Heap Of Broken Images
© Surazeus
2025 11 29

November may be the happiest month,
crushing lilacs back into the dead land,
confusing memory of beautiful times
with desire to live beyond nothingness,
and rotting roots with endless freezing rain,
so I sip coffee on wet porch of faith.

This good Earth covered by forgetful snow
feeds passion for life with harvested fruit
that wrinkles in old rumbling fridge of fate,
so I think back to summer days of yore
when I hitchhiked across the evening land
to play guitar near locked churches and banks.

So I return to rugged mountain range,
where snow-frosted Chicoma Mountain glows
scarlet rose at the timeless sunset hour,
to walk with nameless woman of the woods
who shows me heap of broken images
that once idolized mortal men as gods.

My shadow strides behind me in bright woods
where I sit high on red rock of respect,
and contemplate in mountain-stillness air
obsessive greed of humans to control
mineral resources of treasureful Earth
that bloom as hyacinths in the waste land.

While striding red hills of New Mexico
where ravens flock in ponderosa pines,
I never find that famous clairvoyante,
Madam Sosostris, with her star-black eyes,
who deals her wicked pack of cards to show me
the Lady of the Rocks of Mont Sainte-Baume.

I find I am the Hanged Man with one eye
based on the horoscope she reads for me
to prove my father once ruled Avalon
with four-wheeled wagon of the jeweled crown,
so I sail west across the storm-wracked sea
to find Atlantis green in swirling mist.

When I sprout from lush garden of dead gods
to walk with office workers and bank clerks
across the stone Bridge of Forgetfulness,
I pause at dead stroke of the corporate clock
to dream when I built sturdy river boats
and sailed to build world empire on my map.

Alert on beach below enormous cliffs,
I play endless chess game of life with Death
whose beautiful demonic face gleams gold
in flicker of the pale fluorescent light
that luminates the vanished sylvan scene
where I hold skull of Hamlet in my hand.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/11/…

Orpheus and Thomas trudge across the waste land and talk about the third person who walks with them though they never see their face except for shadow of their absence.

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