Dolphin Of My Heart © Surazeus 2025 03 31 Between Arion and Jonah I would be the prophet whose enchanting song of truth inspires wave-leaping spirits of the sea to bear me safely to the shore with ruth because the light of greatness does not fade though our bodies dissolve into the shade. When I am cast on brutal shore of fate, where nightingales have far too long been mute, old Delphic spirit begging at the gate still sings heart-wrenching ballads less than cute, reviving my Muse from grave of my heart so I sing new tales not on her old chart. The nightingale, once singing in the night, regales war refugees on signless roads, while the mockingbird, disdaining clear light, teaches all who cannot sing, birds and toads, how to imitate their own secret voice so they feel they are free to make the choice. If I extract wild spirit from my head, I could fly high on quick angelic wings to purview our world with eye of calm dread employed by the free bird who always sings visions of truth that reveal the real world through ontology of the cosmic herald. Though all-silencing Death attempts to quell cry of the heart for justice, strict yet fair, adjudicating crimes punished by Hell, we will rise bold to sing courageous prayer for every soul alive on this great land to live through freedom of the Giving Hand. Whether I am swallowed by the white whale, and then commissioned by voice of the sky to proclaim retribution of the Scale, or borne by the dolphin as Music spy, I shall in either case record the truth with honest spirit of messiah sleuth. Perched on Arionian dolphin of my heart, I strum the lyre of Mercury with faith that, if I follow guidance of her chart, Athena will help me transform the wraith of social anguish from demon to god as loyal member of her justice squad. Though I now float lost on wild ocean tide, which fierce Poseidon hurls at shore of hope, the star-eyed Muse, always my loving guide, sends dolphin of my heart to help me cope, so with bold courage of her humble sage I sing for justice on the global stage.
Monday, March 31, 2025
Dolphin Of My Heart
Sunday, March 30, 2025
House Of Every Ghost
House Of Every Ghost © Surazeus 2025 03 30 When swirling snowflakes freeze into the house where every human in the world has lived, I approach wavering illusion of hope to observe drama of their lives play out in ghostly shadows of wordless desire, but cannot open the doors of their graves. Easy laughter rattles windows of time with unearned urgency of unkempt class that scatters puzzle pieces on wood floors to clutter stage of graceful tragedy since cracks that let the light of hope get in cannot conceal meaninglessness of life. Writing names of ghosts on new-blooming leaves, I whisper secret cipher that conceals stories of their lives in weird archetypes so Death can never find them in the room where they arrange photos of memories in graphic novels that sprout raven wings. Though I walk the signless road of everywhere ten thousand years from sea to shining sea, I never see another ghost like me with eyes that depict islands in the sea where every ancestor who wove my genes walks forever on beach of singing waves. I ponder how with branches of fruit trees I might encrypt conceptual memories in cosmic archetypes of normal things through sacred letters of the alphabet that writhe across snow with serpentine grace reserved for scientific formulas. Footprints of ghosts in ever-falling snow lead me to giant hall of steel and glass, far grander than Valhalla of my heart, where twenty thousand hungry troubadours sell each other books of their prophecies that hint at sorrow of domestic scenes. Assembled in hall of fairy-tale books that record enchanting tales of romance, ghosts of prophets, singers, and troubadours tag themselves with badge of diversity based on inclusion that binds random souls through staged dramas of social equity. True history that records human events transforms into mythical fairy tales etched in blue ice on windows of the house where ghosts of all the souls who ever live gather to read each other poetry that swirl as snowflakes through eternity.
