Painting Of Her New Face
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

When she takes the old painting off the wall
she hears wordless whispers it leaves behind,
so she waits till the glass telephone rings
then fills it with the silence of her hope,
but when she draws map to her secret heart
time morphs her to the painting on the wall.

Her grandfather clock with glass mask of god
sprouts into the leafless tree by the lake
on the windless desert of shattered mirrors
where each shard of dishonesty reflects
different forgotten childhood scene of faith,
so she plucks the midnight apple of loss.

She climbs the staircase made of human hands,
ascending with calm grace of dancing cows
to the jellyfish-shaped clouds which pulsate
with slow ticking of invisible clocks
to replace each painting she throws away
with another painting of her new face.

Swimming to the library of true love,
she reads books with fins that open themselves
and whisper all their contents in reverse
while goldfish with human eyes of rainbows
swim between the shelves of singing skulls
who paint new paintings for her empty walls.

Knowing she loves her paintings of sad ghosts,
the blindfolded Moon Girl with scarlet eggs
walks the tightrope strung between crumbling towers
constructed from albums of photographs,
and spills silver sand from her paper hand
that transform into butterflies midair.

While she floats singing in river of flowers,
her canvas paints ghost of her childhood self
with brush that sprouts from limb of the plum tree
in mountain landscape that spills from its frame
and floods her doorless room with dancing hills,
so she takes off her mask glued on with tears.

As painter with brass mirror for her face,
she stands before blank canvas of regret
that reflects not what she paints with old words
but what she now refuses to remember
about crows flying through electric storms
to dwell in pulsing hearts of broken clocks.

Floating wingless in Museum of Dreams,
she glides through doors of paintings that expand
into other worlds spinning inside her brain,
each globe another version of the viewer
who observes their face from inside the painting,
endlessly looping back into her home.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus finds Ophelia rearranging paintings on the walls of their home by the lake in the valley at the foot of Mount Parnassus.

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

Courage In The Soul
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

When tyrants rise to grip the Earth with hate,
her rich hills recoil, rivers blast to dust,
harsh sun glares down through veils of mournful ash,
and stars flame out in cinders of despair,
since air boils thick with lies of mailed command
till Freedom hides her widowed heart in black.

Yet from our common soil the bold voice springs,
unheralded by mark of noble birth,
and cries against arrogance of the throne
with breath that seems as fleeting as calm hope,
yet mountains shake when true hearts dark to speak,
cracking gold thrones with swords honest men wield.

Fierce as the lion chained within their breast,
when Justice calls with trumpet clang of fate,
Courage seeks neither comfort nor reward,
but stands alone with Sword of Liberty
against cruel legions spurred by tyranny,
one resolved soul far mightier than their greed.

Though loyal martyrs die with open eyes,
not weak with tears, but blazing as they fight,
their unjust deaths inspire souls of the land
as seed of fire that burns the frozen yoke,
and tyrants write their doom with bloody ink
that flows from wounds of their oppressive hate.

While cowards kneel and barter peace for chains,
and flatter power with honeyed servile tongues,
brave people stride with Spirit of the Truth,
wearing their wounds as medals on their hearts,
along dark paths, yet fear no war-smoked night,
for stars are born where Courage dares to breathe.

Each soul who strides with upright strength of faith,
who will not bend to keep their body whole,
knows wealth is not in gold, but in resolve,
for tyrants hoard, but Courage freely gives
with honest vows that remain after death
as whisper forged from thunder in our bones.

The hollow crown weighs nothing more than dust,
nor is law just that serves the selfish will
when kings forget their contract with the state,
for when they rule as gods the Earth will quake
till hearts of the people forge swords of hope,
then tyranny, though armored, bleeds in fear.

So stand, my soul, on honest scarp of truth,
though winds of power howl against our faith,
for Wisdom is my lamp no storm can quench
when I strike, not for hate, but bond of right,
since every Truth we speak in gloom of fear
rings bright with Bell of Courage in the soul.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus leads army of the courageous who love liberty to oppose tyranny of the greedy who fear justice.

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

Empty Sky Of Where
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

New statue of the baby born from mud,
brain ticking with gears of the eager watch,
expresses voice of hope with cry for truth
compressed as milk from breast of Mother Earth
which takes its place among the elements
that redefine museum of the mind.

Face of my mother, bright as morning clouds,
distills clear mirror that reflects my soul
with slow effacement of that divine hand
which reaches down from empty sky of where
to rearrange my memories in soft words
that flicker with sea waves to be more fair.

If window frame of my new infant brain
will swallow stars of vowels flashing souls,
my body may swell huge with breath of thought
so I can float above this maze of homes
where cows drive motorcycles on dirt roads
to roar through shadows of the doorless wall.

Thus born from laughing books of hungry crows
I swoop library halls of ancient maps
where scholars resurrect specific gods
with reverent honesty of measured faith
to paint new characters on sacred walls
in mural that depicts grand history.

Escaped from factory of the blind machine
where I assembled engines from god bones,
I wander waste land of the howling wind
where I arrange stones in enormous swirls
that spiral lithe as dragons of my heart
which none can see except from soaring planes.

Inhaling spirit of the holy hymn,
that fallible humans with angel wings
sing solemnly with annoying Saint Voice,
I fly ungracefully above small town
to swoop above taut phone lines of our hearts
and swirl around tall trees with giggling leaves.

When my mother appears with silver eyes
wearing cloud mask from empty sky of where,
I see twelve million generations bloom
through evolution of the singing fish
to human face she wears with beaming smile
as she sings lullaby of the white horse.

Each statue of Mary carved from gray stone,
which stands in every cathedral on Earth,
bears new-born child from spirit of the sun
whose fate is written by the money man
to rule as king in castle of his fear
till I decide to run into the woods.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus reaches out his infant hands to caress face of Calliope who strums small lyre and sings hymn to Apollo.

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

Knowledge I Am Alive
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

Though this sullen world cares less about me
than rocks that hum in river of rainbows,
I wander landscape of unwelcome wind
to howl with beasts who want to eat my soul
and dance with wild abandon of the dead
till I ache with knowledge I am alive.

No hymn I harp with howl of holy hurt
could mirror anguish of my angry heart
quite like rain crashing into fields of mud
where I crawl chortling to the Promised Land
that always fades into bright glare of dawn
to vanish with foul words I blush to speak.

Dead gods I worship shiver in black rain
as murky shadows hungry for my blood,
so I hide in cracked television screen
to prove I am more than blind mind machine
programmed to sing soft elegies of faith
which I scratch with my bones in river mud.

Knees torn to bloody shreds by jagged rocks,
I crawl the long and winding road of faith
through meadow of the dancing skeletons
toward Misty Mountains of the happy wolf
who gives the silver moon of apple fate
to this poor fool I accept that I am.

Tall pines of hope that gleam with golden rays,
which thread our lonely mountains in breasts
by which we breathe ethereal ghost of truth,
invite me to transcend my wretched frame
of brittle bones enwrapped in shroud of fear
so I release crow of my heart to fly.

