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Surazeus Simon Seamount
1,946 followers -
Epic Poet and Cartographer
Epic Poet and Cartographer

1,946 followers
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No Clocks Are Ticking Time
© Surazeus
2017 05 25

Somewhere the ancient mountains of the sky
explain truth to me without human words
so when I look in water I know why
we are the children of wild singing birds.

My trudging feet will blaze new trail of tears
my followers pave into highway of truth
so now I wear god mask to hide my fears
on spurious promise of eternal youth.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
when my love letters glide on evening breeze.

Though Kathy walks dark city streets alone
she cannot find Apollo anywhere
until she sees the boy who plays guitar
shining gold in the street lamp of her heart.

She takes his hand and leads him to the stream
where every star she shows him has a name,
but he fears she is no more than a dream
who offers him the key to power and fame.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
and tower is locked though I have many keys.

When Paul is walking streets of cobblestone
he sees in the halo of a street lamp
the face of the fairy he left behind
so he carves her statue from shining words.

When Albert walks from wasteland labyrinth
he kneels before statue of Liberty
who puts old stringless guitar in his hand
so he walks everywhere to sing her tale.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
while honey drips from eyes of singing bees.

King Midas struts in White House oval room
to crown gold statue of his daughter queen
while Prophet Merlin cries out spells of doom
though Robin Hood drives the empire machine.

When our titanic ship of state strikes greed
and sinks into the ocean of despair
the haughty captain escapes on a broomstick
but Icarus cripples his wings of pride.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
since we play chase to kiss in garden maze.

The witch in blue jeans climbing moss-green stones
guides blind Apollo to her tower of books
where he composes magic spells with runes
that reveal how quarks are taut coils of light.

I feel the nuclear pulse of blazing stars
beaming bright in vibrant cells of my brain
and coils of cosmic energy spring high
to motorize my quest around the globe.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
yet we must evolve through next divine phase.

When I was standing on the college lawn
I looked for heaven but found stars instead,
so I stripped off the mask of my childhood
and dreamed secret name I could not yet sing.

My ancestors walked west to Oregon
so I walk east to mountain of Ishtar
to find the mask she gave me at my birth
and now I feel the spirit of the Earth.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
where we are chanting timeless hymn of praise.

Sun Spider goddess weaves our world from rays
of beaming light that spring in coiling genes
so eye of dream evolves our singing brain
while we tend trees of fruit on river plain.

Though kings may rise and fall in waves of power,
each haughty man pretending to play god,
the mother of our souls in lonely tower
writes all our names and deeds in Book of Life.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
though we explore the world on surging seas.

I feel the vibrant energy of life,
in every throbbing atom of my soul,
remember time since it was forged in flame
that writhes in harmony from sacred name.

I hold your hand and look into your eyes
to understand the secret of your soul
and still we dance on mountain of clear skies
to weave our genes in new immortal whole.

No clocks are ticking time on forest trees
yet we dance tangled in our loving gaze.

#Poem #Poetry #Song #Folk #PaulSimon #Physics #Quark #Evolution #Romance #Love #Earth

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Wage Slave Blues
© Surazeus
2017 05 23

I walk down the hard city street,
looking for a job.
I hand out my short resume,
hoping to get a job
that will pay enough to live.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

The man driving a pickup truck
shouts at me, "Get a job!"
But his republicans vote no
on the pay-raise bill
so they pay enough to live.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

I get hired at the factory,
building desks from oak.
I get a pay check every week,
enough to pay rent
but not enough to buy food.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

I work forty years building desks,
where other people write.
From my hard work they buy a yacht,
while I cannot buy a car
on cash they pay to survive.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

I ask for a raise for health care,
but the boss laughs, "No!"
I worked for years but he got rich,
forcing me to slave
with just enough cash to live.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

I slouch on my couch after work
and watch Walking Dead.
I am a zombie working hard
for the afterlife
through locked gates of paradise.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.

When I die from sad weariness
bury me in a desk.
Bury me under an apple tree
so I become apples
I never earned enough to buy.
I get unemployment checks and food stamps,
but I would rather work and pay my own bills
but I am a wage slave in paradise.  