Surrender To Absurdity
Surrender To Absurdity © Surazeus 2025 03 30 While driving my car on the Nowhere Road, I feel dull ache of ennui in my heart, and then I know with ironic detachment I should have made peace with absurdity of human existence on this vast world before I began my trip to Wonderland. Parking my old car in the empty lot, I wander on shore of the frozen lake to contemplate fragile impermanence which characterizes beauty of Nature, till feeling of annoyance numbs my heart, so I grin with satisfaction at Death. Yet yellow butterfly with fragile wings flutters with delicate calm of respect among white petals on the long black bough, which makes me think about how energy springs to life again after hiemal death, blooming with beauty of peaceful hope. I savor oppressive cold of gray skies on fields frozen hard in bitter despair so long I come to find in misery grim comfort at harsh ugliness of death till I see beauty in rancid decay and treasure horror of the lifeless tree. Alone in stillness of the leafless woods where grayness saturates the mindless soil, I feel the sudden flash of evening light when the sun advancing across stern hills pierces my eyes with sheen of desire as trees explode in quiet poof of green. The golden path of silence glows awake in winding casualness of sly amusement among the mulberry bushes of fate, so I surrender to absurdity that beauty gleams within the rugged world with urgent innocence of honest fear. My hungry eyes consume beauty of Earth with aching ennui that something more beyond blank nothingness of death may lure my heart to believe our souls might live on, but sweet beauty of this horrible lie would trap me in despair at suffering. My conscious sense of self is radiant glow conjured by chemical functions of hope from flashing neurons of my dreaming brain, so I savor ennui of this vibrant hour because I know my animating soul will vanish from this strange world when I die.
Sadness Is The Last Pear
Sadness Is The Last Pear © Surazeus 2025 03 30 Because I break into blossom each time I step out of my body without my mind, I breathe the happiness of lonely wind, embarrassed when my brain begins to chime with passion of ambiguous respect for how our vehement bodies connect. Though sadness is the last pear on the tree where horses eat grass that grows from my grave, I carve my happiness in the dark cave where bats are the demons who can fly free to dry meadow where Gordius ties the knot since angels crown him King of Camelot. If anyone thinks art can cure disease they have not felt the piercing angst of faith branded in our hearts by eyes of the wraith, nor shivered when the chilly forest breeze blows tattered fog among laurels at dawn when the exiled king has to play the pawn. To learn survival in the wilderness, after great civilizations collapse at shocking strike of the apocalypse, I seek to overcome safe happiness with boisterous song of bitter irony based on my latest soul epiphany. Warm sunlight threads words in frame of my soul as I imagine how to save the world if I agree to play the cosmic herald, but meditate without reaching for my goal through unpredictable flight of the heart down secret trails not mapped on any chart. Untriggered anger of the wordless play inspires my long-reluctant heart to try for random chance at well-earned victory sailing swiftly across the wind-flashed bay against blank facades of ambivalence which cannot guarantee calm nonchalance. Attention to strict rules of dialogue maintains clear focus on bold self-defense against attack by minions of pretense at fateful commission to catalog destructive actions of traitors and thieves because my mother is the one who grieves. Annihilated light of unseen truth adjusts trajectory of our national curve where good leader we choose is tasked to serve needs of the people by messiah sleuth who washes clean our nation of despair because his hate teaches us how to care.
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Stolen Mask Of Jupiter
Stolen Mask Of Jupiter © Surazeus 2025 03 29 Untethered twirl of emotional glide accelerates my soul beyond fake bounds of social convention that holds me down, because I spring high from book where I hide secret fears with glass skeletons in mounds on which the lost worship the haughty clown. Unchained ocean waves of obvious truths we dare not speak as taboo of the heart wipe vast metropolis of gleaming towers off face of the Earth with soul-cleansing baths since commercial empire is based on cart from which the lonely girl sells pretty flowers. Untricked by preacher of the fallen god to believe that each person is unique, we search for ancient sword Excalibur as magic weapon buried in the sod so we can fight the conman and his clique who wears the stolen mask of Jupiter. Uncivilized by tyranny of cash that drives fierce engine of global commerce, we fight new civil war of thought control to wear crown of thorns retrieved from the trash based on description of the universe designed by savior hung on the phone pole. Uncaged by law of Goddess Liberty with commission to bear the Torch of Truth, Minerva runs barefoot in the waste land to escape agents of security while pregnant with our new messiah sleuth destined to rule Earth with his red right hand. Unpuzzled petroglyph on Stone of Scone depicts First Mother of the Human Race when she emerges from the Lake of Dreams and plays haunting tunes on flute of bird bone then wears golden mask over pock-marked face when she performs in Theater of Seems. Uncrowned as honest Emperor of Earth, I ride White Horse of Justice down the street through parade to celebrate victory, then analyze what everything is worth which I list on the clay-tablet spreadsheet as world-traveling man of mystery. Unlocking stolen mask of Jupiter, I climb huge pyramid of the God-Eye so I can understand the human heart which follows path devised by Lucifer because we choose our fate by asking why we must blindly conform to our star chart.
