Secret Country Johania
© Surazeus
2025 02 06

They all gather under the sprawling elm
to share stories about the falling star
that shines as beacon in the misty night
to light the road their feet have yet to blaze
across the windy meadow to the lake
where the old woman laughs till they all die.

When the stout man in the long leather coat
arrives with bag of apples for them all,
they ask about the country he came from,
so John explains his land is made of birds
who like to drop acorns on river shores
where they all fall asleep just before dawn.

Hands pressed in crimson mud of wordless fear,
Johanna looks up through long twisted limbs
the sprawling elm reaches up to grasp the moon
which smiles at her through flashing swirl of clouds,
reluctant to accept the final end
where lovers embrace in shadow of hope.

Our shadows merge in one soft gleam of light,
she wonders when she stands on dizzy Earth,
embarrassed by compassion she conceals
from people speaking endless streams of sound
that never resolve into clear concepts
which formulate bony light of the moon.

With sudden flash of insight made of rain,
Johanna grins with laughter of success
that she will build from fractured light of time
new world of peaceful joy from guilty love,
designed as emblem of the optimist
that quivers weirdly on the muddy shore.

Because our moon will never disappear,
though it waxes and wanes on rainbow hill,
she asks her shadow hidden in the elm
why people always die and vanish blank
as absence of their souls she yearns to see,
liquid water that curls around her legs.

Only the Orphean Warbler of fate
ever answers her desperate query of hope,
so she opens her hands to offer seeds,
and stands still with eternity of faith
while he hops on her arm with casual trust
at joyful sparkle of her silver eyes.

I will name my secret country Johania,
Johanna giggles while she twirls around,
delighting in how her skirt becomes wings,
and though she cannot fly high she pretends,
then everyone under the sprawling elm
cheers and claps when she dances beyond death.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/02/…

Orpheus whistles so the Orphean Warbler darts from the sprawling elm to land on his wrist while Johanna dances into the glowing clouds.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #MetaRomanticism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism