Fairy Tales Of Why
© Surazeus
2025 02 28

Conceptual difference between falling rain
and stone walls human hands erect with fear
divides my mind with ocular respect,
so I rejoice in spinning of the Earth
that tangles my heart in telephone lines
till I grow fraught wings from my wounded heart.

If we consider the best way to start
chanting magic spells the blind crow defines,
we might discover that each soul is worth
more than our visual looks or intellect,
as if we cannot feel the ghost glow near
enough to vibrate in tune with our pain.

Stark vision billowing from exhaust pipes
of cars rumbling down snow-encrusted roads
glows bright with faces of long-dead monarchs
who ruled their empires with insight and rage
in cruel relentless chess game with blind death
who always wins every humanized game.

Every year I invent myself new name
so I can speak through my old mask with breath
that shadows spirit of the fox on stage
who runs with elegant grace in state parks,
then guides lost pilgrims to pond of wise toads
where immortal grandson of Hamlet types.

Yet smiling nurse in clinic by the lake
tenderly cares for children without souls
who ask with innocent voice of despair
if they will be able to live long and well
so she howls with sorrow in stormy wind
at unfair randomness of mindless fate.

When we explore our wild deserted state,
while wearing dresses dead grandmothers send,
I smile that brittlebush blossoms in hell,
which does not prove that Jesus might care
to gather brickleberries in clay bowls
with noble intention to bake us cake.

Tall ocotillo that knows why I cry
comforts me with song of the cactus wren
who refuses to accept lame excuse
I offer that I cannot love myself
because my mother harshly judged my lack
of common sense with bitter words of love.

I turn my face up to Heaven above
where I see nothing but clouds in huge stack
of contemptuous disdain for my bookshelf
that bears books about both Jesus and Zeus,
so I replace them all with poems about Zen
which should explicate Fairy Tales of Why.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/02/…

Orpheus finds Ophelia crying by the ocotillo, so he hugs her and they stroll together among the blooming brittlebush by the river.

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