Both Man And Monster
Both Man And Monster © Surazeus 2025 03 29 If I misunderstand how the red snow falls the gold-eyed cat who lounges on my porch could explain secret of romantic faith in failure of books to describe the truth about the nature of ancestral dreams encoded in tribal myths I invent. The frog that climbs up window of my heart tries to hide eerie glow of the weird moon, but I see its shadows in every room, even during the day when angry birds declare their sovereignty in tangled trees with beautiful songs that make my heart ache. Before sunset I wander into town and sit in the back of the smoky bar to eat fish and chips and stare at the lake while people stand before the microphone and read their secret-coded poetry to supportive cheers of their fellow poets. Crouching on moon-gold beach of the large lake, I write lines of verse in the gleaming sand about the United States of Ionia through which cabal of poets in black robes rule the world with slick advertising slogans, till the turtle nibbles at my right hand. The bittersweet sorrow of our strange world cries out in mindless song of windy rain that cannot be translated into words so I become the silence of my voice that folds my fears into pages of books which transform into spirit-haunted trees. I dismiss with tragic wave of my hand every opinion that clutters my mind in vain attempt to sweep them all away and clear blinding illusions of despair, but spiderweb of truth ensnares my hand with sticky nonchalance of sly disgust. I refuse to be absolute for death except as fateful end that traps us all, for I resist the nothingness of fate with cautious assertion of faint desire to keep on living without trying hard, savoring sensations of pleasurable pain. Both Beowulf and Grendel are described by the Unknown Poet with raven quill with similar terms as both man and monster, the same as Gilgamesh and Enkidu, demonic spirit in civilized man, twins contesting to understand red snow.
Friday, March 28, 2025
Next World War
Next World War © Surazeus 2025 03 28 We may survive the next world war, or not, with cheerful laughter of the Argonaut who cancels quest to steal the Golden Fleece in vain attempt to establish world peace by claiming every land on Earth is his because he always wins the puzzling quiz. He wants to build new home in vale of tears to manage school of crazy puppeteers by teaching them to scam the populace with threat from rolling stone of Sisyphus, but he gets lost in forest of the clown where Gretel marries him with mindcuff crown. Still staring in the mirror of his soul for twenty years without his secret goal, he wonders who defines the right from wrong besides the Valkyrie with tragic song who outshines everyone on the world stage though she got trapped by fame in her gold cage. Elected captain to steer Ship of State, after Midas wrecks it with bitter hate, the Argonaut who hides his secret name writes new constitution for the world game so everyone who plays life by the rules can create beauty with conceptual tools. Since we hope to survive the next world war with shadow of our faith in global lore, though traitorous thieves destroy our world view, we work together when the ingenue performs her role as savior of the world as prophesied by the mad cosmic herald. As incarnation of brave Liberty, who wields Book and Lamp of democracy, Minerva rides the white horse of our hope with grand ontology beyond our scope to build from ruins of America nation of justice called Zarathia. Displaced from homes we lived in many years, and fired unfairly from fruitful careers, we follow Moses through the wilderness across the rusty bridge of aimlessness to surround castle where the tyrant hides with treasures he stole from our psychic guides. Though Midas steals everything we hold dear, attempting to divide us with fake fear, we smash his idol with its feet of clay when Sisyphus arrives with spells to pray, so we will survive world war of his greed and regrow Tree of Life with honest seed.
Life As Hungry Savages
Life As Hungry Savages © Surazeus 2025 03 28 Dozing on the back porch in the warm sun, I contemplate red history of the gun that toppled empires of the sword and horse and fueled mankind on faster-engined course, so now we race to control every isle while attending state feasts with graceful style. The fallen airplane floats on ocean waves just offshore from the secret cliffside caves where our ancestors first drew images to transcend life as hungry savages, so Icarus spreads his wings without faith and soars among clouds with the mindless wraith. His mother calls him from the tower porch, then wanders in the night with flaming torch to find where he has fallen from the sky so she can ask the bitter devil why he dares rebel against the tyrant king who shoots any angel who tries to sing. Kneeling in dust before the pyramid where Jupiter keeps stolen treasure hid, Lucifer packs powder in metal pipe then aims rifle to kill God Archetype who decrees he owns both body and soul of every human he assigns state role. Roused from my slumber in the warm noon sun, I grumble at slaughter caused by the gun the past five hundred years of holy wars that gangs of men fight to control food stores as we transform castles into glass banks and horses mutate into brutal tanks. Glancing upward at glowing clouds of fate, I search blank space for ministers of hate who rampage now through halls of government to pilfer treasures of entitlement that shatters sense of safety we all share in system we had built that shows we care. Dismissing tragic events of this age, caused by the greedy vampire on world stage, King Midas shouts that he will rule the world while citizens pray for the cosmic herald to solve our crisis with respectful law enforced by wisdom of brave Onatah. Illusion of power enforced by guns dissolves at radiance of our freedom songs so we rise up from lethargy of fear and march against the thieving puppeteer to free America from tyranny and build stronger global democracy.
