Stolen Mask Of Jupiter
© Surazeus
2025 03 29

Untethered twirl of emotional glide
accelerates my soul beyond fake bounds
of social convention that holds me down,
because I spring high from book where I hide
secret fears with glass skeletons in mounds
on which the lost worship the haughty clown.

Unchained ocean waves of obvious truths
we dare not speak as taboo of the heart
wipe vast metropolis of gleaming towers
off face of the Earth with soul-cleansing baths
since commercial empire is based on cart
from which the lonely girl sells pretty flowers.

Untricked by preacher of the fallen god
to believe that each person is unique,
we search for ancient sword Excalibur
as magic weapon buried in the sod
so we can fight the conman and his clique
who wears the stolen mask of Jupiter.

Uncivilized by tyranny of cash
that drives fierce engine of global commerce,
we fight new civil war of thought control
to wear crown of thorns retrieved from the trash
based on description of the universe
designed by savior hung on the phone pole.

Uncaged by law of Goddess Liberty
with commission to bear the Torch of Truth,
Minerva runs barefoot in the waste land
to escape agents of security
while pregnant with our new messiah sleuth
destined to rule Earth with his red right hand.

Unpuzzled petroglyph on Stone of Scone
depicts First Mother of the Human Race
when she emerges from the Lake of Dreams
and plays haunting tunes on flute of bird bone
then wears golden mask over pock-marked face
when she performs in Theater of Seems.

Uncrowned as honest Emperor of Earth,
I ride White Horse of Justice down the street
through parade to celebrate victory,
then analyze what everything is worth
which I list on the clay-tablet spreadsheet
as world-traveling man of mystery.

Unlocking stolen mask of Jupiter,
I climb huge pyramid of the God-Eye
so I can understand the human heart
which follows path devised by Lucifer
because we choose our fate by asking why
we must blindly conform to our star chart.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus wears white gloves as he carefully places and adjusts the Stolen Mask of Jupiter in the display case in the Zarathian Museum of World History.

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

Both Man And Monster
© Surazeus
2025 03 29

If I misunderstand how the red snow falls
the gold-eyed cat who lounges on my porch
could explain secret of romantic faith
in failure of books to describe the truth
about the nature of ancestral dreams
encoded in tribal myths I invent.

The frog that climbs up window of my heart
tries to hide eerie glow of the weird moon,
but I see its shadows in every room,
even during the day when angry birds
declare their sovereignty in tangled trees
with beautiful songs that make my heart ache.

Before sunset I wander into town
and sit in the back of the smoky bar
to eat fish and chips and stare at the lake
while people stand before the microphone
and read their secret-coded poetry
to supportive cheers of their fellow poets.

Crouching on moon-gold beach of the large lake,
I write lines of verse in the gleaming sand
about the United States of Ionia
through which cabal of poets in black robes
rule the world with slick advertising slogans,
till the turtle nibbles at my right hand.

The bittersweet sorrow of our strange world
cries out in mindless song of windy rain
that cannot be translated into words
so I become the silence of my voice
that folds my fears into pages of books
which transform into spirit-haunted trees.

I dismiss with tragic wave of my hand
every opinion that clutters my mind
in vain attempt to sweep them all away
and clear blinding illusions of despair,
but spiderweb of truth ensnares my hand
with sticky nonchalance of sly disgust.

I refuse to be absolute for death
except as fateful end that traps us all,
for I resist the nothingness of fate
with cautious assertion of faint desire
to keep on living without trying hard,
savoring sensations of pleasurable pain.

Both Beowulf and Grendel are described
by the Unknown Poet with raven quill
with similar terms as both man and monster,
the same as Gilgamesh and Enkidu,
demonic spirit in civilized man,
twins contesting to understand red snow.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus visits grave of his mother by the lake of silver fish.

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

Next World War
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

We may survive the next world war, or not,
with cheerful laughter of the Argonaut
who cancels quest to steal the Golden Fleece
in vain attempt to establish world peace
by claiming every land on Earth is his
because he always wins the puzzling quiz.

He wants to build new home in vale of tears
to manage school of crazy puppeteers
by teaching them to scam the populace
with threat from rolling stone of Sisyphus,
but he gets lost in forest of the clown
where Gretel marries him with mindcuff crown.

Still staring in the mirror of his soul
for twenty years without his secret goal,
he wonders who defines the right from wrong
besides the Valkyrie with tragic song
who outshines everyone on the world stage
though she got trapped by fame in her gold cage.

Elected captain to steer Ship of State,
after Midas wrecks it with bitter hate,
the Argonaut who hides his secret name
writes new constitution for the world game
so everyone who plays life by the rules
can create beauty with conceptual tools.

Since we hope to survive the next world war
with shadow of our faith in global lore,
though traitorous thieves destroy our world view,
we work together when the ingenue
performs her role as savior of the world
as prophesied by the mad cosmic herald.

As incarnation of brave Liberty,
who wields Book and Lamp of democracy,
Minerva rides the white horse of our hope
with grand ontology beyond our scope
to build from ruins of America
nation of justice called Zarathia.

Displaced from homes we lived in many years,
and fired unfairly from fruitful careers,
we follow Moses through the wilderness
across the rusty bridge of aimlessness
to surround castle where the tyrant hides
with treasures he stole from our psychic guides.

Though Midas steals everything we hold dear,
attempting to divide us with fake fear,
we smash his idol with its feet of clay
when Sisyphus arrives with spells to pray,
so we will survive world war of his greed
and regrow Tree of Life with honest seed.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus salvages the ancient Argo, restoring it with a whole new set of planks, and displays it in the Zarathian Museum of Natural History.

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

Life As Hungry Savages
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

Dozing on the back porch in the warm sun,
I contemplate red history of the gun
that toppled empires of the sword and horse
and fueled mankind on faster-engined course,
so now we race to control every isle
while attending state feasts with graceful style.

The fallen airplane floats on ocean waves
just offshore from the secret cliffside caves
where our ancestors first drew images
to transcend life as hungry savages,
so Icarus spreads his wings without faith
and soars among clouds with the mindless wraith.

His mother calls him from the tower porch,
then wanders in the night with flaming torch
to find where he has fallen from the sky
so she can ask the bitter devil why
he dares rebel against the tyrant king
who shoots any angel who tries to sing.

Kneeling in dust before the pyramid
where Jupiter keeps stolen treasure hid,
Lucifer packs powder in metal pipe
then aims rifle to kill God Archetype
who decrees he owns both body and soul
of every human he assigns state role.

Roused from my slumber in the warm noon sun,
I grumble at slaughter caused by the gun
the past five hundred years of holy wars
that gangs of men fight to control food stores
as we transform castles into glass banks
and horses mutate into brutal tanks.

Glancing upward at glowing clouds of fate,
I search blank space for ministers of hate
who rampage now through halls of government
to pilfer treasures of entitlement
that shatters sense of safety we all share
in system we had built that shows we care.

Dismissing tragic events of this age,
caused by the greedy vampire on world stage,
King Midas shouts that he will rule the world
while citizens pray for the cosmic herald
to solve our crisis with respectful law
enforced by wisdom of brave Onatah.