Unfocused purpose of forgotten quest
diverts my fierce attention from fake wealth
I yearn to hoard from dragons I have slain
in burning tower of the weeping queen
who hurls my body back to my own time
where I will play no genocidal king.

Thus I cannot regret the holy hour
I first meet on the signless road of fate
the perfect soul mate for my twisted heart
whose clarifying eyes of honest truth
extract my spirit from hell-loop of guilt
which straightens out my random thrust of hope.

Reborn from sultry womb of dreamless cave,
I play lithe River Walker with pizazz
through mask of vigorous vitality
to woo young princess with long golden hair
who wears wreath of red flowers my hands wove
and smiles while pouring me hot cup of tea.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus visits deserted Temple of Cronus in the ancient city of Athens to leave crow feathers he used as quills to write hymns to dead gods.

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

Chapel Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

When my thoughts become stairs of molten glass
I climb so my footsteps sing honey blood
that feeds blind ghosts who unroll tinsel wings
and whisper secrets to shape jagged leaves
for horse made of clocks who devours the sky
then rests inside the chapel of my heart.

Each time I meet my self on signless road,
as statue forged from light of turbid words,
my hands design new paper gods of faith
for lonely children with butterfly feet
to hide divinity inside their bones
because the moon ballets on broken roofs.

Despite how seabeds fashioned from silk clouds
reflect horse souls of newspaper and blood,
shy Gabriel types tales on turtle shells
with ink of peach juice bleeding from our eyes
which crack as eggshells at song of the sea
so flocks of clocks glide bright in bitter dusk.

He finds glass tower where Rapunzel waits
for mirror god to ride steel horse of gears
and bring her violin from muddy swamp
so she can play sweet elegies of hope
that raise the dead from blurry photographs
who ask the bronze crow why she never cries.

Despite insurance purchased by the clown
the asphalt alligator dials my brain
though I chant futile liturgy of dust
to trap the arrogant through promises
they translate back from static of law codes
distorted by the forest fog of faith.

Before confession of the laughing cow,
dragged down by gushing river of fake thoughts,
the River Walker drinks wine of despair
shaped by long absences of haughty gods
who drive fast cars on blistered skin of Earth
in futile race with Mary on her bike.

Still lacking grief he purchases from love,
bored Gabriel decides to stitch with threads
of scarlet lust the tattered paper coat
which pretty Death wears as young debutante
to skate iced pond still veined with pale decay
before third coming of the greedy lord.

Thus snowflakes long oblivious to time
paint smooth unwrinkled face of cosmic truth
to mask my face before I turn to stone
and measure permanence of fleeting words
that bathe our naked souls in amber light
when they sing inside chapel of my heart.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus asks Gabriel to introduce him to the River Walker who learned how to cast love spells from the Virgin Mary who rides her bike on country roads.

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

Ziphion Spiral Starchild
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

While Steve fixes broke engine of the truck
in cold garage beside the busy road
he feels spiral starchild bloom in his heart
from eerie melody of crystal flutes,
so he calls the River Walker by name
who sprinkles sugar of faith in his eyes.

Glass tower grows moist mouth that sings in bells
with bronze tongue wounding adamantine hearts,
so Steve walks curling streets of fettered smoke
when River Walker names him Ziphion
though boots dissolve in mirrors made of wax
that seal his vampire soul in grave of gears.

Yet spiral starchild in the weeping tree
plays glass violin with serpentine hands
till apple eyes swirl from the Burning Bush
since River Walker sings in clockspring squeals
with breath of parchment etched by dancing hooves
despite untime deflashing fountain pools.

When Ocean Woman carved from salt gives birth
to fierce angelic wind of screaming caves,
she names him Zephyr with the flaking spine
as son of Ziphion who plays violin
since he unzips his skin and steps aside
to eat the peach inside the singing sun.

Because Ziphion spiral starchild drinks
gold ink of human dreams from open hands,
flash flood of vowels soaks his crumbling jaw
till they grow wings and nest inside his skull,
so alphabet of lies transforms to beast
that blinks in colors he could never name.

With hands of candelight amused by death
Ziphion builds cathedral of weird fate
from muddy stained-glass lungs of coral blue
so love blooms from womb of the chandelier
as saint with antlers twisted from bomb ash
who drinks ink from books he would never write.

With spider legs the moon on legal spires
undances back through wind of fractured eyes,
then breaks her back and scatters into bells
that ring deep in my bones as nameless gods
comprised of paper bees in tolling veins
when Zephyr swallows fake paternal mask.

When Ziphion meets his alter ego Steve,
trapped in glass mannequin of silver smoke,
he gives bread and wine to poor hungry folk
who sleep inside warm chapel of his chest,
then drinks sweet dusk of honest marigolds
to find the streets of fame have learned to speak.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus smokes marigolds with Arthur Rimbaud in the horse born during eternal darkness of the Nowhere Land where angels scream with joy.

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

Your Great Empire Falls
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

While they sing of the Promised Land in church
I stand up and walk out the shadow door
to stand beneath the flowering chestnut tree
where birds discuss romantic states of mind.
If I become the lark no one hears sing
then no one can steal my liberty wing.

Frogs croak in the pond by the cemetery
where my ancestors can hear their lonely songs.
I vow while gripping yew bow of concern
to dedicate my heart to right all wrongs
unjustly done to the weak by the strong,
then stare at the river flow in bright haze.

Strange sleepiness seems to numb my fierce heart
with anguish of suffering people endure
who struggle to survive hunger and fear
enforced by men on horses with sharp swords.
Cars honk as traffic lights flash green and red
past park where I doze in the afternoon.

We found the Promised Land across the sea
after we escaped the dark castle keep
and sailed by ship to search for liberty
through storms that almost wrecked our fragile faith.
We killed the native tribes of paradise
and built this empire of true faith with guns.

Swift horses, we once rode with gusting wind
to build vast empires sea to shining sea
for God on Earth who reigns on throne of gold
from Tower of Babel on pyramid
we built with bleeding hands of loyalty,
now graze all day in fenced fields of regret.

Pink flowers of the wind-blown chestnut tree
spiral from heaven to glow in my hair
as I watch people drive cars somewhere else
with frantic purpose to earn wealth of faith.
As homeless savior of the busy world,
I wait the hour you call for me to rule.

Three thousand years ago I harrowed hell
to save my love from slavery of fear,
but learned I cannot bring the dead to life
for once our bodies crumble into dust
our animating souls disperse in wind.
Yet still I hope to give her life again.

The oldest woman in the world strolls by
the park bench where I ponder history
to pause with gleam of wisdom in her eye
as she gives me fresh hamburger and fries,
so I hold communion with faith in love
while your great empire falls around your heads.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus sits homeless on the park bench, discussing current political events with squirrels and crows.

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

Her Shipwrecked Home
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

Eating at round kitchen table of hope
with birds transforming from her wingless eyes,
she dreams her house is floating on the sea
with skirt of her obsessions as broad sail
that captures wind of sorrow blowing wild
so she can find the land where flowers sing.

