through the Unreal City
but leaves bloody handprints on broken doors.

We wait in vain for Britomart to come
riding tall on her white horse in the wind
to drive the mad king from the Oval Office
who shrieks in defiance from the Red House
that reigns over fools in the Unreal City
where legal thieves conspire behind locked doors.

Can all our voices composing one soul
shake the foundations under tower of gold
to topple the oppressive eye of hate
that tries to control the process of fate
since we defy tyrants in Unreal City
and hang wreaths of peace on red-painted doors.

Tears Of Butterflies

Tears Of Butterflies
© Surazeus
2017 12 14

Who drinks fermented tears of butterflies
before the glass piano reveals truth
reflected in the mirror of your eyes
so when you fly above the city towers
your telescopic eyes can see the minds
of every secret poet who never writes?

Who leaps beyond the broken wall of fear
to weave weird rainbows from the sacred dreams
of children lost in maze of laughing doors
who buried names of ones they love with seeds
so vines of sorrow sprout from aching hearts
to preserve songs that no one ever writes?

Who grips sharp keys in clenched fists of despair
and crouches to fight grim shadows of lust
then leaves their bones on parking lot at noon
so the mute boy carves holes with serpent tongue
then plays heart-wrenching melodies of hope
in sweet memory of every murdered girl?

Who lowers buckets in bottomless wells
carved from frozen Earth by thin desperate hands
that clasp when chapped lips pray to empty sky
because no Superman nor Britomart
will fly from flaming clouds to save their souls
since no one but wind answers their sad prayers?

Who stumbles from city of loud machines,
deafened by the harsh howl of hungry ghosts,
and stands on river shore, soul bared to light,
to sing with flock of dreaming butterflies
whose language no one but him understands
because we are composed of pulsing dust?

Who slips the throbbing heart of selfless love
beating from the chest of the faceless king
before he writes your story in the book
that preserves souls in skeleton of words
but escapes on broken wings through the maze
of legends every culture wears as mask?

Who leaps into the doors of waterfalls
in hopes to enter alternate dimensions
where they rule as god-king of the whole world
because they rescue mute souls from the maze
of watching eyes who know your secret name
but keep it hidden in the jewel of truth?

Who stands in ethereal light of desire
to sing ancient epic tales with guitar,
hoping to escape the cage of the house
where their children wait for dinner to eat
while staring at apples that have three eyes
and peer into the secret depths of souls?

Who wanders in the waste land of lost souls
and listens to the thunder cracking jokes
while walking with the shadow of their mind
though the blind prophetess plays chess with death
and the hyacinth girl lies wounded in leaves
on which I wrote the prophecy you need?

Who stands forlorn on river shore at dawn
while sweet Ophelia offers them dead flowers
then brews mushroom wine with honey and grapes
so when I break from nutshell of my kingdom
I can race my bike across wind-swept deserts
and drink fermented tears of butterflies?

Last Christ Of Gotham

Last Christ Of Gotham
© Surazeus
2017 12 13

Hunched in long rain coat and tattered fedora
the old bearded man who lost everything
wanders city landscape of cement streets
to the aching melodies of a violin.
Cast by the light of streetlamps in green mist,
his shadow slides slowly along brick walls
like the lion who glides through ancient woods
when he hunts death to eat the weak and frail.

"Like Satan I have fallen on torn wings
from air-conditioned offices of heaven
and wander lost in alleyways of hell
where junkies sell their bodies for a buck.
I see men cheat other men of their cash
and other men chase them into the shadows
through the maze of courts and prisons to fight
for justice of ordering law against chaos.
The honest man who plays messiah christ
must sacrifice his life for common good
to save mankind from oppression of men
who exploit common people for their gain.
I sat at computers for thirty years
accounting for all profit and expense
of men who exploit the labor of people
to build global empire from ashes of war.
I waited till the day I would retire
to tell my boss he is an evil vampire
building on the bones of men his vast empire
and he threw me out from his tower of power.
He called police to arrest me with cuffs
and charged me with embezzling corporate funds
then locked me in prison for twenty years
and now I own nothing but my frail hands.
My wife and children fled and changed their names
and now I wander past the large glass doors
to banks and shopping malls where people play
glorious gods on the stage of corporate power.
I failed to perform any noble act
in saving the world from tyrants of money
so I was no christ anointed by god
though I was sure his voice spoke in my head.
Jesus is dead two thousand years ago
but he set good example for all kings
to follow when they lead their people well,
willing to die to save them from themselves.
If God is all-powerful, he is not good
for he could create a much better world
where we would never have to eat to live,
yet we must kill the living to live more.
If God is good, he is not all-powerful
for he attempts to enforce rules of law
to ensure equal justice for all people,
but he fails since evil will never cease."

Walking past the large movie theater
after midnight, the old bearded man hears
young woman scream, so he hurries toward sound
where two men clutch her arms as she fights back.
Grabbing long rusty pipe lying on the ground,
the bearded men bashes their arms and backs,
causing them to shriek and release the woman
who runs free into the safe mist of night.
The two rapists growl in rage when she runs,
then turn against the frail old bearded man
to snatch the rusty pipe from his frail hand
and smash his skull so blood spurts on the wall.
Running away, they leave him in the dark,
and the old bearded man stares at the stars
with blank eyes composed of bright molecules
that pulse with ancient consciousness of love.