Wander With Clumsy Grace
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

Old woman who lives on the moor alone
beams her strange face into the mirror mask,
then turns to look at me with star-black eyes
so I remember when my soul is born
from ocean waves at dawn of my Gene Dream
four hundred million years ago this hour.

Paralyzed with laughter of crackling ice,
my bruised heart limps across the frozen field,
so I become the woman in the house
watching herself wander with clumsy grace
beyond fuzzy scope of adoring eyes
to place wood plate of apples on the stone.

My heart is not white as the unlit sky
because the rain-smooth stones refuse to buzz
when airplanes float above the mindless clouds
which traps me in cold atmosphere of glass
till I stand up another thousand times
and walk through the door of infinite hope.

Leaves swirl around my feet with playful joy
so I press my hand on the frozen dirt
to wonder if the Earth feels my soul warmth
and wants to speak of ancient moonless truth
till I become one wheel of the apple cart
that searches for the words negating grief.

When she asks me if winter has arrived,
we wander leafless woods of sleepy faith
in robes of tender green that keep our minds
enclosed in social structure of our names,
since garlands we had woven back in May
now wither with transparency of hope.

Our eyes become entangled in desire
as flashing magnets of conceptual love
when we embrace with passionate despair
to generate new life before we die
or savor pleasure of this transient life
because our bodies glow with divine light.

Discarding fractured puzzles of the past,
framed by romantic gestures of respect,
we search for what world view of holy love
could replace deconstructed fantasies
which once sustained our nation through world wars
because we built empire on privilege.

If we escape dim shadows of our fear
to give our bodies with calm selfless love,
we might rise up reborn from graves of books
to see strange beauty in this broken world
where wounded hearts beam light of fierce desire
to taste electric wisdom of the rain.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/10/…

Orpheus finds the wordless woman wandering on the desolate moor of international diplomacy with scrolls she stole from Lord of the Apocalypse.

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