With hands that know dark passion of the soil
from which ghosts of her ancestors spring tall,
she eats the holy sandwich of regret
in fraught communion with the solemn door
through which no devil knows to tread again
to wreck ship of her sorrows on the sea.

Despite sharp eager pain of wordless love
that bleeds from arrow Cupid fires each hour,
she walks broad avenue of fluttering trees
to follow signs revealing secret names
that guide her journey to the public square
where children play around the fountain pool.

Immense attrition glowing silver wind,
her heart sustains from harsh attack of faith,
rebuilds her world view with conceptual code
contrived from grape vines tight around her heart
at sight of one young boy with tousled hair
who sails his toy ship on the restless sea.

Though she stands still as statue of brave Joan,
burned at the stake for fighting tyranny,
sharp nails of her despair spill from her purse,
which devils use to pierce hands of free souls,
and scatter clacking on communal stone
with ringing melody of angry hope.

Attempting to retrieve from wounded hearts
sharp nails of anguish she denies are hers,
she asks stone angel on the fountain pool
if he will build new house from secret dreams
to shelter her soft lacerated heart
in ship that sails forever on wild seas.

Broad wings of his incapable respect
crack hard conventions of dutiful fate
to shroud her fragile body with his love
when stone angel of socialized acclaim
bears her fear-weakened soul in gentle arms
safe to her ship that floats on fertile waves.

Still half awake before dawn bleeds desire,
she stretches languidly in bed of trust,
and gazes lovingly at rain-worn face
of her stone angel whose intense respect
impregnates her with mountain god of love,
then cooks him breakfast in her shipwrecked home.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus wakes at dawn at smell of eggs and sausage, so he sits at the kitchen table with Ophelia who blushes as he drinks orange juice.

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

Wings Of Pale Decay
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

Awake on thin ice of their fragile hearts,
too taut to trust with steps they need to take,
they float on tattered wings of pale decay
above the milk-glass pond of fabled fate
with faces bulging from the weightless tide
to mouth mute song of hope sealed by despair.

White bones of birch limbs bruising metal sky
deny sweet innocence of loyal faith
with creak of lovers shifting in their bed,
too old to cry, too young to hide their fears,
who wrap old coats around their paper skin
as seams, stitched tight by needle of doubt, split.

Bright mirrors in their house of memories
may turn their backs against sad face of doubt
if they refuse to see what hope as grown
with trembling fingers, cold from spidery thought,
yet they unbutton coats their past selves wore
that radiate rancid scent of petrichor.

They feed hearth fire with photographs of fate
that bend combusted into throat of light
which swallows smiles they lose in moaning grass
since pictures that record their happiness
lie with red eye of burning time to watch
how they are almost not afraid of death.

The shrieking kettle on the grumpy stove
boils fiercely till consequences condense
in sweating windows that should mourn the cold
till they grow colder with clean frost of love
while porcelain dolls inside glass bell jar
ring sharp when no one listens close enough.

When shadows scissor through unopen doors
at falling of the fork that stabs the floor,
they share heart-warming meal with wordless care,
though cutlery protests their sleight of hand
since ghosts would like to eat dreams of the dead
sweet-salted with sour taste of memory.

White crow of truth perched on the mailbox post,
with head side-tilted through psychiatry,
inquires with glassy eyes about their grief
till they explain they are their mirrored twins
as soulmates sleeping in the claw-scraped book
with names their children bury in their hearts.

Dawn sun peels off cracked sorrow with contempt,
too bright with raw alertness for their eyes,
that butchers darkness with intense concern,
revealing painful truths they mean to hide,
still they hold hands, old spirits cracked by love,
faithful lovers adjusted in one whole.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia invite Sylvia and Ted to eat lunch at their cottage by the lake, then hike the windy heath of Anywhere.

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

Ashes in River Wind
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

The frail dented urn of gray lightweight tin
appears to gleam with temporary light.
My father lounges in back of my car
with silent sorrow wedged behind the seat
where he once scolded me for driving fast,
his breath still rich with church wine and regret.

He hated rivers. “Too slow to be clean,”
he would growl, and glower past the steel bridge
where bodies of the dead were tossed with prayers.
I scatter his ashes on wrinkled shore
as wind stirs up harsh cough of ash and grit,
his judgment sticking in the folded sky.

Gaunt boy throws stones that plunk in shallow pool
with unapologetic splash of burdened facts
that fools waste their time attempting to change,
since what floats returns, but what sinks dissolves,
yet still we throw our stones of failed advice
as futile warnings pitched in widening dusk.

I clutch his empty wallet in pale hands
with tickets, bus schedules, list of passwords,
expired drivers license with manic smirk,
and notes from mother in flowery script,
scraps of unspoken thoughts he tried to hide
in ledger scribbled on the back of hope.

I do not mind the minister is late,
but when he calls him Robert, and not Cal,
I chuckle with blind angels small as motes,
then mouth Hail Mary with faith-thirsty lips.
We read some psalm that weakly conjures faith
because we like our gods with blistered skin.

When evening folds its sleeves, I pour him out
to release his ashes in river wind
as shrill train horn cuts clouds with soft despair,
indifferent to the liturgy of dust.
With calm acceptance of the way things are
I fill father-shaped absence with respect.

I drive back home with silence on the dial
down roads slick with thaw of time-soggy bark
while his distorted voice in swirling fog
offers no confession in evening rain
that mixes his ashes in dark river flow
so he can measure endless flow of time.

The river takes what we are meant to lose
when water lifts his name, then drags it down.
I feel oak trees relearn their winter stance,
unmoved, unburdened, lacking even grief.
With return of the rain I almost hear
his voice declare the end of honest truth.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus sets dented urn with ashes of his father on the mantle beside the portrait of Ophelia floating in the river as she clutches the flowers of true love.

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

Statues In The Snow
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

Stark morning glare exposes field of graves
where marble figures lurk in frozen rows,
mute faces, carved from stone, that eyeless gaze
with hope to seek the cold indifferent sun
as flakes descend to cloak their stony forms
with comfortless shroud time cannot erode.

Vibrant voices that echoed door-lined halls
now flutter under weight of wintry breath
since our laughter and cries in songs have ceased,
replaced by whispers trapped in listless wind,
yet stories of our lives linger in words
etched deep in stone as our unspoken names.

Young child with arms outstretched in playful glee
leaps in unchanging flight of carefree joy
beside her elders with unknowing smiles,
their wisdom captured in enduring pose
by sculptor hand that granted them long life
with permanence in fleeting swirls of snow.

Wild snowflakes dance, oblivious to time,
then settle sparkling on each chiseled brow
with fleeting touch on fate-eternal forms
by tender grace of hard unyielding hope,
so we embrace the transient and the fixed
that converge beneath the pale wordless sky.

When visitors approach with reverent awe
to gaze at throng of statues in the snow,
they reach out hands that pulse with curious life
to caress ancient time-carved face of love
that beams with passion they lived long ago,
projecting warm emotions on cold stone.

Dark shadows stretch across cold field of graves
as eyeless sun bathes statues of dead souls
in amber glow of fleeting memories
that weaves tapestry on gray masks of stone,
depicting animated scenes of hope
while they stand vigil in the sunless night.

When Earth revolves another day of change
light gleams on snow that softens stony edge,
transforming rigid lines to gentle curves
on statues that stand unwaveringly proud
as guardians of our secret memories
that we record in truth-reflective tales.

So as we pass still statues in the snow,
whose silence mirrors hopes of our own lives,
we ponder path of life our feet have mapped
that intertwine our own sorrows and joys
in frozen forms that teach us to endure
so we find grace in swirls of wordless snow.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus visits the celestial cemetery where ancestors of everyone who lives are depicted as unmoving statues in the snow.

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

Builder Of The Bridge
© Surazeus
2025 05 08

Rain drenches seven rugged hills of Rome
when thunderstorm rolls in volatile rage
with lightning bolts Jove hurls at trembling Earth
from Apennine Mountains to Alban Hills,
flushing torrents of water between banks
that cause the Tiber River to swell huge.

Herding frightened villagers in large cave,
where Lupa suckled lost twin sons of Mars,
Numa Marcius binds large leather hide
that blocks fierce winds to shelter them from harm,
holding end tight with strong courageous hands
as guard who protects his people with care.

After fierce thunderstorm of divine rage
blusters far over silver swirling sea,
Numa organizes strong eager men
to haul large logs on rafts across the stream
where they ram pine trunks deep in river mud
to erect foundation for the sturdy bridge.

Building supportive bridge of sturdy logs
to span the swift-flowing Albula River,
where Alban King Tiberinus had drowned,
Numa connects hostile communities
to reconcile their bitter differences
when he hosts feast on its center platform.

Sedent nobly on throne in sheltering fane
at center of the town-connecting bridge
that spans the brightly-flashing Tiber River,
Numa guards flow of traffic every day
by checking every person with sharp eyes
to ascertain intentions of their hearts.

Parading in large wagon with four wheels,
pulled by four white horses with long manes,
Numa Pompilius, wise King of Rome,
accompanied by nymph Egeria,
arrives before his wooden vatic throne
where Numa Marcius welcomes his friend.

Placing new laurel wreath on his bowed head,
Pompilius proclaims before large crowd
that he appoints loyal Numa Marcius
as Pontifex, bold Builder of the Bridge,
with duties to maintain with honest care
all roads and bridges that connect their towns.

While Picus and Faunus chant prophecies,
Pompilius places Wand of Mercurius
in hand of Numa Marcius with pomp,
who vows with speech before the reverent crowd
to tend with care of the Star Messenger,
ensuring roads and bridges are well kept.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus meets new Pope Leo XIV in the Vatican, newest Pontifex since the first appointed 2,740 years ago.

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

Junkyard Of Religious Faith
© Surazeus
2025 05 08

Too often I have to remind myself
that non-0rganic objects have no soul
because my empathetic mind projects
sense of consciousness onto cars and things,
imagining with glow of jovial glee
that they are happy when I use them well.

The wrecked car I drove for twenty-four years
lurks now in twisted agony of pain
among other wrecked cars in muddy field,
so I almost cry with sad aching heart
to see it broken and abandoned so,
though I know well that no machine can feel.

With sly grin of melancholy amusement
I imagine angel soul of my car
spreading white swan wings of divine faith,
and gliding up into Realm of Ideas
to drive eternal concept of the Road
as eternal concept of the Sedan.

When I throw away the old frying pan
that I had used to cook three thousand meals
of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sausages,
I pause one moment with sharp twinge of guilt
to see it gaze at me with forlorn eyes
like some abandoned puppy in the woods.

Tangled in domestic quietude
of melancholy sorrow for lost things,
I decide that I will not change my life,
nor learn some lesson from epiphany
that I project emotions of my heart
on inanimate objects with no minds.

The moral values of social respect,
which animate how I perform my role,
remain intact despite intense attacks
by fearful minions who seek to oppress
my free spirit with bitter thought control
by breaking my sense of reality.

Because I employ science-based techniques
to cultivate theories that describe truth,
which I expand as I analyze facts,
my mind can perceive what is real or not,
so I quote formulas of verbal codes
describing nature of reality.

When people with no empathy attempt
to assert control over how I live,
I see them like the wrecked car of despair
lurking in junkyard of religious faith,
and turn away to leave them lost in fear
since they will never follow light I bear.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus takes insurance money from his wrecked car and buys a new car which seems to glow with pleasure as he drives it on the road of social achievement.

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

Library Of The Afterlife
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

Because he is the last person to leave
his once-thriving community of souls,
Mike parks his car on deserted Main Street
where ghosts who lived there more than eighty years
walk up and down past stores of bleak decay,
then he drives away in tears of wordless rain.

Sailing glass ship of time across the sky,
Mother Moon beams bright at her Daughter Sea
who joyfully surges in tides of laughter
to reach water arms with longing for love
and bridge silent distance with eager hope,
but sloshes mournfully against the shore.

After Grandma Lois, wearing straw hat
and striped pinafore, tends garden of herbs,
she washes work-worn hands in sparkling water,
then plays heart-warming hymns on wood piano
with fingers that relate with graceful dance
unspoken history of her loving heart.

Cuddling on back porch of their country home,
Archie and Lois gaze at black stormclouds,
tense with startled respect for mindless nature
in restless silence between thunderclaps
that echo booms of tanks and falling bombs
in fierce world war far east across the sea.

In vast Library of the Afterlife,
Ziphion records tales of human souls
in endless Chronicle of Spinning Earth
to stock forever-multiplying shelves
with every unwritten book that exists
in heart of every soul who ever lives.

Awake in Heaven, as Realm of Ideas,
where the Architect designs ideal forms
with patterns that define existing things,
we relive that day the clocks forgot time
in ritual routine of dreamy desire
to savor eternal now love creates.

Designing blueprint of her broken heart,
Tamar wanders alone down empty halls
past sorrow-locked doors to shadowy rooms
where nameless ghosts in fading photographs
scream silently from angst-collapsing walls,
till she stumbles into garden of stone angels.

Emerging from starless cave of illusions,
Nerthus sings the sad half-remembered tune
of her childhood dancing in ring of stones
through heart-breaking elegy of lost faith
for extinct creatures who once roamed the Earth,
mirrored by fleeting shapes of swirling clouds.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus accepts position as Librarian of the Afterlife where he organizes every unwritten book of every soul who ever lives on every planet in the universe.

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

Cyclic Law Of Heaven
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

When Devil Prophet of the flaming sea
walks on Earth in wreaths of argentine flames,
he finds Star Queen in the sycamore tree
who chants spells for his acrobatic games
while he teaches humans to love the world
for lightning-cycle of the cosmic herald.

White lilies bloom from corpses of dead gods
in well-organized garden of blind ghosts
where Devil Prophet in silver flames trods,
drawn toward the Pomegranate Queen who boasts
scarcity and surplus of fertile lands
are managed and sold by her crafting hands.

Slow wreckage of our aging bodies tears
our formless souls with agony of faith,
so we pray to Devil Prophet who cares
to program digital clock of the wraith
that powers pleasure and pain of our hearts
since we navigate by our star-wound charts.

Weird mystery of our bodies beaming souls
deceives our minds that we live beyond death,
returning to mortal plane to play roles
assigned by Devil Prophet with fire breath,
so every week we gather in the church
to worship ghost who leaves us in the lurch.

Therefore Cyclic Law of Heaven decrees
age of prosperous peace through self-control
is destroyed by chaotic swirl of keys
till I exercise discipline with goals
to assert authority of wise love
as shepherd who guides people from above.

First I must suffer harsh calamity
that burns illusion of our noble state
transforming selfishness to charity
till flames of war consume my angry hate
so I will rise reborn on Phoenix wings,
empowered by spell of prophetic rings.

When I ascend from labyrinth of Hell,
transformed from Devil Prophet in blue flames,
I will emerge as Odin from Dream Well
with writhing serpent runes of sacred names
to build from ruins of America
new peaceful nation of Zarathia.

Through Cyclic Law of Heaven in rebirth
global spirit of Tellurian zeitgeist
will forge strong United Nations of Earth
through divine spirit of elected Christ
to cleanse our world of greedy tyranny
and implement global democracy.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus crowns new Devil Prophet of the World Religion of the United Nations of Earth who travels the world in wreaths of argentine flames.

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

Geometry Of Electric Thought
© Surazeus
2025 05 07

Through geometry of electric thought
when I encounter shadow of my soul,
trapped deep in architecture of weird truth,
I exercise fate-intense discipline
with insufficient punishment of faith
to steer formalities of rancid hope.

Unbidden rightness of the graceful curve,
which tempers space with convex eye of time,
refines light-burnished word of ratioed signs
to bind our souls in matrix of World Mind
which dreams weird symmetry of lonely hearts
veiled by attention of the Beauty Gaze.

To share sweet sacrament of holy light,
encased in apple nurtured by despair,
we chant new solemn vow that implements
expressive play of interactive games
by giving what our hands create from fear
which noble angels reap with human bones.

Through witness of the spirit we all share
by world-enhancing songs of ocean waves
we highlight anguish to escape our fears
by walking somewhere else on signless roads
to transform waste land of the bitter heart
to flower-blustered paradise of faith.

Despite the frantic flash in speed of light,
which strings vast galaxies of pulsing worlds
in coils of genes that spiral through our brains,
we feel unconscious God Soul of the sun
radiate from clumsy hunger of our bodies
as we embrace with passion in the garden.

For joys and sorrows of dramatic lives,
which my ancestors lived before my birth,
programs how I perform my fateless role
defined by choices from strange memories
that beam as guiding light on road of life,
so I eat fruit and generate new life.

Electric void of passion in my heart
expands alacrity of honest hope
so I may document travails of lust
which I detect with measured sketch of truth
through narrative lens designed by old faith
to frame my quest as epic in intent.

Based firm on selfless sacrifice of beauty,
I gorge on fragments of lost history
with latent neediness of angry lust
till I evolve from state of privilege
to hard-earned grace of comic nonchalance
through geometry of electric thought.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia practice yoga every morning on the porch of their home by the lake in the Alps while the world burns in World War Three.

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

Gold Peonies Bloom
© Surazeus
2025 05 06

Gold peonies bloom from heart of the Earth
to dream untelling beauty of lost time
through simple answer of sunlight on grass
from questions wind asks over the rippling lake
so I pretend that Nature loves my soul
since she created me from nothingness.

Young mother in red gown on glowing stone
suckles new-born child with star-sparkling eyes,
and sings while her young sister plays the lute
in tune with melody of the wood thrush
that sings in shelter of the sprawling oak
while rays of sunlight beam in swirling clouds.

Her husband, killed in battle to defend
castle garden where she raises their child,
never resurrects from the marble tomb,
glowing with divine power of the sun
as his body crumbles into mute dust
though her tears splash the Earth with hopeful prayer.

Leaping from lap of his mother with hope,
the young son of the martyred warrior
runs swift with eager curiosity
across broad field that shimmers goldenrods
with eerie glow beneath the silver sky,
then pauses puzzled at silence of time.

Three grim men rise from dark shadows of hate
with swords honed too sharp on their bitter hearts,
and lunge forward with cruel snarls of rage
to murder son of their old enemy
with intention to erase him from Earth,
but he dodges sharp blades with agile grace.

Quick as his pet wolf leaping at his side,
Galhardus twirls and somersaults in loops
to misdirect each thrust of arrogance
till they lose focus of attentive fear,
exposed to thrust of his knife in their hearts,
so they fall writhing in anguish of pain.

Wiping blade clean of their blood on the grass,
Galhardus skips with innocent disdain
and gives his mother leather bags of coins
that glitter gold with face of his dead father,
so she embraces him with shocked surprise,
relieved he returns to her arms alive.

While plucking pears from rustling trees at dawn,
Galhardus spies young woman in white gown
who seems to float on fluttering angel wings
as she glides gracefully on river shore,
so he breathes deep to calm his beating heart
and offers fruit she eats with beaming smile.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus teaches Galhardus how to strum the lute and improvise narrative ballads that recount the deeds of great heroes who died protecting their castle clan.

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

Name Of My Mother
© Surazeus
2025 05 06

When my mother, who created my soul
from spirit of my father to transform
their two separate immortal gene codes
in new body which nurtures my brain dream,
fades into shadow of her memories,
I carve idol mask to preserve her face.

Our mothers create our bodies from light
so neural networks of our brains project
immortal sense of conscious self-awareness
which conjures virtual model of the world
as we glow bright with passion of desire,
then decay and disintegrate to dust.

How strange to think the mother who creates
our mortal bodies with immortal atoms
will herself decay and fade into shadow,
though she embodies Creator of Life,
that vast unconscious glow of energy
which sprouts our bodies from womb of the Earth.

Sprouting from rich soil of our spinning globe,
we spring into life on wings of desire
by breathing ethereal spirit of hope
to rise from writhing flames of molecules
and journey on quest for soulmate of love
with whom we generate new life from light.

Each mother who has created my soul,
reborn four hundred million years of hope,
from spirit of each father urged by love,
bloomed rich with fertile energy of faith,
nurtured immortal soul of our gene code,
then dissolved into dirt that forms our world.

The bodies of our mothers form the Earth
as soil which nurtures fruits and herbs we eat
so matter of atoms pulsing with light
assume new patterns as we evolve bodies,
fish to lizard to mouse to cat to monkey
to ape to human, till we become God.

Thus when my mother passes from this world
I eulogize her journey through her life
and write her name in Book of Human Souls
so her spirit lives in my memory,
though her conscious sense of her special self
will vanish into mindless glow of light.

