Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker
(in collaboration with Sha’Tara EarthStar)
Copyright (©) 2017 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Chilliwack, B.C. Canada
Cover picture by: Janusz Gawron
Picture found on FreeImages.com
Space Picture: ESA/Hubble
I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.
These books contain a form of free verse poetry, opinions based on observation, and some humour and imagination, engaging the heart as well as the mind. A critical look at many current issues intriguing and plaguing man. Spirituality, interaction with nature and environment, social changes, dwindling resources. Well worn issues now, indeed. But the poetry and other works in these books gives this subject a different perspective. I daresay that here we can find a “higher” vantage point from which to look at ourselves within the cosmos.
Who knows but some of the ideas in the books may get you inspired to do that thing you always wanted to do, even if this comes in a very small way, to make your corner of this world a better place to be in. Who knows but you may realize your little corner is a really nice place to be in after all.
It’s all about life, if at times expressing life “outside the box” as the saying goes.
Upon green hills rolling down
to an ever-changing sea,
in white and gold, flowers bloomed,
nodding in whispering breezes
caressing the island;
dancing in passing storms
sending the sheep to shelter…
til the rain came no more.
As a flower, she withered away
under the fiery summer sun.
Empty of her laughter
the world lies in leaden slumber,
parched, brown and silent
beneath my tired feet.
the universal pool of tears
to ever again paint the hills
in that tapestry of white and gold
above the green of hill and sea.
“A masterpiece in time’s silent museum,
she remains, forever etched in memory.”
Seems to me Earth society is ruled by “Powers” -
not the usual plethora of “forces”
operated by human beings -
something deeply nefarious, evil to the core;
something that sucks the marrow of life from individuals
thus keeping itself alive to wreak more havoc.
What are these “Powers” then?
Not Unknowns but quite familiar:
Let’s take the very First to show up in history:
Creators or life-givers: “God”. “Goddess.”
Deity or deities; spirit beings, hence, organized religion.
Ritualistic performance of meaninglessness
leading to social paranoia and collective madness.
The Second to appear, (consequence of the first)
is the Law Maker; the Ruler; the Despot:
Government and its bureaucratic assemblage.
As with the First, this one also claims
absolute right to life and death over others.
It demands huge sacrifices for itself
which it calls “taxes” and which no one
(but its favourites – the rich) may refuse.
It also determines the time, place and nature of wars.
The Third obviously is Mammon. Money. Filthy Lucre.
Credit would be His Most Venerable Name today.
He’s Everybody’s Friend and in His name
do people desecrate their planet of living things.
In His name do people become mindless consumers
in vain attempts to sate Him by sating themselves.
This is the Evil Trinity that rules Earth;
that controls the collective mind
through the imposition of belief systems
based on paranoia, fear and no substance.
Don’t believe it: look around.
Don’t be too insecure,
and thus easily pushed around;
but do not be too proud
to look at new things and ideas.
Be stubborn enough
to stand firm,
but humble enough
to keep an open mind.
keeping an open mind
does not necessarily mean
your brains will fall out.
But if they do
with so little prompting
of what use were they?
Perhaps better as cat food.
A fire has raged through the village;
left nothing in its wake:
I find myself on the road, dazed,
naked and ashamed, thinking:
the Church will certainly condemn me
for I am naked!
Desperately I search for something
to cover my nakedness, but nothing.
Of the ancient clothes I had so proudly worn
none had survived the flames.
Then I looked around and saw
the Church too had crumbled to the ground,
so boldly I strode through the devastation
and others followed suit:
they shed their old, ragged, dirty clothes.
And thus freed, we came to realize
we were no longer ashamed of our bodies
for they were the only real clothes
we were meant to wear in love of life.
And thus freed, we came to understand
that clothing had been forced on us
to hide imputed sin by frustrated gods
who resented our innocence;
who hated our love of life
who cursed us and doomed us to die
in the beginning.
Hah! How fondly they had hoped
we would never remember those days -
but we are remembering;
we are awakening.
No fear! No fear!
says the slogan
on jeans and bumpers
but is life so easily reducible
to no more than a slogan?
How many have walked the desert,
crossed the tossing seas
to see what lies beyond
the ancient barrier of dread
Who has captured the eagle
to ride his mighty wings;
looked over the highest mountains
to see the other side to understand
whether in sorrow or in joy?
Who has understood
the curse in the face of God?
the longing in the face of Satan?
Who has measured the distance
between these polarities?
Do I know—
and if I said I did—
why would you believe me
when you can’t believe yourself?
Life is perfection
in black and white
side by side
a penguin waddles;
a zebra kicks freely;
a skunk arches its tail,
a pinto runs wild;
a boy and girl, cream and chocolate,
hold hands in love:
a togetherness-spun meaning
in a pair of scales,
not for judgment,
but for perfection.
Your bridge is engulfed in flames
and in panic, you try to run back across,
thinking your life was safer, maybe even better
while still on the other side.
Disaster! The bridge crashes into the river
and you fall to your knees, wailing:
you cannot go back; are afraid to move on
to face unknown challenges that lie ahead
in the unexplored country.
As you watch the mighty river
wash away remnants of your bridge,
a spirit appears in the smoky air,
beckoning you to accept the inevitable.
“You can never relive the past:
why be afraid to let your bridges burn?
The road of life has no round trip fare:
all your paths are but one-way streets.
Learn to rejoice at the end of each road,
at the crossing of each stream and river;
laugh at the fall of burning bridges!
Why should you care about so-called wisdom
which says, ‘Don’t burn your bridges!’?
If I can teach anything at all,
it’s that no life is possible
without burning bridges!
Every experience forges a new link
in the chain of life, moving ever forward
towards man’s final destiny:
there can never be a turning back
once you begin your walk
in earth’s domain.
A heart always yearns for knowing:
to feel the need to understand
why flowers bloom with such abandon,
splashing wild colours everywhere,
releasing life-giving fragrances
while painting nature’s self-portrait.
And the same heart sadly wonders
why this living presence vanishes
so quickly in the onslaught of “reality”!
Perhaps when ego controls the mind
sadness and loss appear foremost
and time is as lead upon the memory.
Perhaps it is best to move beyond the ego;
to play and dance among the spirit world,
to detach from the common woes
of earthbound reality.
Perhaps it is best to wring that cloth
dampened by tears of sorrow and woe
and hang it up to dry
in the warm winds of Spring.
It was easy to take for granted
my eyes would always see
the beauty of nature’s world
unfolding in a morning’s blaze.
Now that beauty fades away
like the end of a movie:
darkness creeps into my life
as I stagger blindly to find
an exit from this theater.
The sun’s light fades:
when it is all gone,
what shall I have left?
Memories of sparkling water
and colorful dresses in Spring?
Mountains, trees, sun-lit skies
where did you go?
Like dreams, you vanished
from waking but unseeing eyes.
I smell flowers and bread baking;
I hear children laughing
and a robin calling its mate.
“Excuse me” says a voice:
ah! I am standing
in someone’s way.
a contradiction in terms?
A short description:
Government of the people,
by the people,
for the people.
But who are the people?
Individuals, or collectives?
Collectives aren’t people -
they are groups.
is ever to be what is claimed
then it must be
government of the individual,
by the individual
for the individual.