Illusion of power enforced by guns
dissolves at radiance of our freedom songs
so we rise up from lethargy of fear
and march against the thieving puppeteer
to free America from tyranny
and build stronger global democracy.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus joins Icarus and Lucifer in their march for democracy to oppose the dictator and the vampire who are stealing our souls.

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

Way Of Flowing Streams
© Surazeus
2025 03 28

If the moon could speak, she would tell me why
sad people are never allowed to cry
while they hang upside down in the Joy Tree
and sing anthem about how to live free
through clarion call of the mountain wind
with broken hearts only beauty can mend.

If the noble stag of the forest grove
escapes the hunter for the treasure trove,
my heart leaps laughing with joyful respect,
foolhardy guest devils fail to detect,
so I ask the moon why humans must die
who tries to explain the afterlife lie.

Since I can never know your secret heart,
though I trace your fortune on the star chart,
you remain completely unknowable
therefore I choose to find you lovable
each day we wake together in our space,
still in love with your mysterious face.

If fear constrains me with paralysis
of desperate hope forged from analysis,
I transfer anguish to the puppet show
that I perform in soft blue evening glow
till soldiers shoot us for protesting hate,
defined by commands of aggressive fate.

When people who can hear vibes of Earth Soul
invent loud silence that no bell can toll,
we gather to protest cruel tyranny
till we are inspired by epiphany
that songs of faith can cripple feeble power
and free Liberty from the Ivory Tower.

With pulsing material of frantic light,
contrived by flow of time untangled right,
my heart paints portrait of the soul I love
who wears pretty mask of the willing slave,
yet we give each other freedom to play,
choosing in the end to unite and stay.

More than halfway to the end of my tale,
I leave church where everything is for sale
and wander in ephemeral glow of faith
to find pure emanation of my wraith
that guides me toward the vale where I will sleep,
so I ask the Earth my frail bones to keep.

Whereas our hearts are equally intense
with loyal passion of our future tense,
we share one winding road of earnest hope
to help each other thrive well as we cope,
so we generate children of our dreams
who help us map the way of flowing streams.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia celebrate her birthday with their children Ostara and Orion by eating cake and dancing in the backyard.

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

Secret Of Star Flowers
© Surazeus
2025 03 27

Totally lost in madness of his dreams,
Samuel strums rusty-stringed guitar and sings
in harmony with buzz of the radio
till his brain sprouts four plastic raven wings
when five men wearing masks in the black car
handcuff his thin hands and take him away.

Locked with Pandora in the golden cage,
Samuel stands on his hands for twenty hours
while she explains the secret of star flowers
that beam the animating soul of love
which fills his body with conceptual juice
since dictators never honor the truce.

Entranced by golden snake eyes of the girl,
Samuel gives Pandora his finger bones
so she can weave from threads of history
life-tale of Lucifer in tapestry
that hangs in castle hall of honesty
where Beowulf reads his new poetry.

Once Samuel crawls out of his turtle shell,
Pandora, twirling around their glass cage,
shows him how to become invisible
to people staring at them in the zoo,
so he breathes deep and spits words on the wall
that transform into scarlet butterflies.

Molding thick mud of his worm-consumed brain
into small model of the Trojan Horse,
Samuel gives ten thousand oranges of fate
to Pandora with smooth bow of respect,
so she makes orange juice people buy online
so she can buy fake wings of Icarus.

Holding up sign painted with blood of ghosts,
Samuel declares for dead angels to hear,
"Respect existence of every live soul
or expect resistance of the mad fools
who demand freedom and justice for all,"
but people driving cars in rain honk horns.

Hugging the mad fool to her loving breast,
Pandora chants disapparation spell
which teleports them far around the Earth
from detention cell in Louisiana
to ancient ruins of the Parthenon
where they kiss till the Earth becomes more real.

Taking selfies on their broken eye-phones
among time-weathered pillars of their hearts,
Samuel and Pandora, smiling with joy,
announce their marriage on social media
which garners thousands of congratulations,
then they grow old and die in their zoo cage.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus watches Samuel and Pandora dancing together in their detention cell while hundreds of other inmates hum while pretending to be musical instruments.

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

Sapphire Of World Peace
© Surazeus
2025 03 27

Luminous phantom of the great egret
spreads her delicate wings in doting breeze
and glides grandly over wind-rippled lake
that glitters blue as sapphire of world peace
with secret message from her aching heart
that Nature still blooms after we are gone.

Drinking root beer at the old picnic bench,
Sophia watches clouds gleam over houses
where people are living safe in their faith.
"I cannot feel bombs rattle family homes
in that distant land far across the sea
where my ancestors lived centuries ago."

Tossing the fantasy novel she wrote
into the sapphire-blue lake of world peace,
Sophia declares with sarcastic voice,
"The political game in this great land
has gotten so absurd that comedy
has been neutered by their incompetence."

Covering her face with thin paint-smeared hands,
Sophia cries with broken-hearted angst
as she thinks about how her mother died
because her social security funds
were blocked from transfer to her bank accounts,
so she died when the bank foreclosed her house.

Walking past the shuttered car factory,
Sophia climbs stairs to her studio
where she stares at the half-finished portrait
depicting homeless people in torn tents
who cook canned soup under the highway bridge
where an Amazon delivery truck gleams.

Dipping stiff-haired brush in glob of red paint,
Sophia paints barely-seen smudge of blood
on hands of the banker in clean blue suit
who blithely drives his new gold-painted car
past encampment where seven people live
whose homes he foreclosed over the past year.

Peering close at figure of the old woman,
Sophia paints the yellow flowered dress
her mother loved to wear attending church,
who now pushes shopping cart of her things,
including books of family photographs
of her ancestors the past hundred years.

"Our spirits become part of this alien land
when we bury our parents in its soil,
and our words become the wind in its trees."
Streaking white flash of light, Sophia paints
luminous phantom of the great egret
gliding grandly over the homeless camp.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus photographs homeless people at the camp under the highway bridge, and listens to their stories about how government services they relied on were cut.

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

Unhappy In Weird Heaven
© Surazeus
2025 03 26

Ordained intensity of our fierce life
provides conceptual frame for ardent door
for which my tongue designs the singing leaf
that flashes old memories in wordless blur,
engrossed in program that reverses time
with casual grief that nurtures my new dream.

Awake with curious faith in haunted hills
with tattered scrolls, long hid in sacred sands,
I play my game out of sync with church bells
from static message that fractures quaint minds
too eager for embroidered book of tales
that mocks kind people who live without goals.

Stuck in portrait that depicts the last star
which gleams on faces of warriors in gloom,
I change my image at alarm of war
to hide behind mask of the loyal team
and translate strange cries of electric birds
that gather in oaks at howl of mad bards.

On flat-top pyramid as watchful guard,
armed with taut bow of arrogant desire,
I achieve creative project of God,
who embodies the monster we most fear,
by analyzing mental state of Man
who incarnates psychic light of the sun.