Since Heaven where souls of light dwell with God
is nothing more than futile fantasy
designed to heal hearts hurt from loss at death,
I record name of my Mother in song
as mirror mask she wore to preserve tale
of fate she made with choice to create life.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus visits his aging mother Calliope, eldest of the Muses, and Muse of Epic Poetry, by Castalian Spring on Mount Parnassus.

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

Domestic Disquietude
© Surazeus
2025 05 06

Down the long eerie tunnel of the heart,
arched brick walls dripping tears of her dead friends,
Marie walks toward green glowing light of hope
in cheerful forest where the wood thrush sings
the most cheerful melodies of weird joy
that wake her domestic disquietude.

Household gods her ancestors left behind,
half-carved idols of faceless stone, wait mute
in small timeless house of rotting pine wood
for her to return from the signless road
and leave her sorrows in the broken drawers
where no one can find her dead butterflies.

Clean house of her heart where she hides her dreams
sings about the pain of hope she denies
by sewing dresses for the never-born
who play on the lawn by the empty street
to bury dead sparrows of grief with tulips
from which she drinks bitter tears of desire.

Each time she conjures twisted alphabets
to describe domestic disquietude,
Marie feels ghost of her body transfer
electric atoms weaving us as one
to flash inside the television screen
where ghosts reflect the sorrows of her life.

Sharp knives of her words she tries not to speak
reshape the narrative of social games
when they appear all over her clean house
with secret longing to extract from silence
thoughts of truth that her bitter love translates
from screams of rage to sad beautiful songs.

Metallic smell of frazzled power cords
sparks expectation of domestic bliss
to resist compulsion for eating portraits
of dead ancestors melting down white walls
with candle wax of visionary wisdom
though scissors dissolve into winter snow.

Our bodies are the gate for Mind of God
to enter constricted boundaries of time
so we can generate from fractured dreams
conceptual mask of social attitudes
when we perform new role our hearts compose
to swim against flooding tides of unchange.

When silence becomes faces of strange people
who ask about fruit falling from the sky,
we accept lesson of the burning boat
by leaving behind homeland of cruel disdain
and building new home on the river shore
where our children are mermaids who escape.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus finds Ophelia sitting in the living room of their house, singing haunting melodies as she sews dresses for their daughters.

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

Where I Play King Lear
© Surazeus
2025 05 05

As father of three witches brewing potions
that transform robots into human beings,
I refuse to play King Lear in your drama,
so I hide secrets in the cellar door
as my mother cooks cornbread and spaghetti
while ghosts of our ancestors haunt the house.

If I knock on the door of every house
in the whole world to find where my soulmate
builds furniture from bones of faceless gods,
I will keep searching disappearing streets
with bold bewildered confidence of love
by asking the ocean forbidden questions.

While I strum guitar in the city square
beneath orange eerie sky of burning clouds,
my eyes grow huge as ninety thousand moons
with thousand-mile stare of epiphany
at shocking satori of naked truth
I want to kill men who hurt other people.

Appalled at dark gloom of the Upper World,
Persephone breaks open fruit of knowledge
so we can suck sweet pomegranate juice
to taste intense disgust of pleasant death
that proves we are alive with half-blind faith
in how our love may generate new life.

We die unto sweet misery of desire
with fraught conception of fertile regret
for lust that drives us mad with honest hope
that we can build cute paradise of peace
where every person gets all they deserve
as solemn reward for mute suffering.

Shrinking back into wrinkled serpent egg
of childhood trauma, buried in foul mud,
we shout at stormclouds drenching time in tears
that quench not thirst for arrogant revenge
as if fair justice will always be served
to those who break the beauty we create.

Intense respect for how Death knows our names
inspires our daughters to crawl from the Earth
and dance with fierce attention to details
for moral platitudes we share with frowns
around the crackling fire of old tradition
which burns down everything we think is true.

With passion to transform the bleak waste land
into lush Wonderland of fruitful trees,
where every person born from Stone of Thought
knows why we wingless angels cannot fly,
we gather at the river in moonlight
where I play King Lear till the end of time.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus directs the movie production where I star as King Lear.

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

Slaves To Money God
© Surazeus
2025 05 05

If we remember why the bridge was built
to connect rivals for water of life,
we could share apples and bread at the feast
before they invade our town from the sea
and sell us all as slaves to Money God
though he was exposed for financial fraud.

Ishtar will mend our broken hearts with love
as we toil in vast factories of greed
constructing televisions and computers
for the rich in towers of steel to buy
who hire us as slaves to Money God
since Jesus Justus rules with Iron Rod.

Attempting to collect payments still owed
for their generous loan to the Mad King,
the French fight Mexico on Fifth of May
till Moctezuma rides to save the day
and free us all as slaves to Money God
in holy land where angels never trod.

The Great Bridge Builder with rod of two snakes,
who wears fish-mouth crown in cathedral hall,
rules Roman Empire for two thousand years
constructed on petrified heart of stone
that keeps us trapped as slaves to Money God
who drinks wine while we till the rain-wet sod.

We in the fields, who watch beautiful flame
burn ancient city of the Mocking Clown,
observe clash between lords of citadels
where gangsters ruled empires of wealthy pride
earned from our work as slaves to Money God
in fierce conflicts which investors applaud.

As lonesome creatures nurtured in the sea,
who transform from hunters in wandering tribes
to clerks and salesmen in large companies,
we build vast cities of mermaids and trolls
who might rebel as slaves to Money God
but put their faith in religious facade.

As mortal enemies in fight for truth,
loyal to the master from Aragon,
we work together for the greater good
to build democracy from ash of war,
freedom denied as slaves to Money God
who fishes every summer off Cape Cod.

When sly wizard, wearing old vaudeville mask,
jumps off the Washington Avenue Bridge,
Minerva wakes in Tower of Rapunzel,
where she lives in gold cage Midas designed,
to protect us as slaves to Money God
when we decide to join her Justice Squad.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus leads slaves to Money God from Hell across the waste land to the Promised Land where they all work in the amusement park of Wonderland.

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

Vale Of Singing Skulls
© Surazeus
2025 05 04

Hidden in strict asylum of my heart,
my hopes for happiness sprout demon wings
and flap away in twilight of lost time
to swarm across the vale of singing skulls
which represent ancestors of my genes
who call to me from tomb of the blind god.

When I walk around in streets of the world
I see countless strangers whose secret names
I will never hear spoken by the wind
though they are real bodies of flesh and blood
driven by unknown hopes for happiness
to live full lives I know nothing about.

Esther lounges on mansion balcony,
dressed in leather sandals, jeans, and pink shirt,
sipping wine as her fingers caress flowers,
then smiles brightly with moon-black eyes of joy
as I photograph essence of her soul
that she will gaze at sixty years from now.

Intertwining our fingers with shy smiles,
we cuddle close together as soft breeze
scents our two bodies with sweet pheromones
so I nestle nose in long curly hair
to smell aroma of her gentle soul
as we share romantic hug of respect.