But how can that work
is essentially a collective process?
any self-empowered individual
would have no need of
democracy is a utopian idea
that will never work
for as long as government endures
the people will be ruled
by elites with an agenda -
never will it be the peoples’!
portals to the spirit world?
pathways to realities unseen?
except in fairy tales?
Do they seek to impart wonder and awe
for what the mind conceives
in moments of rest,
far from the daily grind?
Some say dreams are make-believe,
to listen is a waste of time…
Some say dreams lead to spiritual wisdom,
the teachings of the sages of old.
It matters not, what some say:
dreams flow as rivers of colours,
creating moods, evoking emotions.
Dream a grizzly bear, a wise one
who beckons you to follow:
“Come, walk with me (he says)
through coastal wilderness
where giant firs cast their shadows,
harbouring a host of unseen life;
to jagged glaciers piercing clouds
where even the eagle dare not fly!
Feel the wind push away the clouds—
the body vibrating to new power: here,
the soul ascends pulled by its own thirst
for a greater knowing.
Here, you truly dream!
It’s cool, it’s common
to say “I AM God” these days
and not consider it
the ultimate blasphemy;
a great sacrilege
and the greatest of all lies.
Well, should it?
After all, can anyone not be
anything one chooses?
Besides, how many truly realize
what “being God” would mean?
For most “being God” people
it’s just a phrase, meaningless, empty.
No idea what “God” is anyway
and I’d bet if they knew
they wouldn’t be so quick
to pick up that mantle!
I’ve got an idea about God:
What that is, that is.
God is the Force – everywhere
and available to all:
a generic entity.
God is also “me”
and that’s quite another thing:
that is God self-aware;
God: personal, interactive;
God: loving and nurturing
or (and usually the case)
God: fearful, hating, killing.
I think most know this God
only too well,
and the first God
certainly not well enough.
We speak much of peace:
we say war
is the opposite of peace.
Nothing is further from truth:
peace has nothing to do with war
and war cannot prevent peace.
Peace is only found
in the inner world:
not in the outer fringes
where life exists in chaos:
for all movement
is neither of body
nor of mind:
for it transcends
all thought, all matter
all movement in space and time.
Inner peace exists everywhere,
yet is nowhere.
Few there are as yet
on this small planet
the absolute concept
Real peace does not end
movement (conflict) in time
for that is not its purpose:
it is but the final refuge
when conflict burns itself out
leaving no place to go.
Your life’s journey
is a walk on hallowed ground.
Here you leave an inscription
of your life’s many trials and joys
to be read again some day.
Though your path may become covered
by the swirling sands of time,
one day it will again be uncovered
and wondering eyes will scan
the dazzling truths
of your experiences in this reality
and someone will think
they are beholding the passage of a god!
If life’s a game
it isn’t one that can be won,
this we know.
But can it be lost?
The placid and the tame
won’t get you in the game!
The stakes are high
it is a game of fools.
Earth is a gambling casino,
the maddest in the galaxy.
More than fortunes
have been lost here
when the great ones
from neighboring stars
came to gamble.
Once upon a time,
so it is said,
earthmen in dire straits
beaten at the gaming tables
gave their daughters as prize
to the Lords of space.
The ante today
is not your daughter
but your very own soul:
will you play the game
for the play’s sake?
Will you rashly taste
the spice of your winnings
then drink to your losses
to the bitter dregs?
Like the soft whisper
of the chinook wind
gently swaying branches
of spruce and poplars
on warming winter nights,
you came into my life
unannounced, but hoped for.
Under your springtime softness
my winter apathy melted,
dripped away so quickly
like snow on rooftops;
new life flowed
in endless rivulets and streams.
Like the chinook wind
I thought to myself, bitterly,
you would cool away and die
under cold eastern skies:
but you were the Spring Maiden
and with your breath
this new life flowed forth
joining the eternal river.
To see with my eyes; to taste with my tongue,
is no gift; only nature doing its thing.
But to see with my eyes closed,
to taste with my mouth empty:
this becomes awareness.
Do I now possess such power?
If not, how to attain to it
when feeling unworthy of such?
Am I forgotten, misplaced,
by those who saw my birth;
who handed out my destiny
in this one life?
If so my being has no reason,
I am but a void, a creature yearning
for what can never be.
Is understanding given only to those who ask?
Imputed through belief or given freely?
If imputed, it is no longer a gift,
but a wage, payment for service rendered:
and I ask you: What sort of creator
needs to be paid for anything?
Certainly one much too small
for me to waste my time seeking.
The Life Spirit has provided my spirit
with a quality hidden from man’s eyes:
How does that feel? I ask and
I see, taste with my spirit,
hear, feel with my heart
and what could not be known, I know;
what could not be believed, I believe,
what was wrong, is now right
and what was right is even more so…
and that is understanding.
Love is a bucket:
if you kick the bucket, it’s game over for love:
you can no longer participate in the game.
If you spill the bucket
through carelessness or inattention,
you’ve spilled out your heart foolishly
and run out of love…
If your bucket is full of holes
you have “holy” love: it won’t work
‘cause the substance of your love
is only something to talk about.
If you leave your bucket outside,
opened and unattended
it will fill with dead bugs and assorted dirt:
and that’s what your love life will be.
If you keep your bucket stored,
sterilized, empty and closed under a tight lid,
that means your love is as good as dead:
It won’t benefit anybody, not even you.
So, what should you do
with your bucket of love?
That’s entirely up to you:
I gave mine away.
Man’s children accompany
their mothers to the mall,
their senses crushed, broken,
to fit the mould of techno-frills:
can’t you hear their whiny,
rebellious little voices,
choked, stunted, denied,
endlessly clamoring for life?
Can’t you hear their angry cries,
muted in pyramids of garish plastic,
distorted in static of pallid fluorescence,
subjugated to the lowest price law,
soothed by the gumball dispenser,
terminated by the video street fighter?
Can’t you feel their hunger, their despair,
as helpless, unheard, unheeded,
they rage against the emptiness?
As denied life in the moment
they struggle to survive the lie
long enough to reach tomorrow?
Brake and tire dust lay blanketing
darkened grass and tired soil.
Exhaust fumes thicken the air;
oil, antifreeze and waste gas seep
into Earth’s pores.
Motors roar all around us,
toxic wastes; endless noises;
permeate our daily lives:
there is no escape.
Rusting hulks shed fragments,
dropped-off parts scattered along road sides;
fields and streams become waste dumps,
a hazard to all life
but the black fly and mosquito larvae.
The combustion engine stands guilty
of eating up nature’s natural fuels,
but having done so, it too
vanishes on some lonely stretch of broken road;
under blackberry bushes in some abandoned yard;
releasing more toxins into the soil…
Yet, is it really that horrible motor
who is to blame for this horror?
Or lack of foresight and understanding?
And when, I wonder, will there be a change,
a change of heart and a change of pace?
While in the question mode, let’s ask one more:
Regarding change: when is too little, too late?
Heaven is mashed potatoes,
creation is alphabet soup!
cried the laughing poet
driving down main street
in an old sports coupe.
In heaven all’s as well as well can be,
or so we’re told, and who’s to say?
No difference at all, we’re all the same
an unchanging world and really tame.
No need to ‘practice’ love in heaven
for that only works in black and white,
and isn’t that so? Have you tried loving
what you cannot differentiate?