Way Of Flowing Streams
Way Of Flowing Streams © Surazeus 2025 03 28 If the moon could speak, she would tell me why sad people are never allowed to cry while they hang upside down in the Joy Tree and sing anthem about how to live free through clarion call of the mountain wind with broken hearts only beauty can mend. If the noble stag of the forest grove escapes the hunter for the treasure trove, my heart leaps laughing with joyful respect, foolhardy guest devils fail to detect, so I ask the moon why humans must die who tries to explain the afterlife lie. Since I can never know your secret heart, though I trace your fortune on the star chart, you remain completely unknowable therefore I choose to find you lovable each day we wake together in our space, still in love with your mysterious face. If fear constrains me with paralysis of desperate hope forged from analysis, I transfer anguish to the puppet show that I perform in soft blue evening glow till soldiers shoot us for protesting hate, defined by commands of aggressive fate. When people who can hear vibes of Earth Soul invent loud silence that no bell can toll, we gather to protest cruel tyranny till we are inspired by epiphany that songs of faith can cripple feeble power and free Liberty from the Ivory Tower. With pulsing material of frantic light, contrived by flow of time untangled right, my heart paints portrait of the soul I love who wears pretty mask of the willing slave, yet we give each other freedom to play, choosing in the end to unite and stay. More than halfway to the end of my tale, I leave church where everything is for sale and wander in ephemeral glow of faith to find pure emanation of my wraith that guides me toward the vale where I will sleep, so I ask the Earth my frail bones to keep. Whereas our hearts are equally intense with loyal passion of our future tense, we share one winding road of earnest hope to help each other thrive well as we cope, so we generate children of our dreams who help us map the way of flowing streams.
Thursday, March 27, 2025
Secret Of Star Flowers
Secret Of Star Flowers © Surazeus 2025 03 27 Totally lost in madness of his dreams, Samuel strums rusty-stringed guitar and sings in harmony with buzz of the radio till his brain sprouts four plastic raven wings when five men wearing masks in the black car handcuff his thin hands and take him away. Locked with Pandora in the golden cage, Samuel stands on his hands for twenty hours while she explains the secret of star flowers that beam the animating soul of love which fills his body with conceptual juice since dictators never honor the truce. Entranced by golden snake eyes of the girl, Samuel gives Pandora his finger bones so she can weave from threads of history life-tale of Lucifer in tapestry that hangs in castle hall of honesty where Beowulf reads his new poetry. Once Samuel crawls out of his turtle shell, Pandora, twirling around their glass cage, shows him how to become invisible to people staring at them in the zoo, so he breathes deep and spits words on the wall that transform into scarlet butterflies. Molding thick mud of his worm-consumed brain into small model of the Trojan Horse, Samuel gives ten thousand oranges of fate to Pandora with smooth bow of respect, so she makes orange juice people buy online so she can buy fake wings of Icarus. Holding up sign painted with blood of ghosts, Samuel declares for dead angels to hear, "Respect existence of every live soul or expect resistance of the mad fools who demand freedom and justice for all," but people driving cars in rain honk horns. Hugging the mad fool to her loving breast, Pandora chants disapparation spell which teleports them far around the Earth from detention cell in Louisiana to ancient ruins of the Parthenon where they kiss till the Earth becomes more real. Taking selfies on their broken eye-phones among time-weathered pillars of their hearts, Samuel and Pandora, smiling with joy, announce their marriage on social media which garners thousands of congratulations, then they grow old and die in their zoo cage.