Slipping large round sunglasses on her face,
Esther assumes movie-star stance to shield
fragile state of her heart with nonchalance
from hungry attention of loyal fans
who adore her cool unconcern for fame
earned through performance of tragic-fate roles.

From billions of people crowding the globe
one person emerges with special face
that sparks intense respect of honest love
when our eyes connect invisible souls
with long scarlet thread of celestial fate
that binds our bodies in children we make.

More delicate that moon-silver raindrops,
our separate souls fold undulating layers
of vibrant memories in precious glow
with divine treasure tuned from formulas
which calculate our romantic routine
securing foundation of our love life.

As carpenter of innocent respect,
I construct cradle for our new-born child
who sprouts angel wings over twenty years
and flies away around the spinning world
till she returns with diamond eye of god
that lights our secret vale of singing skulls.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus gives anniversary gift to Phoebus and Esther who host grand feast celebrating their successful romance of enduring faith.

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

Glass Bones Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2025 05 04

When glass bones of my soul hum at midnight
I hear songs of star angels emanate
through words I express with breath of my soul
that flash as lightning bolts across my brain
to luminate infinite space of silence
that beams as bridge between our pulsing hearts.

Bearing gold sword of truth in my right hand,
as bold wizard of Dragon Mountain Lake,
I guard secret haven where my clan dwells
to protect my family home from invaders,
who would enslave our bodies with cruel greed,
so we live through justice and liberty.

Lounging on the wood porch behind my house,
on gold-sultry evening in early May,
I strum guitar and sing heart-aching tunes
about our human journey through the world
to find safe haven amid social chaos
as craftsman who creates with nimble hands.

I play so many characters of fate
during the course of ten thousand lifetimes,
as I evolve from hunter and clan guard
to poet and cartographer of tales,
that I forget they all form who I am,
guiding my journey to become myself.

Once I am done with this current lifetime,
I will hang my face as mask of my soul
in ancient gallery of psychic tropes
along with millions of other dream-singers
whose words are written on river of time
that waters plains of wheat fields and cow herds.

Every man composed of flesh fueled by blood,
who plays conceptual idea of Tribe Leader
to define history of humanity,
transforms into idol of marbled words,
recorded in the Book of Faceless Gods,
while their bodies rot to dust in the Earth.

When I was in third decade of my life,
brain buzzing with ambition to transcend
role of prophet for nonexistent God,
I hitchhiked great land of America
with spirit of Apollo in my heart
to sing chronicle of humanity.

Now I wield wand with the two-headed snake
as Bridge Builder in Temple of Athena
to chant prophecy of the cosmic herald
who builds world empire of Anglonesia
from Europe, Russia, and America,
to rule new United Nations of Earth.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus presents redesigned map of the new world order managed by the United Nations of Earth.

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

Safe Land Of Goshen
© Surazeus
2025 05 04

Walking throughout the house of many rooms,
the woman who remembers dawn of time
searches for the ghost weeping in locked doors,
but finds more than shadow on the wall
cast by wordless sunlight of the season
when people fall in love for no good reason.

Painting landscapes on doors of weeping ghosts,
the woman who swam the sea of weird dreams
explains to children running on the lawn
why water always flows down to the sea
while she wears the latest sociable fashion
to mask intense regret of bitter passion.

Planting rose bushes on property lines
to mark the sacred pale of paradise,
the woman who hides the moon in her mind,
to measure tides of change in aching hearts,
raises the boy who leads our global nation
far above conceptual frame of his station.

Rowing her boat across the lake of skulls
to drop Box of Pandora in dark depths,
the woman who types letters for the bank
recalculates the road of pilgrimage
with delicate curves of psychic precision
to match the code of existential vision.

Inspired to generate life from my dreams,
the woman who builds furniture from tropes
for thousand mirrored rooms of the weird church
directs the most epic romantic film
where Juliet and Hamlet share devotion
powered by machine of perpetual motion.

Annoyed by pretty fantasy of hope
sold by priests and preachers to lonely souls,
the woman who teaches children to write
lines of code that program our robot brains
writes report on our national delusion
about humans being angel-demon fusion.

Confused by random events that transpire
with frequent repetition of desire,
the woman who navigates social games
designs new set of characters with names
for ghosts who haunt the lightning-flashed horizon
till they appear as sweet witches who wizen.

Startled by collapse of our old world view,
the woman who treasures heroic tales
commissions her son to play cosmic herald
though he is reluctant to save the world,
so he proceeds to exercise grim caution
for finding comfort in safe land of Goshen.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia celebrate the 25th year anniversary of their wedding on Island of the Hesperides.

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

Weird Hour Of Storms
© Surazeus
2025 05 03

Not since weird hour of storms across the plains,
that crack dark mirror of the humble soul,
have angels known the honesty of fear
when souls of humans rage wild as the wolf
then float on rivers with lithe otter grace
till we remember how the fruit has grown.

Thus we shall meet beneath the twisted tree
at hour when seven moons of death appear
to shine with beauteous bounty of respect
though we are hungry for divine despair
that we express through songs of ocean waves
that still remind us we have secret names.

Confounded by swift gallop of the horse,
that brings with sudden swirl of subtle breeze
mysterious angst of love borne from the deep,
we share our shocking tales of puzzling grace
disbursed by brightly shining ghosts of time
who seem to know where we conceal our bones.

From darkness blossom spirits of the saved
who bear abstractions writhing in their hearts
to lurk with urgent care in shadowed woods
with special luminance of ardent faith
which lights our journey to the Promised Land
as if we know how long weird stars may shine.

Flesh buzzing with electric energy
on laughing clouds excluding rancid faith,
we rise from bubbling lake of happy slime
to share experience mushroom-fueled with love
through boundless sorrow to drink soul of light
since we know freedom of tree-shivered hills.

Awake ten million years of dreamless hope
to taste each drop of rain from heaven hurled,
we help each other gather nuts and eggs
from generous bounty of contorted soil
while wading knee-deep in delicious swamp
to catch lithe serpent of aggressive death.

We ask no questions of the mossy stone
that has not moved in twenty million years
except to meditate on mountain cliff
with stoic calm displayed by twisted oaks
that curl from edge of infinite disgrace
with sterile promise that our souls can fly.

White egrets gather shrieking clever jokes
in swollen canopy of bitter trees
to prove with formulas framed by desire
that we are angels fallen from storm clouds,
so we rise up on trembling legs of faith
and stride forth from the wilderness of song.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus leads his tribe across the plains through thunderstorms to find the valley of the singing fruit trees where they build vast city of jewels.

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

Bowls Of Sweet Tears
© Surazeus
2025 05 03

When he breathes scent of the corporeal ghost
stuck in time capsule of the widowed oak,
he wades into river of bloody oil
to ask the salmon in their dialect
how many bridges arch across its flow
with intimate knowledge of the burger joint.