False prophets of this age
‘There are many more than many’
say all is 'one'- there is no difference
Oh, sure: but one what? One mess?
It’s a bowl of mashed potatoes.
There’s a contradiction in the theme:
ego it seems lives on in higher realms.
As proof – angels no less
once found it lying near the throne of God.
So they picked it up and thought it better
than harp and halo and flowing gown.
Why? How should I know? Were they bored
in their mashed potatoes heaven?
Ego gave them their coveted difference:
it pissed off the Big Guy, but what the hell,
they had fun playing with their alphabet soup
and we(re still doing it – and we call it life.
And the moral of this little tale
is quite simple, and more than obvious:
if you learn to spell and eat your soup
the world is on your spoon.
Home of the free? Yeah right!
Try shacking up together,
a man, a woman to make life easier,
ease boredom, share costs,
put a dent in loneliness:
what happens next?
the State marries you,
common law, they call it,
did you have a choice in this?
Control, that’s what it is.
churches are working hard
getting you common law sinners
and one must admit,
they’re having remarkable success,
considering the lawyers getting rich
through divorce proceedings.
Ah, the System,
what a wonderfully twisted world,
what a wonderful scam!
what a wonderful lie!
There’s no way on God’s green Earth
they’ll let you live a life of love
they can’ write up in triplicate
and put through a fax machine.
Cause if they can fax ya,
they can tax ya!
I was considered unworthy
to experience a “normal” life;
with my speech impediment I did not fit in at all,
(DEFINITELY NOT AT ALL,
TSK, TSK, TSK…what do we do
with the retard?)
among the robotic standards
of their pastel coloured world.
When someone is a slow learner,
has a speech impediment,
or looks unnormal or abnormal,
the regular ones quickly label them
retards and idiots:
they remember the warning pinned to their cribs:
“When encountering another not like you:
DO NOT MIX!”
But now: look!
they’ve discovered political correctness
(from the point of view of normal, that is)
and have declared terms like retard and idiot
socially repulsive or at least, unacceptable.
How interesting: they were their labels, not mine!
Under the new charter of rights and whatever
my PROPER description is “Mentally Challenged!”
I just feel So Privileged, So Special!
I am being challenged by my incredible mental faculties!
That’s sort of being like Einstein, I think.
(you know, the guy who wrote about an E
adding up to MC and a little 2?)
It feels just great to be recognized for what I am:
A PROVIDER OF IMPORTANT POSITION
AND SALARY FOR SOMEONE WITH A PHD!
How would You like to work with idiots and retards
if YOU were a proud PHD?
Wouldn’t you rather work with geniuse-suz like me?
Please, Mr. Shrink…
may I have another look at those ink-blots?
I need to amuse my Inner Child some more.
life’s full of them
they arise, no warning.
Time for the great search,
of mind, that is,
and how to do that?
a walk by the sea
away from the city’s endless cacophony:
sounds good, I mean healthy, really
but sound is sound
and those thundering waves,
rushing up the rocky shore crashing
then sucking their drool after:
I sit long, pondering
on cold, wet log
deposited here, half buried
during a winter’s storm,
and I watch those green waves roll in,
crash and rumble,
swish back, foam following.
It’s just more noise, I think
but there seems to be a Voice
in this timeless tumult,
a specific set of words, a message?
and having accepted such possibility
I can hear it now.
“You can’t get away to someplace
or somewhere special
to do mind searching.
Nor is there a special time:
it all takes place inside the mind,
and it all takes place
all of the time. Are you listening?
As long as outside influences distract you,
you will never know your mind,
never discover the real you,
the one born to become
not just to be or to exist.”
It does not matter now what they say,
I know, like it or not,
that mind queries
are part of every moment
and every moment becomes a treasure.
The greatest takers, users, abusers?
Business: industries and corporations.
Banks: debt kings;
polluters of minds, land, sea and sky;
twisters of reality; buyers of “love”
sugar-coated in ad campaigns.
Their money: worthless manipulated numbers
from high-rise dungeons.
What energy lies at their source?
None. For-giving no longer comes near
those gilded dens of impoverished thieves.
Kings of “greed”;
who worship, live and die
at the feet of their idol: Mammon.
A burden so heavy to carry,
only bankruptcy can break them free
of their bondage!
Yet more jump in the gap,
raping and pillaging remnants
of natural resources and labor
for only these are real enough
to feed their drunken greed.
Have we reached the end?
Are we beyond a choice
as to whether “Money”
will consume earth
and sacrifice the last human?
Did man land on the moon
or was the event faked in a studio
(As America’s most expensive and famous
And what difference will it make
should we ever discover the truth of it?
If faked, it certainly has the qualifies of a great show
but does this mean we no longer trust
Governments, news media, scientists, lobbyists
for deluding us? For lying and scheming?
Would that be new? Really?
But if it happened as they claim
(and a good video is worth a thousand lies)
that the men who returned from
some billion dollar jaunt in space
(purchased from the working poor
to enrich a gang of kleptocrats)
were the same men who left and
they really had moon dust on their mukluks,
then what? Does this fact
change anything? Change everything?
This is not a question of some accomplishment-
after all what came of it?
It’s a question of trust. Not just any trust
but trust in the basic workings of the System.
And here’s the thing:
we know they lie, cheat and steal
with every opportunity they create,
For ‘they’ it is who have their bloody hands
firmly gripping the gang-switches of power,
to turn on, and to turn off, at will and whim,
and we it is who must swallow their lies
(and of course pay for them).
So did what’s their names
really walk on the moon,
or were we utterly and maliciously
“mooned” by con men and Capital Jokers?
In a rush of compressed time
created to fit within this eager moment
as the moon slowly wanes
disappearing behind haloed clouds
I find myself standing
upon a much younger earth
and with young eyes I scan
mountains I will climb and cross
in another time.
My fiery young heart
beats fiercely within
with a forever springing hope
that she will be waiting there
when I come down the other side
of the mountain.
And I still believe as I did then
that beyond this towering granite wall
lies the land of rainbow-colored dreams
“and they lived happily ever after”
is written on the sign at the border.
In the same compressed moment of time
I also pause to remove
my tear-soaked glasses from my eyes
to stare at the waning moon again
in the stillness of the night:
I try to remember that my youthful dream
was fully realized
and my life’s drama did unfold as foretold
each in it’s own precious time and space
to bring me here once more
older, wiser, and still full of hope
having seen both sides of the mountain
in the moonlight
Your eyes say you do not know
if you should mock or pity:
you look; you stare
of course: I make you!
A simple test of your strength.
Yes, I wish I could answer
the endless questions in your eyes
but I cannot!
Only you, you see
can decide who or what
My fate rests
in the patterning inherited
from your beliefs.
Perhaps you can love me
as freely as I love you
In any case
the choice is yours:
my fate is in your mind.
How many times have we heard the line:
Oh, the Universe is a big wish-granting machine.
Trust the Universe and all will be well
for the Universe cares about you.
Oh… yeah… says I?
let’s see if I can use a comparison
to illustrate this particular New Age saw:
Your entire body is renewed every seven years,
meaning every cell in your body has been replaced,
meaning every cell has died and gone to heaven…
or wherever cells go, that is.
How many of those cells were you aware of?