Sapphire Of World Peace
Sapphire Of World Peace © Surazeus 2025 03 27 Luminous phantom of the great egret spreads her delicate wings in doting breeze and glides grandly over wind-rippled lake that glitters blue as sapphire of world peace with secret message from her aching heart that Nature still blooms after we are gone. Drinking root beer at the old picnic bench, Sophia watches clouds gleam over houses where people are living safe in their faith. "I cannot feel bombs rattle family homes in that distant land far across the sea where my ancestors lived centuries ago." Tossing the fantasy novel she wrote into the sapphire-blue lake of world peace, Sophia declares with sarcastic voice, "The political game in this great land has gotten so absurd that comedy has been neutered by their incompetence." Covering her face with thin paint-smeared hands, Sophia cries with broken-hearted angst as she thinks about how her mother died because her social security funds were blocked from transfer to her bank accounts, so she died when the bank foreclosed her house. Walking past the shuttered car factory, Sophia climbs stairs to her studio where she stares at the half-finished portrait depicting homeless people in torn tents who cook canned soup under the highway bridge where an Amazon delivery truck gleams. Dipping stiff-haired brush in glob of red paint, Sophia paints barely-seen smudge of blood on hands of the banker in clean blue suit who blithely drives his new gold-painted car past encampment where seven people live whose homes he foreclosed over the past year. Peering close at figure of the old woman, Sophia paints the yellow flowered dress her mother loved to wear attending church, who now pushes shopping cart of her things, including books of family photographs of her ancestors the past hundred years. "Our spirits become part of this alien land when we bury our parents in its soil, and our words become the wind in its trees." Streaking white flash of light, Sophia paints luminous phantom of the great egret gliding grandly over the homeless camp.
Wednesday, March 26, 2025
Unhappy In Weird Heaven
Unhappy In Weird Heaven © Surazeus 2025 03 26 Ordained intensity of our fierce life provides conceptual frame for ardent door for which my tongue designs the singing leaf that flashes old memories in wordless blur, engrossed in program that reverses time with casual grief that nurtures my new dream. Awake with curious faith in haunted hills with tattered scrolls, long hid in sacred sands, I play my game out of sync with church bells from static message that fractures quaint minds too eager for embroidered book of tales that mocks kind people who live without goals. Stuck in portrait that depicts the last star which gleams on faces of warriors in gloom, I change my image at alarm of war to hide behind mask of the loyal team and translate strange cries of electric birds that gather in oaks at howl of mad bards. On flat-top pyramid as watchful guard, armed with taut bow of arrogant desire, I achieve creative project of God, who embodies the monster we most fear, by analyzing mental state of Man who incarnates psychic light of the sun. Unhappy in weird Heaven we create, I assemble puzzle of my God Face, that pulses calmly with eclectic light which luminates false rooms of my old house, from soul of each ancestor in my genes whose voice whispers in marrow of my bones. Performing my new role as Sisyphus, I construct cars in the steel factory to prove I could be more magnanimous with urgent spirit of democracy because this world is older than our souls that shimmer whitely in Odinian wells. I ride long train of circumstance back home to where I tame the horse in apple grove with primal language through uncertain hymn detailing progress of romantic love by which we generate aggressive souls who conquer Earth with calculating scales. Crouched in the silent trance, I watch the moon transform souls of our war-traumatized saints from avid angels to idolized stone who default on their government accounts in time for tragic marriage of true minds who share electrons in covalent bonds.
My Unpossessed Heart
My Unpossessed Heart © Surazeus 2025 03 26 Beyond vast picture of painted landscapes I see uncertain whiteness of pure depths reflecting ugly beauty of our world that frames my face as god in glowing clouds, so I rebuke that darkness in the sea that molded me from passion to fly free. The whiteness in gloomy depths of my heart contains the ancient truth I hope to see, but one teardrop from Heaven falling far erases vision of the unseen world, so I walk backward on the signless road that everyone wants to name for their god. The fragmentary whiteness of my world encloses me in meadow of lush grass, so I stand breathing spirit of the sky with motionless mind of the spinning globe to feel how borders limit our landscapes to scope of truth in what our eyes perceive. The people in the village by the sea, who support my poor family with calm care, are swept into white depths by sudden storm that hurls enormous waves of arrogance with mute indifference of lightning-flashed wind so not even their secret names remain. The whiteness of the world offers no gifts more than I would need to live each day while tending apple trees by the blind lake surrounded by strange darkness of the wind that scatters leaves across my fenceless yard on which I write these poems I never sing. Nothing that exists in material form transcends sweet whiteness of the cheerful dawn beyond what spirit of the sky provides, though faceless god whom everyone adores never replies to my sincerest prayers except that Nature keeps blooming with life. Every land where my ancestors have lived across ten thousand miles of their long road has never belonged to them, though they lie buried in its soil so their bones provide lattice of honesty that forms landscapes where I travel with my unpossessed heart. We journey west to find home of the sun ten thousand years over mountains and seas, but find the Earth is round and never ends, so I stop on rugged coast of the world and give my alien spirit to this land which sings my ballads long after I die.