Unhappy in weird Heaven we create,
I assemble puzzle of my God Face,
that pulses calmly with eclectic light
which luminates false rooms of my old house,
from soul of each ancestor in my genes
whose voice whispers in marrow of my bones.

Performing my new role as Sisyphus,
I construct cars in the steel factory
to prove I could be more magnanimous
with urgent spirit of democracy
because this world is older than our souls
that shimmer whitely in Odinian wells.

I ride long train of circumstance back home
to where I tame the horse in apple grove
with primal language through uncertain hymn
detailing progress of romantic love
by which we generate aggressive souls
who conquer Earth with calculating scales.

Crouched in the silent trance, I watch the moon
transform souls of our war-traumatized saints
from avid angels to idolized stone
who default on their government accounts
in time for tragic marriage of true minds
who share electrons in covalent bonds.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus shows his children with Ophelia how to assemble of their God Face from memories of their ancestors programmed in their genes.

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

My Unpossessed Heart
© Surazeus
2025 03 26

Beyond vast picture of painted landscapes
I see uncertain whiteness of pure depths
reflecting ugly beauty of our world
that frames my face as god in glowing clouds,
so I rebuke that darkness in the sea
that molded me from passion to fly free.

The whiteness in gloomy depths of my heart
contains the ancient truth I hope to see,
but one teardrop from Heaven falling far
erases vision of the unseen world,
so I walk backward on the signless road
that everyone wants to name for their god.

The fragmentary whiteness of my world
encloses me in meadow of lush grass,
so I stand breathing spirit of the sky
with motionless mind of the spinning globe
to feel how borders limit our landscapes
to scope of truth in what our eyes perceive.

The people in the village by the sea,
who support my poor family with calm care,
are swept into white depths by sudden storm
that hurls enormous waves of arrogance
with mute indifference of lightning-flashed wind
so not even their secret names remain.

The whiteness of the world offers no gifts
more than I would need to live each day
while tending apple trees by the blind lake
surrounded by strange darkness of the wind
that scatters leaves across my fenceless yard
on which I write these poems I never sing.

Nothing that exists in material form
transcends sweet whiteness of the cheerful dawn
beyond what spirit of the sky provides,
though faceless god whom everyone adores
never replies to my sincerest prayers
except that Nature keeps blooming with life.

Every land where my ancestors have lived
across ten thousand miles of their long road
has never belonged to them, though they lie
buried in its soil so their bones provide
lattice of honesty that forms landscapes
where I travel with my unpossessed heart.

We journey west to find home of the sun
ten thousand years over mountains and seas,
but find the Earth is round and never ends,
so I stop on rugged coast of the world
and give my alien spirit to this land
which sings my ballads long after I die.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia float together in the river, holding hands as they sing prophecies about the fall of America and the rise of Zarathia.

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

Light-Winged Dryad
© Surazeus
2025 03 26

The light-winged dryad of the trees calls me
to dance with her in blooming hemlock grove,
so into numberless shadows we twirl
on pungent shore of sparkling Lethe stream
to ease sharp ache of sorrow in our hearts
by sharing pleasure of our mortal souls.

With slavish thirst of chemical-bound frames
we drink sweet water from the Hippocrene
that bubbles deep in forest of dead gods
whose voices echo softly in the wind
with lustrous eyes of drowsy memories
that make us groan when we kiss at sunset.

No longer full of sorrow or despair,
because we stay together hand in hand
while blazing our own pathway in dark woods,
we wander secretly where stars guide us
far from the crowded streets of market towns
to find where Queen-Moon lies among flowers.

Where Bacchus dances among white hawthorns,
deep in thick groves of winding mossy ways,
we seek strange beauty of grim star-eyed Death
whose horror teaches us to love our lives
and treasure limitations we secure,
which nurtures fragile spirits of our hearts.

Thus fortified with pastoral glow of faith
that strengthens us with courage of the truth,
we venture into maze of crowded streets
to comprehend with clear observing eyes
mystery of competitive money games
people perform to gain power of wealth.

Sweet heart-enchanting music of the stars
sung by immortal nightingale of hope
long charmed our hearts with vision of the world
where every person honors rules of life,
but now its calm inspiring requiem
fades trammeled by commercial shouts of greed.

Divine melody of her plaintive anthem,
which animates our bodies with Star Soul,
sung by deceiving elf inside our hearts,
writhes twisted into parody of faith
by men obsessed with fame of thought-control
willing to buy anything with the coin.

Long trapped in labyrinth of social greed
as helpless pawns in pageantry of power,
we assert halting steps with urgent cause
to escape frantic market place of fear
and seek to dwell again in meadow grove
where birds sing freely by the sparkling stream.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia manage to escape the market place of Pandemonium and return to the lush meadows of Elysium to tend their plum trees.

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

Far From Falling Bombs
© Surazeus
2025 03 25

Because we pass through thick shadows of hope
while driving ribbon of moonlight alone,
we see our spirits dwelling in wild trees,
so we buy passports from the cavern ghost
to cross the border from our war-torn state
and live in the woods far from falling bombs.

Our misconstrued breath of hope for world peace
suffocates angry shadows of despair,
so we exchange faces by the pool of tears,
sure we will inherit the Earth from hate,
then walk the road of danger to the farm
where Phoebus plows fields far from falling bombs.

Twirling baton in parade of dead gods,
Minerva leads the marching band with pride
around the marble monument to ghosts
whose blood dribbles from red stripes of our flag
above the park where people eat roast steak
and waltz to music far from falling bombs.

Phoebus trudges plowed field in leather boots,
gathering crosses painted with false names,
and throws them in piles at the Gate of Heaven
where chanting crowd burns them under old stars
till wings of angels are crippled by rage
yet they try to fly far from falling bombs.

The beautiful sky of the Evening Land,
that shimmers with fire over country towns,
hides wordless horror as Nero plays lyre
and sings about the Trickster who deceives
to avoid service in the holy war,
and plays piano far from falling bombs.

Walking in forest of rebellious faith
to join convention of primordial gods,
I erase the road of my journey home
to dance on tightrope over the abyss
so you can find truth in skulls of dead seers
that speak with water far from falling bombs.

The clever child who graduates from fate
lights lamps along the frosted boulevard
to reciprocate horror with calm faith
when the luminous phantom becomes breeze
that rustles leaves of trees on fruited plains
in garden of hope far from falling bombs.

The old man in the boat on moonlit lake
sings ancient melody from Babylon
where cattle graze among the fallen pillars
with plans to rebuild Temple of the Mind
as haven for the ghosts expelled from church
who sing with new hope far from falling bombs.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus teaches children the basic principles of music in the garden of dancing skeletons far from falling bombs.

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

Follow Jesus To Fish
© Surazeus
2025 03 25

So many ways to fall out of the mind
and weave light of the sun in roots of trees
when I transform into angel from fish,
and tell the old Sea Woman what I wish
as her hair swirls around in evening breeze
while she wanders beside the red-furred hind.

The convex mirror that reflects my soul
reveals strange beauty of the human heart
in how we choose to play chess game with Death
who sits enthroned before the monolith
and studies fortune on our world star chart
to see who next should play her priestess role.