How many did you call by name every morning?
How many did you ask if they were doing well?
How many did you offer a hand to
or give a big “Thank you” for taking care
of that wonderful organ you call a body?
We are but cells in the universal body.
The universe couldn’t care less who we are,
what we do, how long we live, or even
where we go, if we go, when we die.
Like a drop of water, a leaf, a bird on the wing,
we are a function within the greater function,
and that’s that – for the universe at least,
personal beliefs notwithstanding.
So, ease off on the BS of universal goodies:
the Universe is not your big sugar daddy
and a diet of such beliefs makes one obese
in the book shelf area – save your money:
buy an ice cream cone – enjoy the moment.
Do I feel a need
to coerce another?
To push a particular belief system,
a particular way of life?
This is weakness and insecurity
disguised as assurance;
social and spiritual bravado
when I know deep within
that I do not really “believe”
whatever it is I’m pushing.
This stuff is just old fears rising
for such as peace, joy and freedom
speak for themselves -
they cannot be hidden
if they are truly lived.
Let’s speak of those old fears:
they are what the world “systems”
are based on; how they function;
the energy they use
to exploit and to oppress;
how they coerce people to their will.
I don’t need to convince anyone:
I need to rid myself of old fears!
It is written in ancient texts:
“There is a way that seems right to many
yet it is clearly the way of death.”
Indeed: the way of old fears
is the way of the System
and the way of death.
I read this somewhere:
“To live within unconditional love
I must join the greater whole,
the oneness of all things.
I must learn to open my third eye
to understand how to speak to anyone
without lies, sarcasm,
deception or exaggerations
so frequently used to avoid the truth.
When people begin to see themselves
as equal with all things,
they will experience a shift in awareness
to a more enlightened state of being,
connecting every heart-beat
to the rhythm of life, to Mother Earth.”
But I wonder,
does this kind of thinking work
or is it just more ‘new-agey’ baloney
that tickles the ears
but when put to the test
falls short of the mark?
What I think of all of that
can be said very simply:
those who write stuff
expect “me” to prove their words
and as for them,
they’re in the marketplace
selling their wares,
same as, same as – for if it did not sell
they’d be writing something else.
spending more, much more,
their slave making,
fear generating; and for what?
To spread the terror
of earth-destroying dictatorships
through raw greed.
“Teach your children
as we taught ours,
man does not weave
the web of life,
he is merely strands
The ‘awakening’ process brings us
in touch with “Spirit guides” and others
appearing full of knowledge and wisdom
to set us on the path of power…
But there is a neurosis among humans,
the curse of dependency:
so when spirit people enter our life to guide
we grow to rely on them instead of our self..
How do we know we are really on the path
to greater understanding and love?
How do we know we are breaking free
of addiction to dependencies?
One day, driving along a tree-bordered road
I became aware I was running free
along the road, through trees and shrubs-
effortlessly loping, keeping up with the vehicle.
Then I realized the concept of being one
for at that moment I had indeed become
my own Shaman, my own Spirit Guide:
I had broken my human dependency cycle.
Upon the mountain side
I rest: my shadow
laughing as I cry
in emptiness of soul,
tears flowing give
to a solitary withered flower.
As it opens in
touches my spirit:
light espouses dark, I
discover the harmony.
Set free to soar,
my eagle spirit
with keen eyes
the breath of the
shine in daylight,
sleep in the night:
cradled in crimson cotton sheets
they slip in their sea of dreams
closing their eyes
in evening indigos.
watch by day and night,
their eyes never closing,
their faces always soft.
Children can look
the mother does not burn
she is gentle and kind
flow or ebb
She knows her light
is borrowed to be shared.
She is an old woman, hunched over,
huddled in an old coat, its faded blue
reveals the threadbare material --
she shivers in the cold wind
and seeks shelter deeper in her lean-to
among the strawberry flats displayed for sale.
Why is she there?
Do I have the right to wonder, even?
Perhaps she must be, to support herself,
too old to move through the muddy fields
or withstand the whipping rains and winds
along with her family recently arrived.
Perhaps she hopes to redeem her last times
bringing some added coins to the treasury
before her years stop falling as dominos.
upon the board of life.
If nature cares not for old or young,
I think that maybe society certainly should --
and if it cannot for whatever unclear reason
then surely “God the Responsible” must?
But the old woman in the strawberry shack
with four poles to hold the roof and no walls,
tells the story accurately – no blandishments
in the emaciated lined face that looks up at me --
or the lines around the mouth
that attempt to put forth the necessary smile.
She troubles me, this old woman
from a world I will never know
who came here looking for a better life;
who now must shiver in the unfamiliar cold;
dependent upon the bounty of strangers
whose language she cannot understand.
I’m troubled, not because of her, particularly,
but because she is one of millions
sitting thus by highways promising better things
while the world rushes by deaf to her sighs
and blind to her losses, bruises and wounds.
She troubles me, this old woman in faded blue
because she need not be there, begging,
drenched by the cold mist of plenty
expelled into her lungs by a thousand exhaust pipes
of happy campers on a Friday afternoon.
But why do I care? I think to myself --
what makes me want to engage this drama
within my heart and mind?
Then the child in me speaks the word
I no longer dare speak to those
whom I would call my equals: “No!”
O child of woman
Under the waterfall
The mountain towers above
The womb of Earth is love
Son of man
Stand proud and tall
By the sewer’s outfall
Receive the mayor’s blessing
Why can’t we see us all
as we proudly rise so tall
Only to fall
Only to fall
A wind of change
A tall man falls
No one hears his calls
The next morning
Another stands as tall
Mapping out a new mall
O Child of woman
Beneath the waterfall
Nature gives her blessing
As well as morning
No need to fall.
There’s a road that winds on and on,
forever, it seems
and she’s flying over that endless centre line,
like the road, on and on…
Where to, woman?
Where are you flying to?
but she no longer needs to think about it
because now, it no longer matters:
she has no need for a home,
no need for friends or family.
She is the castaway --
self-proclaimed rebel of the universe;
nothing can stand in her way now
as she flies ever faster
until suddenly there it is:
the end of the line;
the end of the road.
She knows the most beautiful sight:
fulfills all imagination: her dream --
nothingness, pure, unthought
beckons and without hesitation
I pass by in time and wonder
at that house beside the winding road
abandoned for many years
empty hollow and mute tribute
to a family severed from its natural roots
disappeared without a trace
It sits in a small meadow
green mould growing in vinyl siding
grass once a green lawn
scattered with children’s toys
and puppies snarling over bones
now a tangle of weeds fallen over covering all
broken rotten toys and old bones
The windows stare in stark emptiness
upon a blind world driving by un-heedful
dirt covers the panes
blinds and drapes falling
bit by bit and piece by piece
to be replaced by the eternal grime
that reduces man’s passage
to primal dust in the book of time
The people in that house had a god
they worshipped in weekend rituals
the common god of this land
a god of pleasure fed by death
a household god of taste and stomach
powerless to prevent loss or ease pain
and standing testimony to that god
a leaning idol in the front yard
still stands the dark and rusty barbecue
This world is plagued
with diseases and death:
man knows this, fears it, accepts it
Inescapable, inevitable, they say.
Or is it pure programming?
Could our physical immune system
if we were more conscious within?
More aware of our thoughts?