#Poem #Poetry #Song #Blues #Lyrics #DeltaBlues #AmericanEpic #WageSlave #Employment #Welfare

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Mad Prophet Of Oregon
© Surazeus
2017 05 22

I was walking down the street in Seattle
one cold afternoon twenty-six years ago
during the grunge era in Ninety-One
when the old homeless Russian engineer,
named Valentine, who told me he escaped
the Iron Curtain of oppressive fear
by walking far across frozen Siberia,
then riding a fishing boat to Seattle,
shouted, "Mad prophet of Oregon, come
and read to me your latest poetry."

Sitting in my long green tweed overcoat
beside the old thin-faced forest wizard
with long golden hair and thin tangled beard,
wearing a green feathered Robin Hood cap,
who stared into my soul with sky-blue eyes,
I opened my thick black sketchbook of poems
and read several satirical jeremiads.

Swigging vodka from the torn paper bag,
and eyes shining with light of wild rain,
the Russian wizard clapped my back and shouted,
"Now you are writing poetry of truth
that burns pure in deep black hole of your heart.
You remember what I told you last time,
that greatest poets who sing soul of death
defy tyrants and commit suicide
because force of life burn inside their brains
like flame of hell that laughing devil sparks.
Now you too sing like mad prophet of death."

Grinning amused at his insistent praise,
I shrug and explain, "I think I will try
to publish them in Poetry Magazine
or The New Yorker," but he shakes his head
and raises both hands to the cloudy sky.

Leaning close so his blue eyes fill the sky,
the Russian wizard exclaims with clear voice.
"Those magazines will never publish you
because you are mad prophet, like your poets
of English, William Blake and Allen Ginsberg
and Walt Whitman, all heads possessed by devil.
You sing wild mountain wind and ocean waves
so your poems will burn their weak magazines.
Your poems you must shout at death on street corner
and not in dim library or bookstore.
You stand in sunlight of death and sing poems.
Now you go and shout poems to wake whole world."

Pushing to my feet in chill Autumn wind,
I give Siberian wizard twenty dollars,
then tip fedora, and walk through the crowd
of students on University Ave
to find my mask I must carve out of light.

Leaving Emerald City of misty towers,
I walk into the wilderness of dreams
east on long signless highways of America
over mountains and deserts to the sea,
singing poems on the streets of every city
till I stand on the sea shore in Miami
and watch the sun rise from the Sea of Death.

Our First Mother, who rose from Sea of Life
at dawn of time and wove our brains from atoms,
giving birth to every creature on Earth
who sees its own reflection in her Eye,
appears before me on the beach at midnight
and kisses my Third Eye with drop of rain
that beams memories of all my ancestors
before my eyes in visions of survival,
and reveals secret of eternal life.

I fly around the globe on silver wings
to Island of Flowers in sparkling sea,
where Istra, elegant Goddess of Love,
holds my hand and leads me up mountain side
to stand where Siwa created her soul,
so we kneel together in temple hall
to sing the ancient song of trusting faith.

From flashing beam of light two Goddesses
of Wisdom, Saraswati and Athena,
descend and place two jewels in our hands
that glitter with the eyes of our ancestors,
so we fly back around the spinning globe
where two daughters spring from our spiral eyes.

While sitting by the lake where we now live,
in the lush sultry hills of southern Georgia,
and feeling moonlight flicker on its waves,
we watch our daughters laugh and play in flowers,
delighting they will live after we die.

Though I know that the wizard Valentine
died many years ago in silver mist,
I hear his spirit laughing in the woods,
shouting, "Mad prophet of Oregon, come
and read to me your latest poetry,"
so I smile and watch our two daughters play
for they are the poems that grow from my heart.

#Poet #Poem #Poetry #Prophet #Blake #Whitman #Ginsberg #Jeremiad #Satire #America #Siberia

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Hermead: Anaxagoras
$3.99

Mind Of Anaxagoras - Anaxagoras learns about Monism from Hermotimos. After his teacher is murdered, Anaxagoras travels to Miletos to study Monism, then to Babylon to study astronomy. Finding his farm a waste land on his return, he travels to Athens where he founds a school and teaches philosophy to Perikles. Accused of blasphemy, he escapes to found a new school of philosophy in Lampsakos. Mind Of Anaxagoras has 2,832 lines of blank verse.