Still wearing black silk gown after the dance,
Death takes my hand and leads me to the pool
where she reveals weird secret of rebirth
which I record with runes in Book of Earth
to outline magic of the mental tool
we use to divert fate with random chance.

Embraced with passion of the spinning world,
we generate soul for child of our love
who leads great army of horses and men
to gather herbs for making medicine
while guided by her starship from above
till revolution of the cosmic herald.

Death resurrects my body with each life
which she designs with programmed memories
encoded through immortal soul of genes,
so I invent bold industrial machines
to mass-produce wealth in vast factories
controlled by bankers during global strife.

Returning from bloody fields of world war,
young men who set out to make the world great
follow Jesus to fish on ocean boats
or linger on hillsides with herds of goats
while sons of bankers feast behind locked gates
and Phoebus runs the corner grocery store.

Now most fully in love with easeful Death,
calling her soft names with voice of the wind,
Phoebus kisses her with passionate faith,
then shouts to glowing clouds of the star wraith
that he now finds it much more rich to live
with lightning-nurtured vision of whole breath.

While Death takes care of their child Artemis,
Phoebus drives van on the crowded highway
to visit new aquarium in town,
since he wears his jeweled emperor crown,
where he sees shine in the golden skyway
the Revolution Stone of Sisyphus.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus hitches a ride with Phoebus and Death who take him to the spring Rainbow Gathering in the Rainbow Mountains of Arapaho.

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

Blue Iris Of Innocence
© Surazeus
2025 03 24

The delicate blue iris of innocence
blooms among bull thistles, crabgrass, purslane,
and horseweed in the fenced-in vacant lot
with humble beauty of the faceless girl
who arranges stones in circles of faith
to enclose dazed silence of afternoon.

Gold-breasted kingbird with quick darting eyes
reigns from her nest in the mulberry bush
with elegant grace of wind-hopping faith
to prove that compassionate grace of trust
heals broken-hearted people of the world
who struggle to escape dire circumstance.

Trapped in the bureaucratic maze of fear,
Maria Flores stares at cement wall
where ghostly faces of her children glow
though seven years of loneliness have passed
since agents arrested them on the bridge
when they were driving home from Mexico.

Released from detention one afternoon,
Maria Flores walks the quiet town
past the fenced-in vacant lot of her heart
where ghost of her daughter arranges stones
to protect blue iris of innocence,
then lies down under the mulberry bush.

Not knowing where to find her family,
Maria Flores walks to the old church
but the door is locked and the lights are out,
so she works as the night-shift janitor
at the hotel near the airport highway
and sleeps at night by the mulberry bush.

Attending church each Sunday afternoon,
Maria Flores prays for light of hope,
kneeling at statue of Mother and Child,
to find where her husband and children live,
then walks past city park where children play
while angels scream in pain too far away.

Twisted branches of trees gleam in the pool
that shimmers beside the large ice-smooth stone
where Maria Flores, numb from despair,
stares at calm beauty of the silver sky
that erases gaunt beauty of her face
and carves it on the stone of solitude.

Kneeling before tombstone behind the church
carved with name of her mother in gray letters,
Zuzia Flores weeps with pain of relief
after searching for more than twenty years,
then looks up at sharp song of the kingbird
who takes her heart and flies beyond the world.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus photographs an old woman working as a janitor at the hotel, then photographs her walking in the city park where she sits on a bench and does not cry.

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

See Beyond The World
© Surazeus
2025 03 24

Staring at the stars that may not be real
because they burned out millennia ago,
I think about the life I want to live
creating beautiful art for the heart
from the ugly misery of working life,
and decide I want to grow tangerines.

The bomb of deep insight that blows my mind
when the blue-collar painter of the house
becomes the painter of modern fine art
restarts the clock of purpose in my heart,
unwinding social programs in my brain
so I become the grass of the weird world.

When I hear the ancient voice of the Earth
speak through the trees that sprout from the soil
I feel them moving in motion with hope
that swirls with atoms from first flash of time
and winds tight ball of energy as Earth
that shimmers in sweet juice of tangerines.

First Mother of every life-form on Earth
lives inside our brains as shared memory
which motivates hearts of organic creatures
with passion to sing strange song of the sea
for she composed first program of our genes
to generate our souls from chemicals.

Young girl at the kitchen table of sorrow,
wearing yellow dress of butterfly wings,
stares past pretty face of her lonely mother
who smokes while cooking scrambled eggs and ham,
waves magic-wand spatula of hard truth,
and growls, "Everything in books is a lie."

Lying beside me on the star-gleamed lawn,
she tells me how she feels about desire.
"When I saw the sad painting on the wall
that depicts young mother with suckling child
who waits for her husband home from the sea,
my mother laughed loud with explosive scorn."

"Light waves of words flow down into my heart,"
she sings with haunting voice soft as the wind,
"and fill my mind with dreams of life and death
that every creature who has ever lived
performs in journey of its eager will
to create beauty from anguish of fear."

The girl who will not die lives in my heart,
and haunts my steps four hundred million years,
for she wears crimson gown of burning stars
and teaches me to see beyond the world
through ancient eyes she designed in the sea
so I know where to go beyond tomorrow.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus listens to Ophelia sing heart-haunting melody about her childhood experience growing up in the castle kitchen.

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

Trickster Of Truth
© Surazeus
2025 03 24

The great horned owl introduces the moon
into reticent room of my vast heart,
so I start my day as trickster of truth
by sending flocks of happy butterflies
to paint the world with blood-red light of dawn
that wakes everyone with language of wind.

The roots of trees draw sorrow from my heart,
translating unknown fears to humble songs
that measure curvature of my soul spine
to speak with dialect of bodied minds
which cleanses our hearts with glow of respect
through wakefulness of unmirrored desire.

In my idyllic world of steady faith
I play guitar before the empty church
and sing grand epic of the human race
that praises humble people of the state
who go about their business every day
while face-painted clowns play fake power games.

My fishing village at end of the lake
provides bountiful wealth from heart of Earth
where strong-hearted girls thrive in howling wind
and cast bright snowflakes far across the land
that sprout into periwinkles of hope
where children play chase Sabbath afternoons.

No more the world-exploring traveler
I was when I was young and vigorous,
I now am blowsy-headed gardener,
dazed by strange beauty of her sun-lit face
as we tend twisted trees of ghastly fruit
that nourish the demonic in our hearts.

Since I will never see the black egret
wade in wind-rippled pond behind my house,
I mold green shadows of weird psychic dreams
in masks that humans wear to play as cows
which graze among the dancing daffodils
while I bare my heart to the healing sun.

Packing emotional baggage of faith
with false memories my dream-fears invent,
I walk the signless road of everywhere
past ladders that extend into the clouds
to stamp obverse side of the royal coin
with face of my father, the kind storm god.

If clouds begin to serenade my ghost
with the heart-enchanting afterlife lie,
I will unanchor ship of my fierce heart
to live unsettled life on restless seas
so I can find the treasure trove of tropes
I use to build this virtual world of dreams.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia fish by the lake where demonic dreams swirl just below the surface of our happiness.