More present in the present?
When greater consciousness
flows into our bodies
it’s an awakening, a rejuvenating;
each cell vibrating at a higher frequency,
each part rejoicing!
Without consciousness, illnesses creep in
and maintain themselves in grand style;
when no one’s home, like drifters
they move in and consume
whatever energy is stored therein.
A sadistic predator,
awaits by the riverside
as fish struggle upstream,
hoping one will take
the bait of death,
providing the “sport”,
trying to free itself,
with its last breath.
Another mans a trawler,
reeling in nets covering
the ocean floor:
as the struggling bodies are
hauled aboard, all he sees
is the balance at the bank.
Some fish escape the gauntlet
to swim up the ancient streams
twisting, winding, leaping
over jagged rocks
and cascading waterfalls
to reach the remembered place
and beneath pebbles on the river bed
leave their dwindling legacy.
When the last salmon spawns
in some dying stream
not far from a coast
empty of seals and eagles,
will man have learned then
—if too late—
not to take more
than what nature can give?
Time’s lonely shadows lengthen over the earth:
the spirit of Wind Walker stands alone
atop a rising knoll overlooking empty rolling plains;
a restless autumn wind blows unchecked, untamed,
moaning tearful over desecrated burial grounds.
Wind Walker hears the coyotes howl in pale moonlight;
the thunder of mighty buffalo herds crossing the plains;
feels the throbbing drums around flickering camp fires;
sees his people, ghosts from years of fulness,
performing the ancient buffalo dance.
He smells the smoke rising peacefully in the clear night…
then the vision, so sweet to the eye, vanishes,
as did the buffalo and the people.
Numb of soul and empty of heart,
Wind Walker turns toward the spirit mountains,
taking the hallowed path of the grandfathers:
the last shaman of the great plains
to seek a vision for understanding:
why did the white man so savagely destroy
his world? kill his blood brothers?
annihilate the life-giving buffalo?
What kind of hatred moved such a plague
across the once-living prairie?
As Wind Walker approaches snow-capped giants
a thunderous echo beckons: he realizes
his earth time is of the past;
his restless, homeless spirit,
like the people of the campfires,
the coyotes of the moonlight,
the buffaloes on their ghostly trek,
must relinquish their place in the foothills:
the conquerors lay their pipelines and fences
cutting furrows deep into the soil.
Only acceptance, only love can now decide
the future of a once proud and virgin land:
no challenge, no showdown, no vengeance,
but simple understanding,
can ever demonstrate the truth.
“The light shines in the darkness,
but the darkness has not understood it.”
[John 1:5 – The Bible]
It is understood or believed
that before the beginning
there was utter darkness,
Chaos the master
ruled endless realms
Weighted by gnawing emptiness
Spirit in thought overthrew
the bonds of darkness with light –
and what is that called light
but life become self-aware?
Light is revelation –
and the reality of things
that had always been
but unseen and unknown
even unto themselves
locked in the dungeon
of darkness’ pride –
And what is that called darkness
but utter ignorance;
the state of unknowing,
not being alive even unto oneself,
unaware, while and yet
in cosmic Pangaea?
In the beginning
Spirit brought into the worlds
the light of life
to run its course, long or short,
to become swarms of fiery stars
burning themselves up
in cosmic orgasms,
Whispered thoughts among the spheres
weigh its inscrutable path
cutting down friend and foe alike:
proscribed end of light –
and what is death
but the unalterable return
of primal ignorance?
Thus comes the end
the laziness of forgetfulness,
forged chains of ignorance
tighten and lock;
the lights wink off one by one:
allness once again
hidden in primeval
once more Master un-creator,
yet ever fear-bound
to the next awakening
and which state is this now?
an ending, or a beginning?
Listen, my friend:
shake every inhibition and fear
every self-centred thought
engendered in you by this life…
will you succeed
in expressing the inexpressible longing of man,
comprehend the race’s collective sigh
for its lost life.
Learn from freedom;
allow yourself to be set free;
allow your mind to roam freely,
whatever the costs to your body or reputation.
find paradise -hold lengthy talks
with the Creator:
if you do not,
you are not one of those called,
much less chosen.
lest you be found wanting!
when choosing someone to reach the heavens,
to save this planet from disaster:
You still remain
the best choice you can ever make.
Why look for someone else?
There is no one else!
Every age has its saviour
and its martyr;
every age, its laughter
and its tears;
every age its life
and its death
This is a new age.
It is generally believed on this world
that once the spirit reaches God
it completes its quest,
its reason for experiencing
Armed with this belief
many are the ones who
one way, or another way
seek to give meaning
to one fleeting life
in the passage of time
and many are the ones
who prey on the fear thus engendered!
But is it so?
In a vision, AlTara joined the flow of life,
travelled the galaxy,
crossed the universe,
to seek an audience
with the one who must know!
In a grey misty place of gentle love
God sat quietly, peacefully
(on a very ordinary bench!)
His gentle face turned to AlTara
and she boldly asked:
“So you are God, the Creator?
I’ve come through the cosmos
only to find this ‘end’?
There is no more”?
God looked at her, smiling,
and waved his hand across the mist
to reveal a wall and a ponderous door…
saying with deep, gentle voice:
“I have yet to go though that one!
Do you understand what this means?
Now you must go back
and share with the people of earth
this knowledge I give freely:
for I desire to be known
within the truth,
not worshipped blindly
within age-old lies.
[2000 Years After]
They were to welcome me as the "Friend of God" --
and that is why I came.
I came back to them to remind them
to turn from their endless wars;
from their senseless destruction.
I came to stop them from feeding their children
into the insatiable maws of death
decorated in holiday fashion
as fireworks, candies, roasted turkeys, fat Elves in red suits
leaving piles of useless “gifts” under dead trees;
or as colorful pills and shiny handguns.
But those who sent me were blind old fools;
the Old Guard caught in endless deliberations
of mindless politics, waiting too long to intervene
and when I awakened upon Earth
I found the poison of time had spread as a cancer
filling every thought in every mind
as sand fills every hole in every dune
in the great deserts of the outer worlds.
They remember nothing! Absolutely nothing!
God -- they have turned into myriad lies;
into idols fashioned by minds inflamed with lusts.
Their religions are but tattered rags flapping in the winds
as do the tongues of their preachers for hire;
their teachings as bleached bones
left by beached whales dead long, long ago.
I walked the land in silent shock,
seeing no hope anywhere, sensing no future.
All I encountered were the rapacious claws of greed
tearing the soft blush of youth
into bloody rivers upon a scarred and battered land
as smoke billowed from factories
where they ground and burned the bodies of the poor.
Yes, they still speak of God,
perhaps more than ever before
but their prayers invoke only cold ritual and dead magic -
creating more smoke in the parching winds.
Now the prophet speaks:
No longer will I be called the “Friend of God”
among the people of Earth.
I will not allow this blasphemy to spread;
this travesty to continue.
For the sake of the Great Balance
I turn my back upon my Ancient Friend.
I return my soul into his hands
and refuse to look in his tear-stained face.
Hard of heart I must be now;
as harsh and cold as the people of Earth
are to one-another.
Now we must go on our separate ways
until the people turn from their addictions
until Earth is no more.