Cover Image: Zenon, The History of Philosophy, Thomas Stanley, 1656.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/surazeus-astarius/hermead-anaxagoras/paperback/product-23192200.html

#Epic #Poem #Poetry #HistoricalFiction #AmericanEpic #Science #Philosophy #GreatAmericanNovel #Physics #Geometry #Anaxagoras #Novel #NPM #NPM17 #NPM2017 #NationalPoetryMonth #NaPoWriMo

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Our Universal Spirit Of Light
© Surazeus
2017 05 18

Sitting outside my office at lunch time,
while on the phone talking financial business,
I glanced at the pearl sky and saw huge clouds
shaped exactly like a white unicorn,
elegant face on a tree-bough curved neck
with knotted mane flowing in feathered wisps,
long pointed horn from a passing jet plane,
and one great eye of gold blazing light
when the sun beamed through at just the right spot,
that gazes still in the depths of my heart
which flushed my soul with pure infinite love.

While staring astonished with beating heart
at apparition of the divine spirit,
which prophets for millennia claimed exists,
and thinking how to disconnect the call
to photograph this vision of the Light,
which my brain invented from random swirls
of moisture gleaming in the boundless sky,
the clouds dispersed, so the weird vision vanished
while I listened to talk of interest rates.

I felt my soul spread out in beaming rays
to vibrate with all atoms of the world,
as if some universal spirit sees
my face and knows all the dreams of my mind,
and then I felt every person alive
pulsing with life on our vast spinning globe.

Yet though I know the universe of stars
has no consciousness in coherent mind,
clouds are nothing more than swirls of rain drops,
and the sun nothing more than beams of light,
yet I felt energy of every atom
that forms the spinning Earth on which we live
spiraling in threads of transcendent spirit
straight through dirt and air and water and light
connecting my small isolated soul
to the undulating soul of our world
and all the souls with conscious dreaming minds
who live at this hour of chemical change
on all the planets of our universe.

People of Earth, I give my solemn word
that I saw this unicorn spirit gleam
for less that one minute in the vast sky,
so that from my little spot on this globe,
while in just the right place at the right time
in my polar perspective, I perceived,
at one moment in the whole span of time
through over four and a half billion years
our planet has spun around the bright sun,
this vivid vision of the unicorn
appear before my eyes in the vast sky
out of all the shapes that clouds have performed,
which I failed to capture with my eye phone.

This bright vision of the unicorn spirit
will gleam perfect in cells of my brain
until death snuffs the clear flame of my soul,
but no one else who ever lives on Earth
will ever see this vision I perceived,
except for those who read this poem I wrote,
though every brain who envisions my dream
will design their own version of the spirit,
and so billions of unicorns will dance
in swirling clouds that flash across the sky,
for we are but dreams in the Eye of Earth.

All conscious brains that shimmer with dreams
together weave one web of singing souls
in our universal spirit of light.

#Poem #Poetry #UniversalSpirit #OneSoul #Pareidolia #God #Psychology #Art #Vision #NewAge

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I Feel Our World Spinning
© Surazeus
2017 05 17

I feel our world spinning wild into night
when all the working people of the land
who drive circles, searching for rainbow gold,
gather before the palace of the king
and call for Zeus to hurl his thunderbolt
that frees us from the clown who steals our souls.

I feel our world spinning far beyond right
when the three stooges play kings from the east
to visit the shack of the new-born king
and steal all the money his mother saved
to build their new wall around church and state
where the clown crowns himself king of the world.

I feel our world spinning faster in spite
when Tweedle Dum King of America
fights with Tweedle Dee King of Korea
over whose dad gave him the bigger crown
until Rapunzel in the Tower of Greed
steals both eyes from the clown with serpent tongue.

I feel our world spinning higher in flight
when Melusine, Queen of the Evening Land,
gives us all apples from the Tree of Life
while chanting hymns in the cave of Sainte-Baume
where Mary Magdalene the Mermaid rules
after she outwitted the clown at chess.