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

We Feel Safe At Home
© Surazeus
2025 03 23

Home is the place in time where I am born
with each new day Earth spins around the sun,
so I should never feel sad or forlorn
with you beside me to play games of fun,
for though we wander far from our first hearth
we feel safe at home anywhere on Earth.

With eyes fixed on the past where I come from
I walk backward to the new home I build
while chanting spells in rhythm with the drum
as founding member of the Singers Guild,
recording tales of heroes we adore
whose mothers wait still in their open door.

Old bearded wizard in the forest grove
explains to me the past is never dead,
and not even past as our memory trove,
for history is the dream poem in our head
that we recite each night in feasting hall
to praise the dead whose masks hang on the wall.

On flowing water of our history ghost
we sail our boat of life on stream of time,
then feast in temple of the generous host
who offers wisdom of the ritual chime
while actors play dramatic roles on stage
in tales I record on the timeless page.

The future always seems invisible
while the past presents everything we know,
yet our own tale is still discoverable
as we resist fate to go with the flow
through fierce subversion of the ancient truth
now redesigned by our messiah sleuth.

Each present moment beams beyond our reach
so we record events as they occur
to synthesize truth our descendants teach
reversing roles of God and Lucifer
as tyrant overthrown by rebel clown
whom we elect to wear the thorny crown.

Though frightened crowd attends fear of their rage
at innocent scapegoat they sacrifice,
the victim resurrects as victor sage
who shelters the oppressed in paradise,
for Heaven is commune of equal rights
according to great epic no one writes.

I strum lyre and sing, wherever I roam
in mountains or vales of our spinning Earth
my heart I carry with me is my home
for soul of each human is beyond worth,
thus we must fight against cruel tyranny
to keep our global democracy free.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus strums lyre of Mercury and sings tales of heroes in the feasting hall where Zeus proclaims his son Lucifer will reign as the new Temple Host.

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

Brave New World
© Surazeus
2025 03 23

Wandering the same road as everyone else,
I fluctuate in and out of existence
while I draw the true to erase the false
through dream synergy of psychic persistence
because the roads we walk today remain
long after our souls vanish in the rain.

Turning the radio knob of my brain,
I feel my voice fade in and out of silence
so secret words may clarify in vain
truths I dare not express without the license
issued by Institute of Proper Truth
managed by son of the messiah sleuth.

Dancing around the Trevi Fountain Pool,
I flicker in and out of film observance
and throw three coins, according to the rule,
to wish for happiness from divine science
in sacred water of romantic love
we first experience in the moonlit cove.

Descending spiral road to caves of Hell,
I wander in and out of time appliance
through literary door of thought control
to find my soulmate with hermetic guidance
when I invade cathedral hall of breath
through inspiration of psychotic death.

Outlining patterns in material forms,
I flash in and out of idea persistence
to manage estates of flourishing farms
united in empire of social alliance
as we integrate nations of the world
in one state measured by the cosmic herald.

Uniting rich diversity of souls,
I vibe in and out of legal compliance
with generous respect for all lifestyles
which bond well in cooperative acceptance
that fuels engine of artistic endeavors
in bold creation of cultural treasures.

Analyzing conceptual state of being,
I breathe in and out of scriptural reliance
through inspiration of the angel wing
that sparks vision of prophetic contrivance
in revelation of the new world order
that will erase every national border.

Designing new global world view of life,
I whirl in and out of spiritual defiance
with strict elocution through mental strife
to unite the world with artful transcendence
by building on ruins of America
brave new world empire of Zarathia.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia play in the Trevi Fountain pool, then throw in three coins and wish for justice, liberty, and peace for all.

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

My Grief Is My Own
© Surazeus
2025 03 23

My grief is my own, so I will contain
volatile ardor of my suffering
trapped in receptacle of my strained heart
to preserve aggression of passive angst
safe from causing injury to other people
who struggle to deal with their own affliction.

So many innocent people of Earth,
who seek to escape oppressive conditions
and struggle across waste land of despair
to find haven safe from exploitive thieves,
stumble blind into far worse situations,
trapped in bitter hell they cannot escape.

Accumulation of their wordless grief,
piled onto unbalanced scale of my heart,
weighs all their suffering of relentless pain
more heavy than enormous mindless stones
crushing my mind with fearful agony
that I cannot rescue even one from sorrow.

I want to save, with bold alacrity
of eager zeal, every person on Earth
trapped in exploitive hell by greedy thieves
who suck their vital dreams with vampire lust
so maze of cities becomes cluttered thick
with traumatized zombies searching for love.

Numb from excessive vibes of bitter pain
radiating from mute hearts of fear-trapped souls
who despair at ever living in freedom,
I wander vast maze of weird mythless world
past smiling faces that hide helpless regret
which drives them to stage ineffective rituals.

Clutching to my heart with desperate hope
magic ring of invisibility,
I clamber down in Underworld of fear
to forge divine key of true comprehension
so I can open every prison door
and free frightened souls trapped in legal limbo.

Hundreds of thousands of women and men,
trapped in void between law and lawlessness
as alien immigrants to Wonderland,
cry out for help to Storm God in Glow Cloud
who invests power in wealthy oligarchs
to enslave their bodies for pilfered profit.

The cage-trapped Eagle of America,
who tries to hatch stone of grand principle
that every soul is equal in the law,
attempts to escape storm of revolution,
but dies when its head cracks at golden bars,
so I keep heart-breaking grief to myself.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus sings grief of every person on Earth in heart-enchanting hymn of faith in divine justice of the universe that sometimes takes its time getting implemented.

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

Mirror Mask Of Sisyphus
© Surazeus
2025 03 22

Hieroglyphs inscribed on lightning-cracked stones
depict the Raven God with thirteen eyes
leading refugees of home-blasting war
through narrow roadless mountain vale of hope
to find dream garden of the Promised Land
hidden behind enormous walls of wealth.

To walk backward in future of the mind
where television screens in trunks of trees
present whole history of the human race,
I wear the mirror mask of Sisyphus
to stand before statue of Pegasus
and pose for celebrity photographs.

While marching in the band of howling clowns
in oval stadium full of cheering crowds,
we gather fragments of shattered world views
to build abstract sculptures of twisted bars
which represent the leading characters
performing roles in our disastrous show.

Organic forms of plants and animals
emerge from pungent passion of the soil
to play the subtle personality
sensitive to ever-shifting terrain
in social drama fraught with fake respect
that changes lives with contrived honesty.

Traveling through space of transforming time
to work in garden of flowers and herbs,
I consider how the stranger might feel
on reversing tide of conceptual hope
where I shall sing plain prophecies of doom
while taking stock of truth designed by fate.

Wolves surround the wounded king in the snow
who prays to the rising moon with fierce hope
to extract lithium from old rugged hills
where every honest poet in the world
wanders among cactus of blind skeletons
who dance on graves of thieving oligarchs.

If we remember her electric laugh
that rings cathedral bells of self-control,
we might soon comprehend why colors cry
to robot angels of Elysium
who sell stolen feathers of Pegasus
to curious tourists from land of the brave.