The Prophet will not return
until the land has been cleansed of pollution;
until every heart is filled with compassion;
until innocent blood is no longer shed;
until every desire of every mind can only be quenched
through the imparting of wisdom.
These Words are true.
We search for deeper experiences,
no longer satisfied to just be;
transcending our own animal acceptance,
we splinter reality: what do we create?
We set “The Question” in motion.
From our fevered quest,
an overflow of new thoughts emerges;
on perfections and imperfections we dwell
balanced precariously as on a pinnacle of rock
centered within a shoreless stormy sea.
Assailed by a mind unbound
as wild gods we search the unmanifest,
drawing meaning from holographic images.
So much confusion, pain, sorrow,
The Question has unleashed within -
but why should that be so?
That question is easily answered:
our primary search pattern or quest
is bound up in intangibles of faith and hope and love
and to understand this we must know
the taste of our own experience
stored within a treasure trove of feelings.
A mountain goat will stand still for hours,
upon some precarious ledge,
waiting, observing, thinking
while its world lies at its feet;
of canyons and crags and pathless ways.
I’m old, whispers the white haired man,
dying, and from this life I depart.
A life-long dream I would share
with you, and not with anyone.
She replies, I love you my father,
and am living, in this life remaining alone
and such a life-long dream I would receive
from you, not from anyone.
Then listen carefully to my dream,
come closer, my voice is weak
and have no time to repeat:
open your mind to my vision, child,
reserve judgment on my state of mind.
There is a sailor I have known long
who only knows certainty when on the deck
of a strange and wonderful craft sparkling
under gossamer sails adorned in arabesque;
alight with the fire of a hundred suns.
The sailor is ageless and strong,
never will he speak the lying words of man,
singing only songs from infinity:
in his eyes, my daughter, you will see
the spinning galaxies, the nebulae.
I said, “will see” for he awaits
in his golden suit, at the edge of the sea
for the companion he’s learned to love:
I impressed him of you, and he waits;
you will go to him, and sail his starry seas.
He will call to you so you see the way
and with him depart this earth forever.
I go to your mother beyond the wall;
I would not leave you to mourn and regret
so I molded your heart to his: this you can know.
She looked in her father’s vision
and saw the stranger near the sea;
a longing took her to speed away
and sail the strange ship with him
upon the spreading solar winds.
It is told in stories of old Earth
of a maiden of such surpassing beauty
no man would dare approach or touch
a lonely and aloof woman who walked to the sea
and rose from the earth on a pillar of fire.
When light shines
upon a solid object,
a shadow results;
a lone tree
on a country road
from the noon-day sun.
What were the creators
- was that you and me -
thinking of then
when they invented
Ahhh, but perhaps
they were thinking
that some day
they could be walking
a dry and dusty road
in bright sunshine
and the shade
of a weeping willow
or perhaps an oak
would be welcome.
Could it be that in life
for simple reasons?
to the complex;
believing the complicated,
for that which is
This does not result
but in self-delusion.
What’s the speed of dark?
an innocent lamp
asked the dim lit room.
Shhh… never speak such
answered the drawn curtain
its experience in tatters.
Look at me,
he whispered turning
in the light morning breeze,
‘twasn’t the dark burned my skin
and shattered my fibres,
‘twas the speeding light,
the damned searing light,
but tradition avails and
as always the light
is praised and held holy
while passive dark
receives the stigma of hell.
sleep your innocent shadows;
cast not your light
for many a thing will die
this day, and none the wiser
but fear not:
dark will speed on his way
bringing healing in his wings.
Autumn came too early:
one storm followed another
and leaves began drifting
silently in the cold wind.
The sun peered meekly
through denuded branches
casting uncertain shadows
upon the twisted mat
of flattened Autumn grasses.
On a lonely stretch of road
I passed a tired soul:
I turned back to look,
and when he turned his face
in the faint light
I saw that he was me.
Every so often
Old timers and young whiners
start up the talk of flood
‘cause there’s no political scandal,
no summer Olympics
or other brain-dead cause to rally ‘round.
Out here in the valley
we live below the great mountains
and some years bring less snow
(and the talk’s about the drought)
and some years bring more snow
and the talk’s all about the flood.
(Ain’t never seen one or the other
but that’s the way of it down here.)
There’s those that watch
that there snow pilin’ up higher and higher
and so sure they are there’s gonna be
the mother of all great floods.
It’s always exciting for humans
to have some certain disaster
to talk about and worry about
But what better than
a certain flood deep and wide
and bodies floating in the wreckage?
But I’ll let you in on a secret:
those mountains, they’re the cake
and that snow, that’s the icing.
And all that water that flows down
when the morning comes clear and bright?
tis but the tears of the newly weds
awakening to the terrible mistake
they talked themselves into
realizing in the morning
they don't even love each other --
Yeah, maybe it was great sex, but…
The party’s over, family and friends
have hit the open road and gone;
the gifts have all been opened;
the white dress is in the drawer
and it’s time to go back
working for the man.
They call this time “Fall”
I no longer wonder why
and when you get “here”
and the walk gets icy
you slip and fall
so that clinches it
it’s all “Fall”
but wait a minute
do I have to wait
to spring back up?
it will spring back up
but what about the leaves
and the fruit
and the nuts
and the rains
will they spring back up?
I do wonder about “Spring”
as I do not about “Fall”
A lovely sunny day in winter:
a green canoe upon blue waters,
the river free and happy for a time
the gentle wake of the light craft
matching the swirls from the paddle
deftly handling changing currents…
I push up the mellow winter waters
along muffin-shaped rocks
accompanied by eagles, ravens and gulls:
the breeze is light but with a bite
reminding me this isn’t summer time!
As I look at the shoreline, wondering
three dogs come running along:
three beautiful wild dogs, one white
two dark, loping like wolves,
they follow along the shoreline
Eying them suspiciously, at first,
not knowing what to make of them
I guide the craft closer to the bank
and call to them, they come running
tails wagging, happy, full of joy!
I extend my hand and they lick my fingers
shake their heads and look at me
as if laughing at my confusion:
“why aren’t you snarling and biting”
is what you’re thinking, aren’t you?
“Yes” I answer in my thoughts, knowing
they would know my thoughts anyhow:
“but who are you, dogs?” and I wondered
as the question was irrelevant,
we were happy, they running on the cliffs,
I paddling upstream to a sandy bank
I jumped down and they joined me
in a joyous dance upon the sandy shore:
we ran and jumped and played
petting, touching, licking, laughing -
oh, yes, dogs do laugh, these anyway
Then I laid down upon the dried up grass
to rest and take in some of the sun
and they too laid down and rested
as if waiting for me to make the first move:
I wonder still, who were those dogs
so friendly and free, one with nature
one with me, as if I were no longer human?
Time is the artist
who paints age upon the world:
though we find Autumn leaves beautiful
not so the lines upon our faces;
the bony knobs on once limber fingers
that caressed a lover’s tender skin
or skimmed skillful over a keyboard.
Time is the artist:
what school did he attend
that he is so limited in scope?
Where was he taught
the necessity to age his models so?
Who buys his finished masterpieces
when they lie within the grave?
Time is the artist:
his teachers are from Earth’s school
for what he expresses,
is but the collective belief of a race
caught helpless in death’s patterning.
I wish, Oh, how I wish!
I could speak to him as I stand
behind his easel today.