I feel our world spinning with tangled kite
when Angels who were born from mountain snow
unite with Devils born from desert sand
to help lost kings Tarzan and Robin Hood
drive money changers from Temple of Godin,
then elect Rapunzel our next President.

I feel our world spinning deep into light
when Orpheus appears on Woodstock stage
to sing, we are the bridge between the ape
and the Superman who lives in our hearts,
since I found the Holy Grail is the Girl
who reincarnates the soul of God as Clown.

#Poem #Poetry #Song #Rock #Blues #Country #Democracy #Monarchy #Anarchy #Communism

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Color Of Broken Eyes
© Surazeus
2011 06 07

Ice glitters in a glass of water forlorn
if silver were true color of broken eyes
or nothing swallows hot milk of death
so she chokes and gasps for breath.

Bow rips across her violin heart soft
as feathers plucked from crippled swan
whose last song is smothered by hand
of iron doctor twisting wires ripped sharp.

Eighty-six girls in torn white gowns
stand staring at you on a granite cliff
pulling scissors out of their belly mouths
then leap and dive into red invisible sea.

Gentle doctor in a clean white smock
steers her mother toward polished door
murmuring I want to gain her sweet trust
by giving her a popsicle or a plush bear.

Lighting cracks open egg of her eye
and screams silent cutting wind why
if her own face melts on car window
to bleed tears oozing from torn mouth.

Hiding behind locked bedroom door
as Gothic vampire king wails on radio
she slashes pale thighs to cut out demon
that squirms gnawing hot stabbed heart.

Galloping in Black Forest on white horse
she raises sharp sword and howls hope
then chops writhing pink worm hard
hacking porcelain mask in splintered shards.

Tangled in blanket escaping cold hands
she snaps awake clutching her violin
to stare at gold moon bleeding tears
and snakes writhe hissing from her head.

Wearing pink gown in ribbons and lace
little girl stands on stage at her church
and rips heads off demons as she plays
tearing tangled wires of fear from her heart.

Face me and look in my cracked eyes
she screams behind sweet knife smile
then bows blind as everyone applauds
moved by strange passion of her song.

Bubbles of red lava explode hot milk
searing sudden thrust of sharp knife
though she kneels in her living room
watching nature channel about volcanoes.

She throws glass of milk at clean window
of laughing rage behind picture shards
that reflect one eye swallowing her mind
or piece puzzle of despair to forget now.

Kneeling nude at midnight on lake shore
she paints violin red with dream blood
and strings wires from her mute heart
since books eat theories of mad love.

I she opens gray mouth to explain fear
if face of mother gleams brittle white
confusion tainting her voice from love
but falls without wings and groans hurt.

My favorite letter ache that is for horse
shines red as blood from broken eyes
that float with Orpheus on silent stream
and watch you when you wake in dream.

You know my name I carved in stone
hammer striking chisel in mountain glade
but who rose from death though torn apart
by teeth of kind doctor in a wolf cloak.

Gliding with friends in elegant lounge
and sipping gold drink by large window
lit by moon she smiles at a cute guy
asking his name with a flirtatious grin.

What do you do for a living William
and he purrs I work as a pediatrician
but her fingers crush chalice of red wine
and she throws up on his clean white suit.

Wrapped in pink wool bathrobe warm
she looks at her hands shaped like a violin
and blushes I apologize for my behavior
but dragon of rage ripped my pretty mask.

Look in my eyes beyond mirror moon
and you will see color of broken eyes
and smiles as he fusses over her health
giving her warm honey ginger tea to drink.

His finger caresses her trembling cheek
but eyes of glass crack into egg of light
as she whispers he is locked in prison now
then disappears behind mist of lost hope.

He paints her wearing a pink lace gown
playing violin safe on marble cupola bed
as three swans float on star-sparkling lake
but spirit of her soul pounds at her skull.

I live in top room of a cold stone tower
singing with birds and holding a flower
but hair your hands could climb up to me
was ripped from my soul when I was three.

Huddled in a yellow coat on river walk
she stands away from him in gray drizzle
and watches her face melt down windows
while staring beyond illusion at star heart.