Though I escape blank page of the dream book
I will play better self my heart designs
to steal the thorny crown of sacrifice
from head of the god who eats lightning strikes
so he can become human before he dies
and his atoms formulate flowing streams.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus buys mirror mask of Sisyphus from Goodwill in the small university town to prank his best friend who lost her government job.

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

Unwinds Clockless Time
© Surazeus
2025 03 22

Stars sink into the dusty yard of sad,
uwinding clockless time of random thoughts
that swindle mystery of its puzzling truth
so we forget soft why of arrogance
when children tiptoe past the room of death
where asters burst through windows of disgust.

My body encased in ghost-sheen of frost
breaks free from dragon egg of naked hope
when I wake in darkness of empty rooms
and drive through light of endless waning moons
forever over contours of my brain
that match the landscape of unshadowed vales.

Each river that loses its sacred name
in swirling indifference of the blind sea
describes annunciation of rebirth
where nameless swimmers search for my real home
to howl each time they emerge for fresh air
with visitation of angelic ghouls.

The painting of the woman on the wall
who calls to the fisherman in the boat
that floats between lonely hills and glow clouds
reveals uneasy doubts I try to hide
in bowl of tangerines beside the book
that seems to record tale of the last god.

When I go back to the house for the book
presenting story of the cosmic herald,
I get stuck in time loop of false desire
through inquisition of the holy cult
based on hypothetical creed of faith,
awake on tranquil bay of innocence.

As displaced person of the jungle tribe,
clutching relic of my fear-broken god,
I meditate on nature of the heart
in cold cement prison cell of fear,
stuck in limbo between Heaven and Hell
that reflect state of mind I imitate.

Still priest of Hermes in old temple ruins,
I play the sacred flute of haunting angst
that weaves pure darkness of the lonely heart
in star-stained fragrance of barley and wine
while I guide you on the shadowy path
to lightless Underworld of faceless ghosts.

Yet Caliban emerges with green blood
from treacherous womb of the willow witch
to sing ice-crystal absence of the heart
with heart-amending melody of faith
that gushes from eyes of the jester king
who uwinds clockless time of riddle dreams.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus measures progress of unwinding clockless time to analyze consequences of the time loop where America breaks into warring states.

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

Windy Alder Swamp
© Surazeus
2025 03 22

When I find at last the wild alder swamp
where, many years ago before my birth
Jack Frost, the mad-eyed seer of Vermont,
found winter garden of red-berried snow,
I see rancid paradise he described
that ever floats between Heaven and Earth.

His gaunt luxuriating beast of fate
still lurks in shadows of this alder swamp
where trees begin to bud in spring-flared light
that strips my soul of anguished self-concern
so I stand denuded and vulnerable
to close inspection of late-winter sun.

Intense anxiety of wordless fear
swells thick inside my heart with thwarted hope
for something beautiful beyond this pain
that surges ocean tides of bitter faith
in dark depression of black moody sky,
till I express despair with harpy cry.

Stuck in blackening phase of alchemy
that sears my heart with tangled energy,
I breathe deep foul scent of the alder swamp,
suppressed by frigid frost of winter gloom,
then harmonize expressive melody
in hopeful tones of weird aggressive hymn.

With sudden whir of sober-feathered birds,
that swoop through matrix of time-twisted limbs,
I feel depressive passion bloom awake
with flowers bursting from leaf-matted soil
in words far sadder than the mist-veiled moon
that glows indifferently with pretty light.

Still on the forlorn road of vanished hope
in windy alder swamp of hungry birds,
I sense storm clouds fly tattered over hills
reflected in cracked quartz stone in my hand
that refracts depression with moon-white gleam
so I find words to express how I feel.

Rain-soaked boughs of alders overhead
shake water of lost Heaven on my face,
so I crouch by sky-silver pond of truth,
and almost caress rippling waves with hands
that feel vibration of this ancient Earth
pulse in tune with beating heart in my breast.

So I decide to choose less traveled road
from winter garden in the alder swamp
that bends through undergrowth of memories
to free my heart from forest of regret
so I can measure difference of my doubt
through choices I make that create my fate.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus finds Robert Frost in the winter garden of the alder swamp where they chit-chat about anxiety that drives the human desire to create beautiful art in a seemingly-hostile world.

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

Courage Of The Wolf
© Surazeus
2025 03 21

The chemical properties of the ghost
teach me to impersonate my old self
with careful beauty of library shelves
which call me with voice of the lonely wolf
trapped in the box of love letters I lost
till grenade of my heart explodes with love.

When I write my autobiography
I must balance binary of the brain
between withholding or revealing pain
with shameless passion of the aching heart
that plays the exhibitionist of lust
bleeding from core of my pathetic past.

The woman I love wearing long black dress,
who stands in cemetery of lost faith,
calls out to spiders of the starless lair
to rise from rotten brains of ancient gods
and weave vast web of tangled platitudes,
so they obey the star-eyed spider witch.

The woman I love wearing white silk gown
plucks orange from the tree of clandestine faith,
then offers it to me with open hands
and smile that dazzles me with light of truth,
so we embrace in passionate respect
with hearts entangled in red thread of love.

While sitting by the window at her desk,
the woman I love wearing flower wreath
types lines of words on paper of my heart
while her gold cat stretches with nonchalance
behind typewriter clacking with weird spell
that weaves my body frame from sentences.

Leading me by hand to the apple grove
where skulls of dead gods sing old prophecies,
she teaches me the song of river light
so I can understand the burning house
where angels beat their wings in furious hope
to heal the brokenhearted of the world.

Cadence of wrens in maple trees inspire
my heart to rise from empty grave of faith
and give my last apple with generous hand
to the oldest woman in the whole world
who teaches me to read how water flows
because the innocent girl always knows.

He holds the Book of Dreams in crippled hand
and prays till it becomes the silver raven
who knows the secret name my mother sang
while cuddling me in shelter of her arms
when thunderstorm raged over mountain vales
to fill my heart with courage of the wolf.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia study physics and economics in the university library as twilight dusk veils the world in holy light.

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

When Light Strides Bold
© Surazeus
2025 03 21

When light strides bold on solitary fields
and speaks to me of truth I should know well,
I weave its vibrant colors in my heart
as science overtakes my aching need
and teaches me to feel the sacrament
encroaching on my soul with eerie tones.

With each ancestral life of hope I walk,
awake in present body of my genes,
I find out who I am through suffering
as I abide with struggles of the heart
on unblazed trail past milestones of desire
where angels scold me with dire honesty.

Though tribe of my gene-clan is scattered far
and wide across the landscape of lost hope,
and everyone I love has turned to stones
that lie forgotten on the trail of tears,
I keep on walking toward dark distant hills
to reconcile my heart with knowing faith.

Black wings of ravens in the sprawling oak,
that flutter at approach of breathless fear,
reveal strange beauty of her star-bright eyes
that guide my way with confidence of love
through tangled forest of misconstrued words
where god of sorrow lurks by pool of lies.