Though young and pretty and full of life
I stand thus for this master,
I wish he’d see into my heart
and not paint those telltale lines
around my eyes today.
Walking the path
from experience to experience,
I discover and learn to appreciate
the wonders of God’s world.
I see tiny living things
becoming as wonders of the world;
feel the magic, the joy
the cleansing in the breath
of the open sea
tasted from a wave-washed shore…
I behold clouds in formation
arrayed in white light
as choreographed displays
of angels in graceful dances.
I must not think foolishly
that God will just lead the way,
simply unwinding those precious images
when he thinks I’m ready for change,
for change is wrought from within
and the God without always waits
for the one within to open the gates.
I search within myself
for the wisdom I have gained
through countless land slides cleared away;
I, only I, may pilot my soul’s flight!
I, only I, may change the space surrounding me!
I, only I, may change the fate of time!
Finding God’s true glory
will not be by waiting patiently for miracles;
it will not be found in some man made wooden box
erroneously labelled a church,
but will burst forth from within nature’s kingdom,
from within my kingdom…
from within myself!
Isn’t “truth” a relative term?
However one says
‘I swear to tell the truth
the whole truth
and nothing but the truth’
… one may as well say:
‘I swerve to smell the soup,
the toll booth
and nuts sing on the roof!’
(with apologies to Jim Unger)
What is truth?
Only that which someone accepts.
Truth to a system is that
which the system accepts as such.,
which the system sees as beneficial (to itself)
(and a human is a system)
True lies? All lies are true,
else, how could they be called lies?
There is nothing else but truth:
all is truth, however you shake it
shape it, express it:
for if you believe it, it is your truth.
But if another does not, it is a lie,
but to be a lie,
it must be a true lie, or it is no lie.
Nothing is impossible:
that is, it is impossible
for something to be nothing
and so it is with truth.
If you say: “That is a lie”
you are making a true statement;
validating the lie as truth.
Well here I am, world.
Yes, I have returned to you
because you begged me –
and I must certainly be a fool
for listening to your pleading
and trusting you again –
but who knows the ways of the heart?
What now, my great lover?
Will you bare my soft shoulders;
caress them with your calloused hands?
Run your fingers over my skin
and drag your rough beard
over my slender arms
to make me tremble and shiver?
Or will you take your whip
and rip my flesh open
as you did the last time we were together?
Will you despise me for what I am;
be jealous of my kindness
and give me no chance
to defend myself?
Will you walk me to your bed,
lay me gently upon your silken sheets
and make love to me under the moon
until the sun comes up over the purple hills?
Or will you drag me into your dungeons,
tie my wrists and ankles
and beat me black and blue
as in every other time
since neither of us can remember?
I haven’t changed you know.
(And I do wish I had –
though I do not know which way)
I’m still the same old me
though in a different body.
And you -- how have you changed
beyond your tearful promises?
Ah well, I’m here now
once more in your power –
whether by choice,
foolishness or ignorance –
and how well we both know
you may do with me
absolutely as you wish.
Expectancy fills the land:
forest rain softly falls,
evergreens sigh softly
in the freshening breeze;
a stream trickles merrily
beneath dampened moss
shadowed by giant granite cliffs.
Leaves turn to gold,
reflected still upon a lake
and a loon yodels, unseen…
The evening weaver
layers the skies
in streaks of deep magenta
as from the shimmering horizon
a golden eagle emerges:
On its mighty outstretched wings
I rise beyond striated clouds
to see where I have been,
to assess the furrow
I ploughed through this life’s soil
and refocus my dream:
for whether I plough smoothly
through rich loamy soil
or break my plough against boulders,
I realise if I keep moving on,
one day I will reap the benefits
of my labour,
my life experiences.
It’s there – for all to see were they not blind:
it doesn’t work – but no one can see it; not even you,
not until it collapses in your lap:
when the hopes and dreams
shatter as glass when a rock is thrown
and children run laughing
while another screams inside a dark house.
Isn’t it amazing what we settle for?
What we convince ourselves of?
There is the tried and true and failed -
Oh yes, failed, utterly failed -
but what can one do? It’s all there is, isn’t it?
We are born into society – a pattern set in cement -
and even if we notice (too late)
the cement is cracked and crumbling
no one is pouring fresh stuff down here.
Let’s see, what are the options
for the budding human’s dreams?
There’s church – some kind of religion
so you can get hooked on God – the Great One
who’s more silent than the grave;
family – parents and siblings and fights
followed by separation and divorce
and relocation to another school.
There’s government – you register to pay
everyday of your life and beyond;
school – education – to make you fit in
and teach you to walk with eyes wide shut.
There's work - you have to make money --
it’s what makes it all go round and down.
There's repetition: your own family --
“The Home Environment”
(translate please) -- certainly, read:
the confining straights of marriage
and kids and responsibilities no one ever taught --
you fly by the seat of your pants
and you remain afloat – maybe -
or you lose and fall and lose again.
And at that point there's jail --
you had your good times
they brought you too low and you couldn’t climb out
so they scoop you off the sidewalk,
in cuffs you watch your shiny stolen car
burn inside the basement of a house
and an ambulance screams away.
Stop, you say, stop already --
it's not that bad, not for most --
and sadly I have to agree, it is not:
most accept the middle road, the common ground.
They warm the pews, fill the voting booths,
sit at desks half asleep and they commute,
commute, commute, commute -
like the beat of a train’s steel wheels
on a badly laid track --
I owe, I owe, it’s off to work I go
to the job and back from the job, to and fro,
and it all becomes the same, blurred, wasted --
somehow mixed with forgotten dreams
remembered once or twice at a party.
And hope, what happened to hope?
Well, it's still there, somewhere --
in the shoe closet, in the doghouse
the baby’s crib or the barbecue.
Sometimes it’s in the hot tub
and sometimes in a boat or swimming pool.
Or a promotion for him.
Mostly it's in maxed-out loans and mortgages --
All just enough to stave off the divorce,
Dreams and hopes become memories
written on a note lying limp
between the fingers of the deceased
and the coffin’s lid is shut for the last commute:
the roll down hell’s door into the furnace. Amen.
“And the people shall bow and say, ‘Amen’ together
then shall they depart from this place to eat and drink,
and they shall continue… continue… continue…
and whatever they may have learned here
shall be wiped from their memory.”
That is the real story.
Ah! But are we not the ancient ones—
shape shifters, form shapers, alchemists, dreamers?
Do we not create only to un-create and re-create,
trapping energy in form only to set it free once more?
“I” was born in a human form, trapped—
like a slave with no will and no choice
a name of sorts infused into my child’s mind.
As time would have it, I broke free of some bondage
to human expectations, traditions and common ego,
but for the name I carry weighing me down
with other people’s chains anchored in their past:
Does a name given at birth really define my beingness?
Does it not rather spell a group’s hopes and dreams?
Having re-discovered my ancient powers,
my own true roots anchored deep within the flowing magma;
within the bloodstream of my own sister Earth,
tell me: Do I not have a perfect, appropriate ‘right’
to choose that word, or words, called a name,
which I, only I, can recognize as being ‘me’?
Do I not have the complete right
to present my own identity to the world?
Or, for that matter, my many identities?
In the drama of life, am I not permitted
to play more than one part, from birth to death?