Light-Winged Dryad
Light-Winged Dryad © Surazeus 2025 03 26 The light-winged dryad of the trees calls me to dance with her in blooming hemlock grove, so into numberless shadows we twirl on pungent shore of sparkling Lethe stream to ease sharp ache of sorrow in our hearts by sharing pleasure of our mortal souls. With slavish thirst of chemical-bound frames we drink sweet water from the Hippocrene that bubbles deep in forest of dead gods whose voices echo softly in the wind with lustrous eyes of drowsy memories that make us groan when we kiss at sunset. No longer full of sorrow or despair, because we stay together hand in hand while blazing our own pathway in dark woods, we wander secretly where stars guide us far from the crowded streets of market towns to find where Queen-Moon lies among flowers. Where Bacchus dances among white hawthorns, deep in thick groves of winding mossy ways, we seek strange beauty of grim star-eyed Death whose horror teaches us to love our lives and treasure limitations we secure, which nurtures fragile spirits of our hearts. Thus fortified with pastoral glow of faith that strengthens us with courage of the truth, we venture into maze of crowded streets to comprehend with clear observing eyes mystery of competitive money games people perform to gain power of wealth. Sweet heart-enchanting music of the stars sung by immortal nightingale of hope long charmed our hearts with vision of the world where every person honors rules of life, but now its calm inspiring requiem fades trammeled by commercial shouts of greed. Divine melody of her plaintive anthem, which animates our bodies with Star Soul, sung by deceiving elf inside our hearts, writhes twisted into parody of faith by men obsessed with fame of thought-control willing to buy anything with the coin. Long trapped in labyrinth of social greed as helpless pawns in pageantry of power, we assert halting steps with urgent cause to escape frantic market place of fear and seek to dwell again in meadow grove where birds sing freely by the sparkling stream.
Tuesday, March 25, 2025
Far From Falling Bombs
Far From Falling Bombs © Surazeus 2025 03 25 Because we pass through thick shadows of hope while driving ribbon of moonlight alone, we see our spirits dwelling in wild trees, so we buy passports from the cavern ghost to cross the border from our war-torn state and live in the woods far from falling bombs. Our misconstrued breath of hope for world peace suffocates angry shadows of despair, so we exchange faces by the pool of tears, sure we will inherit the Earth from hate, then walk the road of danger to the farm where Phoebus plows fields far from falling bombs. Twirling baton in parade of dead gods, Minerva leads the marching band with pride around the marble monument to ghosts whose blood dribbles from red stripes of our flag above the park where people eat roast steak and waltz to music far from falling bombs. Phoebus trudges plowed field in leather boots, gathering crosses painted with false names, and throws them in piles at the Gate of Heaven where chanting crowd burns them under old stars till wings of angels are crippled by rage yet they try to fly far from falling bombs. The beautiful sky of the Evening Land, that shimmers with fire over country towns, hides wordless horror as Nero plays lyre and sings about the Trickster who deceives to avoid service in the holy war, and plays piano far from falling bombs. Walking in forest of rebellious faith to join convention of primordial gods, I erase the road of my journey home to dance on tightrope over the abyss so you can find truth in skulls of dead seers that speak with water far from falling bombs. The clever child who graduates from fate lights lamps along the frosted boulevard to reciprocate horror with calm faith when the luminous phantom becomes breeze that rustles leaves of trees on fruited plains in garden of hope far from falling bombs. The old man in the boat on moonlit lake sings ancient melody from Babylon where cattle graze among the fallen pillars with plans to rebuild Temple of the Mind as haven for the ghosts expelled from church who sing with new hope far from falling bombs.