She howls not at injustice of the world
for she steals away from its hostile games
to dance in meadow of the singing horse
who gives her wings of faithful mystery
so she can touch weird beauty of the sky
that mirrors secret wisdom of her heart.

While wandering on the hill of hopelessness,
we meet the moon-eyed prophet of despair
whose face is chiseled gaunt by wind-blown rain,
and ask if he can see future events,
but he points to the endless swirling sea
and chants grim spell that may set all hearts free.

The shriveled souls of fallen angels writhe
with violent agony surpassing faith,
dismissing possibilities through hope
that we may resurrect from rotten mud,
so we wrap all painful experiences
in secret book of miraculous life.

Across our tranquil land of signless roads
we follow shadow of the singing horse
to fertile Garden of Hesperides
where the wizard forges everyone keys
so we can share sweet joy of this brief life
when light strides bold on solitary fields.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia meet Emily Dickinson who strides as light on solitary fields to understand how her ancestors know.

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

Attention Of The Court
© Surazeus
2025 03 21

The trees of sorrow on the laughing plain
call my secret name in arrogant rain,
so I seek beauty on the wind-lashed shore
far outside comfort of the broken door
to sing with demons of Plutonian night
who shriek in horror at comfort of light.

Yet, when I wake in normal state of mind,
that bizarre illusion my brain designed
dissipates at glow of dawn on the wall,
so I wander groggily down the hall
to stare out the window and drink orange juice
while pretending I am not son of Zeus.

As agent of his secret justice squad,
recruited out of college by Storm God,
I must devise coherent action plan
with clever wisdom of the mountain man
to save our great nation from tyranny
and restore functioning democracy.

So I fry eggs and hash browns on the stove
while I count weapons in the treasure trove,
then drive the crowded highway into work,
where old spies and treasonous assets lurk,
to write detailed situation report
about the need for clandestine support.

Organizing gangs of soldiers with guns
who discuss war plans with misleading puns,
I gather army of fierce patriots
who arrive in pairs and take up their spots
to remove the traitor from seat of power
who hides terrified in his golden tower.

Just as we are ready to save the state
Minerva intervenes with spear of fate,
declaring that we are a nation of laws
dedicated to maintain noble cause
of justice through attention of the court
to enforce the right and punish the tort.

Though the traitor threatens to seize rich land,
and the thief waves the chainsaw in his hand,
we will not employ acts of violence
that would break all dutiful precedence
to arrest their rampage of grasping greed
through application of our honest creed.

Biding our time in shadows of the truth,
we develop plan with messiah sleuth
to arrange by the book through legal means
Operation Caesar with judgment liens
executed well by our cosmic herald
who leads revolution to save the world.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus hosts meeting of intelligence officers to plan steps for saving our democratic republic from oligarchic tyranny.

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

Tides Of Our Ocean Mind
© Surazeus
2025 03 20

I find the natural history of my soul
as primal star-glitter of the First Flash
in crystal geodes of the agate stone
that reflects memories of ancestral brains
woven in tangled genes of my sponge brain
that pulses with tides of our ocean mind.

Crouched by twisted pine on snow-frosted shore,
I become wild gush of the mountain stream
that sings ten thousand years about true love
based on the clumsy way I interact
with people who perceive me every day,
so I walk ten thousand miles to the sky.

Because pines know the reason I was born
they dream the way I walk beyond my death
since ferns are growing from my bloody chest
in jeering sunlight of uncoupled time,
so I eat raspberries from thorny vines
to prove Pain cannot find my naked soul.

With twisted finger of perpetual hope
I write long treatise in forest-floor dirt
discussing existential truth of roots
in complex theory on meaning of time
that unwinds mute surprise of ringing bells
at pungent scent of mushrooms in wet soil.

From gaunt-faced hunter in dark primal woods
to noble well-fed king in castle court,
I paint enormous canvas of my trip
in winding maze of myths beyond my grave
to chat with alligators in the swamp
who work as lawyers in my new regime.

Hysteric laughter of the Apple Witch
startles me awake from ominous dream
to calculate thematic drone of faith
when planes crash burning in the field of wheat
to prove we understand how Death unbinds
spirits from brains of unbroken desire.

In solidarity with distraught hawks,
wounded soldiers draped in the red-cross flag
walk stuck in loop of the lunar eclipse
that conceals the road home to paradise
though they study patterns of weird behavior
based on channels of television shows.

Nervous with melancholy of lost faith
on leather couch before three cameras,
I answer questions on meaning of life
with language of rocks polished by the sea
on the late-night television talk show
which beams atoms of my soul to your heart.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus calculates tides of our ocean mind with formulas of faith encoded in fairy tales that mothers tell children to scare them straight.

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

Room Of Somethingness
© Surazeus
2025 03 20

In dreamless nothing of the star-black mind
I search for meaning to invent with words
which I breathe from gush of the water stream
that shouts loud at my face with mocking faith
as I lean close to catch the darting fish
so I can roast it on the crackling flame.

Still dreamless in the realm of mystery,
I gather fearful flowers from lush fields
to untangle regret from roots of herbs
that cannot clear confusion of the fog
with flash of sunlight through its veil of hope
that pierces my heart with anguish of faith.

Twisting spines of books from aggressive trees,
while I somersault bitter sea of joy,
I build expanding house with countless rooms
with brooding horror of the stinging rain
that mocks my attempt to shelter my heart
from haunted normalcy of restless wind.

Stuck in perpetual wakefulness of faith,
delicate eyes still dissolving to rain,
I move through unconfirmed shadows of time
to hide in cavern of fake innocence
in nowhere rampant with sorrow denied
by urgent quietude of still-locked doors.

To each adjacent room of somethingness,
half-stuck inside books of weird fairy tales
disgusting as slime of the seaside harbor,
I progress backward through stark formulas
designed to calculate abundant fear
collapsing in the future we abhor.

Tomorrow never comes from fog of war
framed by basement window of the stained heart
that runs with feral attitude of pride
to catch moonbeams encased in angel wings
offensive to the man who claims as his
everything that exists on this mud world.

I hear no clocks chime hour of broken hearts
at sudden intervals of falling pears
despite the radio signal no one hears
crackling in tangled wires of my glass brain
with zealous passion for social ideals
consistent with how castle walls reverse.

For every door I knock on with respect
ten doors are locked against kind prejudice
that disabuses how horizons shape
fraught ontology of cathedral hymns
which children assemble from puzzle shards
so I can claim I know who I should be.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus tries to fix the clocks of broken hearts with wires woven from shadows stuck in the room of somethingness.

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

Fields Of Silent Hope
© Surazeus
2025 03 20

Once I rise from gold casket of the sun,
dazed by strange wisdom of the spinning Earth,
I walk across the fractured-mirror sky
to scatter teardrops on the conquering dead
who took nothing of the world in their hands
when they crumbled to dust with those they killed.

The woman who swallows poisonous spiders
shows me how to extract honey from trees
so we can eat sweet sorrow of the world
before great sprawling cities of steel towers
disintegrate into computer code
that mistranslates tales of our futile lives.