If you think not—whatever your reasons,
then tell me who “I AM”!
Dare to define what I have become
not in this life alone, but including all,
my experiences as the cosmic “me.”
Where to when we die?
Some say “Heaven”
and some, well, think it’s Hell,
and for some,
could be somewhere in the sky.
but how many people know for sure?
How many have worked it out
and know who they are,
where they are going
and what they will do once there?
Now dying is pretty serious business:
it’s a big-time move -
would one go to an airport and say:
“Can I please get on a plane?”
In the real world, you need a ticket,
and a destination, at the very least.
Does “dying” remove responsibility
for what comes next?
So there go the earth Humans
without a clue out into the Cosmos.
No idea where they wish to go
nor how to get there.
And if they do get there,
what do they use for a resume
when asked what they’d like to do?
Looked at this way,
doesn’t it seem rather silly?
No wonder there are so many Humans
crowding each other here!
They go out into the cosmos
thinking that “others” will take them home
not knowing what that is -
so they are put on a great return loop
and when their turn comes
out they pop, back on Earth again…
and again… and again…
and for most, none the wiser.
Why does the blackberry
tear at the skin
of the small hand reaching
for nature’s food
in hope of simple sustenance?
Why does the sweet smelling
rose of mid summer
prick the soft finger
touching its stem,
leaving drops of blood
in its scarlet wake?
Why does the goldfinch
always watch the skies
for the predator hawk,
the swift sharp shinned
swooping with death
in its short rounded wings?
Why does the black vulture
endlessly circle the blue skies,
surveying the open fields
for the dead and the dying
even in the blush of spring?
Why does the human race
bid for first place in death
constantly planning hate
prepared for war in fear
exploited by power for pleasure?
Why does the gentle empath
walk with pain in her heart,
her soul heavy with sorrow
even as the breath of the divine
carries her aloft?
The wind was always a rival to defeat,
so I ran the path set forth,
training for the marathon of life
to cross the finish line
on some distant horizon,
and I imagined turning back
to see a tired wind
come in second.
But in trying so hard to finish first,
I never could pause long enough,
to appreciate the simple things
that had no need to run in any race.
a gust of wind
gently passing by
whispered softly in my ear:
“Learn to run with me, not against me.
Don’t worry about who finishes first!
If you must run along my paths,
let me be your companion, not
Allow the pleasure to flow within
life’s own gentle pace.”
I sit beside a mountain lake,
its surface smooth as crystal,
reflecting changing hues
of late afternoon…
I get to thinking.
Would doctors be happy
if no one
got sick or hurt?
Would weight loss clinics be happy
if no one
Would drug companies be happy
if no one
needed drugs to ease their pain?
Would judges and lawyers be happy
if no one
broke any laws?
Would marriage counsellors be happy
if no marriage ever failed?
Would religious leaders be happy
if no one sinned?
A horrified and mortified lot they’d be
if everything worked perfectly.
All those self-important people
cut off from the gravy train
made of human pain:
How long would it be, I wonder on
before they’re competing with me
hunting recyclables in ditches?
A bald eagle sweeps over the waters
just as a beautiful crimson sun
touches the edge of a distant peak
turning the sky a bright orange:
it’s time to set up the tent.
Life is but an illusion, a trick
we play on our physical selves,
we are the trickster, but why?
Because we live in the eternal now
yet desire to know,
and how can we,
without a past or a future?
The present is but the source
recreating the past, creating the future.
Immovable, it creates movement:
universes appear; suns blink their eyes;
a shooting star blazes across immensity;
an eagle soars and a child laughs
at the edge of the crashing wave.
Everything is but illusion:
the longing for something entirely else,
What is joy, if sorrow is unknown?
What is health where disease was never?
What is serenity without turmoil?
Thus do we create our reality from duality:
from what is, we get what seems not
and from what is not, we get what seems:
fear not the dream gentle spirit:
the god in you is unfolding
each moment of your life.
You’re in the twenty-first century, son:
don’t bother looking up, there’s nothing to see.
Keep your head down and another laced cookie
will reshape the world differently, no need
to lift your eyes, there’s nothing to see,
is there. Vacant eyes studying the rug:
perfect pose for the occasion.
Everything that’s shopped for
gets carted away in stretching plastic bags
under sagging shoulders and drizzly clouds.
You’ve seen it a million times, or you’d have
if you’d ever opened your eyes
beyond the keyboard. But hey, forget it,
never mind that, I can wax philosophical
at the most inauspicious moments.
It’s all completely meaningless, isn’t it,
a happy meaninglessness created just for you.
Don’t let me spoil your high. Build it up,
your high school reunion is tonight. Not
all of ‘em are dead yet if they’re still
on Facebook. Was I talking about
global warming, or warning? Maybe.
Maybe it’s a train; maybe it’s the rain,
that clatter, maybe it’s your pain.
But what does it matter to you
sitting there not knowing why, or where?
You’ll get through it, son, you will.
You’re special, like everybody else and
death is there for you too, so don’t worry
there’s always somebody who cares
enough to put you in the stretchy plastic bag
after being shopped for; after
your environmental fee is duly paid.
Oh please! Don’t get up; don’t thank me.
You know you’re getting old
when it takes you all night
just to try to remember
what you used to do all night;
when you painstakingly put
your pants on, one leg at a time
and the zipper is on backward;
when you go to brush your teeth
and they’re not there
and you can’t find them
because your glasses are
in another room—which one?
and you go to bed
only to fall head first
in the closet:
it’s only then, you remember
this may not be your house,
and that…wasn’t the bathroom:
you think, …Oh, hey!
Who is that woman
in the bed I was in?
Does it really matter?
But it should: I spent an entire night
thinking about it…
(and on that note, the Laughing Poet
got up and made coffee…)
The Government says;
‘the people we serve are a resource’
I guess this means,
we are like stocks and bonds:
when we no longer bring in money,
we are cashed-in
to die in some darkened alley.
The Government says,
getting a job is good;
leads to a sense of accomplishment,
provides economic security,
in a fulfilling and independent life:
Yeah, but isn’t it more this way:
that fat-cat Politicians need taxpayers,
to keep up appearances
and pay back political promises?
The more money a government rakes in,
the fatter the individual “elected official”
can legally get.
Who ever heard of a government
going on a tax diet?
A loud sigh of deep frustration:
(and the dance begins)
“I no longer understand you –
what have I done
made you so cold?
made you want to leave?”
“It’s not you, oh!
I so wish you’d try
to realize this –
it’s not you, it’s me:
the problem, it’s me,
let me explain, I…
do not wish the hole I dug
to get deeper here.
I walked beneath the trees
and under the stars
there was also
staring, perhaps sharing,
behind a shimmer of cloud.
They talked to me: the trees,
the stars, the moon;
maybe even the clouds.
The owl in the treetop
translated for me,
he told me to move on
or remain stuck forever.
These are the forces
that move me – once again.
I do not belong here, I…
I made a mistake!
This was never my life,
forgive me. Goodbye Larry.
Who knows but some of the ideas in the books may get you inspired to do that thing you always wanted to do, even if this comes in a very small way, to make your corner of this world a better place to be in. Who knows but you may realize your little corner is a really nice place to be in after all. It's all about life, if at times expressing life "outside the box" as the saying goes.