Follow Jesus To Fish
Follow Jesus To Fish © Surazeus 2025 03 25 So many ways to fall out of the mind and weave light of the sun in roots of trees when I transform into angel from fish, and tell the old Sea Woman what I wish as her hair swirls around in evening breeze while she wanders beside the red-furred hind. The convex mirror that reflects my soul reveals strange beauty of the human heart in how we choose to play chess game with Death who sits enthroned before the monolith and studies fortune on our world star chart to see who next should play her priestess role. Still wearing black silk gown after the dance, Death takes my hand and leads me to the pool where she reveals weird secret of rebirth which I record with runes in Book of Earth to outline magic of the mental tool we use to divert fate with random chance. Embraced with passion of the spinning world, we generate soul for child of our love who leads great army of horses and men to gather herbs for making medicine while guided by her starship from above till revolution of the cosmic herald. Death resurrects my body with each life which she designs with programmed memories encoded through immortal soul of genes, so I invent bold industrial machines to mass-produce wealth in vast factories controlled by bankers during global strife. Returning from bloody fields of world war, young men who set out to make the world great follow Jesus to fish on ocean boats or linger on hillsides with herds of goats while sons of bankers feast behind locked gates and Phoebus runs the corner grocery store. Now most fully in love with easeful Death, calling her soft names with voice of the wind, Phoebus kisses her with passionate faith, then shouts to glowing clouds of the star wraith that he now finds it much more rich to live with lightning-nurtured vision of whole breath. While Death takes care of their child Artemis, Phoebus drives van on the crowded highway to visit new aquarium in town, since he wears his jeweled emperor crown, where he sees shine in the golden skyway the Revolution Stone of Sisyphus.
Monday, March 24, 2025
Blue Iris Of Innocence
Blue Iris Of Innocence © Surazeus 2025 03 24 The delicate blue iris of innocence blooms among bull thistles, crabgrass, purslane, and horseweed in the fenced-in vacant lot with humble beauty of the faceless girl who arranges stones in circles of faith to enclose dazed silence of afternoon. Gold-breasted kingbird with quick darting eyes reigns from her nest in the mulberry bush with elegant grace of wind-hopping faith to prove that compassionate grace of trust heals broken-hearted people of the world who struggle to escape dire circumstance. Trapped in the bureaucratic maze of fear, Maria Flores stares at cement wall where ghostly faces of her children glow though seven years of loneliness have passed since agents arrested them on the bridge when they were driving home from Mexico. Released from detention one afternoon, Maria Flores walks the quiet town past the fenced-in vacant lot of her heart where ghost of her daughter arranges stones to protect blue iris of innocence, then lies down under the mulberry bush. Not knowing where to find her family, Maria Flores walks to the old church but the door is locked and the lights are out, so she works as the night-shift janitor at the hotel near the airport highway and sleeps at night by the mulberry bush. Attending church each Sunday afternoon, Maria Flores prays for light of hope, kneeling at statue of Mother and Child, to find where her husband and children live, then walks past city park where children play while angels scream in pain too far away. Twisted branches of trees gleam in the pool that shimmers beside the large ice-smooth stone where Maria Flores, numb from despair, stares at calm beauty of the silver sky that erases gaunt beauty of her face and carves it on the stone of solitude. Kneeling before tombstone behind the church carved with name of her mother in gray letters, Zuzia Flores weeps with pain of relief after searching for more than twenty years, then looks up at sharp song of the kingbird who takes her heart and flies beyond the world.