I could not escape his grasping hands
but letter double you glows soft green
so maybe your kiss will revive my heart
but this sleeping beauty rots under glass.

William places porcelain vase with rose
on river balustrade and whispers mute
I love you no matter what happened Em
as I explore labyrinth of your purple heart.

Ice cubes melt filling her glass heart high
with water rippling down river of light
while true color of broken eyes reveals
death smiling from abyss of nothing real.

Emma holds his face with both hands
as William wakes just before blue dawn
and they sit together silent on wet lawn
watching sun rise reborn on shared breath.

#Poem #Poetry #Survivor #Feminism #Assault #UnconditionalLove #PerformanceArt #Theatre #ProChoice

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Stories Of Our Hearts
© Surazeus
2017 05 16

When sun sets gold on distant hills
and men trudge home from working hard
we gather on the old wood porch
to eat apple cider and stew
then sing the stories of our hearts.

While Adam strums his old guitar
and Johnny on the bucket drums
young Sara breathes the mountain air
that beams divine soul down from stars
and sings the stories of our hearts.

When Kathy plucks the zither strings
in tune with fireflies in twilight
sweet Sara tells heart-aching tale
about the boy who ran away
to sing the stories of our hearts.

In twilight glow on mountain slope
where crickets vibrate by the pond
the young girl weeps by willow tree
and hopes he will return one day
who sings the stories of our hearts.

From Appalachian hills he walks
to play guitar on Memphis streets
where sun on Mississippi gleams
and dreams at night about her eyes
then sings the stories of our hearts.

When sun glows red on distant hills
and men drive home from factories
we gather on the spacious porch
where Sara stands in twilight gleam
and sings the stories of our hearts.

#Poem #Song #Poetry #Folk #Blues #Country #AmericanEpic #SaraCarter #Singer #Quest

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Wings Of Rainbow Flame
Surazeus
2009 04 27

When Blind Lemon Jefferson, clutching guitar,
got lost in a freezing Chicago snow storm,
and burned his tongue on sugarless coffee,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him and took his groping hands,
and sang, I will keep watch over your grave.

When Lead Belly got buck shot in his belly
and locked in prison for swinging a knife
to protect his girl from a rapist banker,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him rotting in dank iron-bar cell,
and sang, take this hammer to your captain.

When T-Bone Walker walked graveyard bones
in Monday storm, looking for lost sweetheart,
and sang blues instead of praying in church,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a winning queen high flush,
and sang, I transformed a tiger into your wife.

When Robert Johnson met tall black devil
at tombstone of Tashunca in midnight moon,
who tuned guitar strings with magic power,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him as Legba knocking on his door,
and sang, I burned your body down with soul.

When Muddy Waters twanged electric strings
for lightning to crackle over Chicago skies,
and surfed Mount Sinai on a rolling stone,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with pure dry black cat bones,
and sang, I got your mojo flashing neon eyes.

When Mississippi John Hurt laid rail lines,
swinging high hammer of John Henry hard,
and plowed wet Earth to plant golden wheat,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with dove of Noah in open hands,
and sang, go home to Avalon on that long train.

When Howling Wolf Chester drove up north
on Blues Highway Sixty One to see his ma
and she threw down his devil music money,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with gasoline instead of water,
and sang, church bells toll as a hearse rolls slow.

When Big Bill Broonzy came back from Europe
fighting for freedom, he cleaned with his hands,
getting paid half a dollar for same hard work,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a thousand dollar guitar,
and sang, get back to singing old river blues.

When Woody Guthrie roamed ribbon highway
over wheat fields from rolling dust clouds
across diamond deserts to lush grape hills
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with a torch of freedom light,
and sang, this land was made for you and me.

When Bob Zimmerman, jingle-jangle Jokerman,
heard chimes of freedom on Desolation Row,
and translated visions blowing in a new wind,
a golden angel on wings of rainbow flame
came to him with key to locked gate of heaven,
and sang, how does it feel to be a rolling stone.

#Poem #Poetry #Blues #Musician #Folk #RAndB #RockAndBlues #Music #BobDylan #GrungeFolk
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