Black cows graze in the valley of despair
without aggressive interest in results
of horses races men bet on to get rich
while mourning for fall of their world empire
at second coming of the hungry clown
who steals gifts from Christmas trees at midnight.

I see no star man floating in the sky,
but I do see farmers, feet on the ground,
working in boundless fields of silent hope,
while the girl who keeps the sea in her heart
looks for solutions among purple thistles
while whistling The House of the Rising Sun.

No one regrets true love more than she does,
so she studies how moose and arctic fox
live in the tundra of perpetual faith
by measuring distance to half-frozen pool
that resembles eye of the dinosaur
who walked these lands millions of years ago.

The child who speaks ancient language of sheep
tells his mother about the laughing crow
that hops on the freezing cast-iron stove
before dawn sun can break another heart
with silent absence of the nameless face
which means the opposite of what she thinks.

The gray-haired mother who still prays in church
tells the tombstone where her son lies in dirt
that she trusts in God to protect his life,
and glares at the old man in the oak tree
who tells her God has abandoned mankind,
then wades into the lake to drown herself.

The riderless horse with moon-silver eyes
glides regally in streets of Washington
to bring faceless ghost of the fallen king
back from lush meadows of Elysium
so he can save the republic at last
from grasping hands of Ozymandias.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus films farmers working in silent fields of hope to raise crops that feed the empire of people at computers in sprawling cities of steel towers.

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

Free In The Bitter Rain
© Surazeus
2025 03 19

I prowl inside dark mirror of lost time
to shoot star words at bullseye of my eye
while dancing the waltz with my loving gun
who chooses how much angry I should be
till I fall backward in the flowing stream
and float while I sing in the bitter rain.

When I call to my disquieting Muse
to help me analyze this shocking time
when traitors and thieves control government,
she throws me dragon bone of faith to chew,
so I carve holes to hollow out its core
and play haunting flute in the bitter rain.

I dip my hands in fountain of desire
that nourishes eight billion human souls
with stirring stories of women and men
who work together to create free world
where children of their bodies can live free
by fighting tyrants in the bitter rain.

I push against taut walls of the blank book
to expand conscious awareness of truth
so I can base fantasy of my mind
on what is real in swirling of this world,
perceivable as concepts formed by words,
so I can fly free in the bitter rain.

I tell my heart that we will always lose
every person we love with selfless faith,
and everything we create with our hands,
so my heart cries out to the glowing cloud
with the same brave prayer my ancestors prayed
while they kneeled on fire in the bitter rain.

Grand ruins of my castle in tall weeds
waits mute for me to return from the sea
and restore crumbling halls to former glory
so we can gather in candle-lit court
and sing enchanting hymns to nothingness
while cannons blast us in the bitter rain.

Still roaming labyrinth of genetic dreams
where idols of all my ancestors stand,
I gather pages of lost memories
to write new epic of the human tale
with moist prophet eyes of the weeping god
whose healing tears flash in the bitter rain.

At flash of lightning that cracks door of faith
storm god Odin, wielding Spear of Gungnir,
emerges from the crumbling hall of stone
to remove mask of Jesus from his face,
then lifts holy grail of wine and hails Truth,
our Goddess who sings in the bitter rain.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus plays lyre of Mercury in Valhalla and sings epithalamium to celebrate marriage of Odin with granddaughter of Jesus.

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

Young Hearts Swell
© Surazeus
2025 03 19

After he finishes his evening meal
of fried chicken, chocolate cake, and grape juice,
Zeus lounges on back porch in evening glow
when the setting sun makes everything gold,
and tells trees, "Thieves destroy the government
so fearful rich men can control our minds."

When rich men attempt to enslave the poor
by destroying every social program
that supports their efforts to work and thrive,
the Freudian Fire of revolution burns
hot within beating hearts of the oppressed,
so they will unite to retake control.

Squirrels chase each other up and down oaks,
small flock of deer travel the neighborhood
to eat spring-burgeoning grass of new hope,
and robins attack reflections in glass,
while Everyman lounging on his back porch
considers how to save the land he loves.

When golden daffodils of timeless faith
bloom bright in yards of late-winter gray grass,
our hearts rouse from drowsiness of despair
at startling collapse of our nation-state,
so he gazes up at clouds that gleam gold
in the Maxfield Parrish sky of our hearts.

Beneath wild clouds of arrogant respect,
bold Cadmus strides across the horn-plowed field,
and sows sharp teeth of dragons in moist soil
to nurture generation of brave warriors
whose young hearts swell with patriotic pride
to fight well for Justice and Liberty.

Across the jagged mountains of disdain
clever Princess Parizade with gold eyes
bears in her generous hands with ardent faith
the Singing Tree that grows from hearts of those
who search for love too far away from home,
and gives it to the humble carpenter.

When dawn light breaks the darkness of despair
and Eos casts gold rays on jagged peaks,
we rise from sleep in Temple of of Lost Tales
to swim in swirling Lake of Synergy,
then gather on the shore to fish for truth
that sparkle silver as they dart in play.

Beyond the moral tales of propaganda
that trap our hearts with religious agenda,
we search for beauty in the spinning world
conjured by vision of the cosmic herald
who builds from ruins of cruel tyranny
new system of global democracy.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus lounges on his back porch and ponders how to build new world order of Zarathia from the ruins of America.

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

Sand On The Beach
© Surazeus
2025 03 19

The only comfort I feel in my bones
while I lie prone on sunlit pebbled beach
is knowing Death will crush me into sand
with waves of time that flow across my soul,
so I will arise and leave Innisfree
with treasure I find in its glimmering core.

My children scatter far across the world,
blown by the winds of fate to distant lands,
so I sit in lotus status of peace
to float above the television tube
and dream I sail the sea in fragile boat
to find the sacred Isle of Avalon.

Awake on iridescent sea of faith,
with luminous phantom of wise insight
designed by all my ancestors to guide me
safe beyond the waste land of despair,
I feel sad I must abandon strange land
where we had lived for forty thousand years.

My fears swell huge with each wild gust of wind
that blows my boat across the shining sea
till I snap awake in my present life
two thousand years later in distant land
where I record their journey toward the sky
to find where the sun disappears each night.

Browsing books of poetry in the store,
near grand ivy league university
which my ancestor signed the charter for,
I search for stories of adversity
recording heroic deeds of lost fools
who teach oracle-writing in brick schools.

My ancestors dream awake in my head
so I record names and deeds of the dead,
though too many vanish in silent wind
before I can photograph their rich souls
so now they wander in the Netherworld
as faceless ghosts who call the cosmic herald.

Returning to the sacred river vale
where we first met ten thousand years ago,
we talk about our plot to rule the world
by hurling every monarch into Hell
based on oracle of runes in the well
that show us how to save democracy.

My mother weaves my body from sunlight,
yet leaves me memes that teach me to survive
encoded in myths of stories she tells,
then I search landscape of this world
for soul mate to generate life from love
before I dissolve to sand on the beach.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia relax on the sand in Miami Beach and drink root beer as their children play laughing in the sparkling waves.

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