See Beyond The World
See Beyond The World © Surazeus 2025 03 24 Staring at the stars that may not be real because they burned out millennia ago, I think about the life I want to live creating beautiful art for the heart from the ugly misery of working life, and decide I want to grow tangerines. The bomb of deep insight that blows my mind when the blue-collar painter of the house becomes the painter of modern fine art restarts the clock of purpose in my heart, unwinding social programs in my brain so I become the grass of the weird world. When I hear the ancient voice of the Earth speak through the trees that sprout from the soil I feel them moving in motion with hope that swirls with atoms from first flash of time and winds tight ball of energy as Earth that shimmers in sweet juice of tangerines. First Mother of every life-form on Earth lives inside our brains as shared memory which motivates hearts of organic creatures with passion to sing strange song of the sea for she composed first program of our genes to generate our souls from chemicals. Young girl at the kitchen table of sorrow, wearing yellow dress of butterfly wings, stares past pretty face of her lonely mother who smokes while cooking scrambled eggs and ham, waves magic-wand spatula of hard truth, and growls, "Everything in books is a lie." Lying beside me on the star-gleamed lawn, she tells me how she feels about desire. "When I saw the sad painting on the wall that depicts young mother with suckling child who waits for her husband home from the sea, my mother laughed loud with explosive scorn." "Light waves of words flow down into my heart," she sings with haunting voice soft as the wind, "and fill my mind with dreams of life and death that every creature who has ever lived performs in journey of its eager will to create beauty from anguish of fear." The girl who will not die lives in my heart, and haunts my steps four hundred million years, for she wears crimson gown of burning stars and teaches me to see beyond the world through ancient eyes she designed in the sea so I know where to go beyond tomorrow.
Trickster Of Truth
Trickster Of Truth © Surazeus 2025 03 24 The great horned owl introduces the moon into reticent room of my vast heart, so I start my day as trickster of truth by sending flocks of happy butterflies to paint the world with blood-red light of dawn that wakes everyone with language of wind. The roots of trees draw sorrow from my heart, translating unknown fears to humble songs that measure curvature of my soul spine to speak with dialect of bodied minds which cleanses our hearts with glow of respect through wakefulness of unmirrored desire. In my idyllic world of steady faith I play guitar before the empty church and sing grand epic of the human race that praises humble people of the state who go about their business every day while face-painted clowns play fake power games. My fishing village at end of the lake provides bountiful wealth from heart of Earth where strong-hearted girls thrive in howling wind and cast bright snowflakes far across the land that sprout into periwinkles of hope where children play chase Sabbath afternoons. No more the world-exploring traveler I was when I was young and vigorous, I now am blowsy-headed gardener, dazed by strange beauty of her sun-lit face as we tend twisted trees of ghastly fruit that nourish the demonic in our hearts. Since I will never see the black egret wade in wind-rippled pond behind my house, I mold green shadows of weird psychic dreams in masks that humans wear to play as cows which graze among the dancing daffodils while I bare my heart to the healing sun. Packing emotional baggage of faith with false memories my dream-fears invent, I walk the signless road of everywhere past ladders that extend into the clouds to stamp obverse side of the royal coin with face of my father, the kind storm god. If clouds begin to serenade my ghost with the heart-enchanting afterlife lie, I will unanchor ship of my fierce heart to live unsettled life on restless seas so I can find the treasure trove of tropes I use to build this virtual world of dreams.
Sunday, March 23, 2025
We Feel Safe At Home
We Feel Safe At Home © Surazeus 2025 03 23 Home is the place in time where I am born with each new day Earth spins around the sun, so I should never feel sad or forlorn with you beside me to play games of fun, for though we wander far from our first hearth we feel safe at home anywhere on Earth. With eyes fixed on the past where I come from I walk backward to the new home I build while chanting spells in rhythm with the drum as founding member of the Singers Guild, recording tales of heroes we adore whose mothers wait still in their open door. Old bearded wizard in the forest grove explains to me the past is never dead, and not even past as our memory trove, for history is the dream poem in our head that we recite each night in feasting hall to praise the dead whose masks hang on the wall. On flowing water of our history ghost we sail our boat of life on stream of time, then feast in temple of the generous host who offers wisdom of the ritual chime while actors play dramatic roles on stage in tales I record on the timeless page. The future always seems invisible while the past presents everything we know, yet our own tale is still discoverable as we resist fate to go with the flow through fierce subversion of the ancient truth now redesigned by our messiah sleuth. Each present moment beams beyond our reach so we record events as they occur to synthesize truth our descendants teach reversing roles of God and Lucifer as tyrant overthrown by rebel clown whom we elect to wear the thorny crown. Though frightened crowd attends fear of their rage at innocent scapegoat they sacrifice, the victim resurrects as victor sage who shelters the oppressed in paradise, for Heaven is commune of equal rights according to great epic no one writes. I strum lyre and sing, wherever I roam in mountains or vales of our spinning Earth my heart I carry with me is my home for soul of each human is beyond worth, thus we must fight against cruel tyranny to keep our global democracy free.
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