Young girls from high school by the boiling lake
dance laughing around the wood matriarch,
each wearing cute pinafore dress she sewed
from threads of sorrow that unwind their hearts
when they give their children apples to eat
though they were maimed by empire bombs of greed.

Our mutual disappointments ricochet
across glass sky of white supremacy
in game of domination angels play
through puppets they construct from bones of gods
conducive to the nurturing of souls
with fierce capacity to love the world.

Bright tulips bloom from brains of weeping clowns
who write surreal novels of country life
about construction workers who rebuild
temples in Heaven destroyed by dream bombs
deployed by businessmen in pinstripe suits
to invest in stringent idolatry.

Gazing at Heaven with wide hopeful eyes,
zombies hungry for brains pray to the king
who stomps on flowers and sprays honeybees
while strangers gather in the empty house
to hide their memories of futile lives
in abstract paintings hanging on the walls.

Since I regret the way I hurt your heart
I let you live in my dreams with your horse
so we can sing sorrowful psalms of faith
while everything we hold as good and true
keeps vanishing from pictures on the wall
so we give each other bowls of sweet tears.

Glass mountains, all wrinkled with craggy cliffs,
regard my sorrow with indifferent wind
so I join my friends under glowing clouds
to drink and shout with joyful angst of fear
till we are bones that form the mountain range
as dancing skeletons of humble faith.

Untouched divinities of whispered love
progress with slippery dance of urgent hope
to release the corporeal ghost of time
from fractured mirror of the sunlit mind
so we share ripe apples we steal from God
who joins us for the feast before we die.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus crowns himself Pope of the New World Religion, and conducts sacrifice to crucify the arrogant clown on the telephone pole.

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

Oppressive Moral Laws
© Surazeus
2025 05 03

Too bad for how the rolling stone decides
to save her blind mother from the cute wolf
as if her skull were watermelon soft,
honest enough to ask where God abides
down south on the sultry shore of the gulf
where curling souls of lonely people waft.

Despite how often cows fly to the moon
when people put their parents growing old
in nursing homes to hide sorrow of time,
the angry priest plays new heartbreaking tune
to woo the nun who wears bright mask of gold
while cleansing souls of murderers from grime.

Hand in hand Adam and Yangasha stroll
Garden of Peaches on lush Mount Penglai
past waterfall formed from tears of the dead,
then ask Yeomra, who rules in Diyu Cave,
why Lakshmi and Pluto, who fell in love,
are getting punished for selling young orphans.

Ardent attention to details of fate
proves Lucifer understands how effects
result as consequence of unseen cause
while he bikes parking lot to Church of Hate
where saints who attempt to hide their defects
adjudicate oppressive moral laws.

Trapped by delicate fabric of bird song,
Innocent Eve in gown of maple leaves
steals pears from trees in Garden of Despair,
but, as she gazes with awe far too long
at beauty of May when everyone grieves,
she decides it costs her too much to care.

This might just be the right time to require
dispassionate observer of the truth
to clean toxic waste land of arrogance,
though some just want to sing in the world choir
directed by the new messiah sleuth
without gaining power from innocence.

Almost qualified now to play the role
assigned to me by Fate to question why
brave heroes go where angels fear to tread,
I proudly surf huge political wave
to sermon where I am blessed by the dove
because approval activates endorphins.

I know the truth is buried here somewhere,
under the ground where the blue peafowl struts,
so when cosmic herald returns from Hell
and leads uprising to make justice fair,
we shall emerge from meditation huts
to fight for truth at ringing of the bell.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus digs all over the Garden of Eden to find the truth till his excavations turn it into the waste land.

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

Reluctance Of The Fool
© Surazeus
2025 05 02

Daring to boldly look Death in the eye,
I sing new lamentation for the lost
with helpless agitation of one soul
shocked at dissolution of the world view
our grandfathers built from skulls of dead gods
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Orpheus dances at edge of the cliff
where his pet fox leaps about him in glee
while he twirls staff of Mercury he stole
from tomb of that god, dead three thousand years,
till he finds demon wings in the gold chest
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Returning from the diamond mine in Hell
as hungry jester with the radio brain,
Narcissus sings last holy hymn of faith
to save humanity from the mad clown
who plays with nuclear missiles as his toys
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Chewing gum as she writes on order pad,
Echo echoes items with nonchalance
while Pluto grills burgers on flames of Hell,
then she recites poems Sappho never wrote
which inspires the lonely man with no face
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Comforting silence of the Underworld
excites cute children killed by falling bombs
who play chase among pomegranate trees
where ravens invent new philosophy
till Persephone chooses the weird girl
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Existence of forms in the universe
appears to be deliberate design
by Supernatural Mind humans name God,
so we keep old myths in museum hall
where the blind man pretends he is a ghost
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Dream rivers in the labyrinthine cave
refuse to reflect faces of the dead,
so we give each other new demon names
for priests to conjure us from our lost graves,
though I should follow the messiah sleuth
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

Electric vibrations in the void
transform atoms of my body to dirt
so roots may mold my spirit into fruit
which lovers eat to generate new life
so my molecules become their new child
to play god with reluctance of the fool.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus gives tourists from America tours in the labyrinthine caves of Hell where they can pose for selfies with devils in red silk gowns holding pitchforks, who drink cokes on break.

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

River Full Of Fish
© Surazeus
2025 05 02

Strange stories of boys and their fathers bleed
sap from trees of ancient forests they saw
with sharp-toothed tool of mute fear to construct
one lone temple by river full of fish
that expands into the vast city maze
which I catalog with crow quill by lamplight.

Each boulder of memory cut from clouds,
which I roll up the hill of eager hope,
rings with the voices of men without names
who build enormous castles on high hills
where they enforce authority of theft
through violent assertion of their law.

Whichever direction I choose to go
away from oppression of greedy thugs,
who call themselves the holy knights of god,
I measure distance beyond prison walls
which they insist will protect me from harm
to find paradise outside their fake Heaven.

Bells in the monastery of blind ghouls
shock angels awake from graves of despair
so they dance laughing in the sudden rain
till they bring baskets of fruit to their mothers
who recreate the world of dream machines
into sprawling cities of shining towers.

When I enter the small temple of wood,
hidden deep in maze of wide asphalt streets,
I find idol of every famous man
venerated by teachers as wise gods
who taught us angry apes how to be human,
so I smash them all with Mercurian wand.

I walk toward radiance of the glowing screen,
fixed as oval mask over face of god,
to read weird history of the human race
written in constellations seers invent
to give fluid apparitions of faith
special habitation with divine form.

Laughing at me with eyes that glitter stars,
three Fates unravel network of my brain
to weave with tangled threads of memory
new tapestry of truth that frames my actions
through strict ontology of moral rules
with reprogrammed narrative I embody.

Reflected clear in blue frame of the sea,
my face embodies psychic energy
which Earth programs into my dreaming brain
so I fold water through wings of desire
by listening to voice of humanity
that whispers secrets in vibrating waves.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus teaches algebra to high school students who are eager to attend the weekend football game against their long-time rivals.

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