Who Are The Dead
What the Wind Taught Me 4 0f 4
Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker
(in collaboration with Sha’Tara EarthStar)
Copyright (©) 2016 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Chilliwack, B.C. Canada
Cover pictures: Top, Anthony Burns
Bottom, Jim Daly
Cover pictures found on FreeImages.com
Space Picture: ESA/Hubble
Next Series: The Less-traveled Paths
I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.
These books represent a varied collection of remarkable “outside the box” thinking (and subsequently, writing).
If you are one of those trammeled and importuned by strong beliefs that won’t let go, this could be your chance to break free. I’m not asking you to believe what is written therein—I can’t say I believe all of it myself—but it makes for an interesting “other than” perspective. Reading these books can be compared to painting by numbers. You have this standard picture outline and between lines are colour numbers. You match the numbers to the colours and eventually you have a painting. It’s not great art, of course, and everybody knows that but it gives you the impression that you did it yourself. We all know that is how the System operates. It gives us a number of colours and our life is laid out and numbered, from cradle to the grave. There isn’t much we can do about it, it seems. It’s the System.
Ah, but there is something we can do about it. We can ignore the numbers. Use random colours and mix them. If “3” is green, we do pink on one of the “3” sections and arbitrarily use orange on the next, and so on. Pretty soon the System doesn’t know us anymore and guess what? We discover what real freedom can be. It begins by breaking the rules; by daring to violate those imposed beliefs. Here’s one for you: Did man ever land on the moon? Of course they did, you will say. You saw it on TV, or you saw the videos and read the reports and documentaries, right? Ok, fine. But that is not the point since landing on the moon or not did nothing to change the way people interact with each other. So the point? The point is to paint a different colour on the “moon landing” section of your life’s canvas. A “fake moon landing” colour. Now really go into this idea. Break the template here, convince yourself it was all faked in some studio, for whatever political reason. Then proceed to prove to yourself that it was so. Study this bit of history; look at the clues. What happens in the end? In the end you realize it doesn’t matter at all whether they landed on the moon or not. What matters is, you dared question it.
The material in here questions “taken for granted” ideas, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour.
You know, it’s hard to think these days, when everything is handed to us via TV and the Internet. Everything tells us how to think, and does so in the blink of an eye. We don’t have to wait for the President’s state of the union speech, or the preacher’s rant on a given Sunday. We Google!
Can a mind atrophy? You bet. Look into these booklets and think about thinking.
Ever wonder why, wherever you go
in man’s twisted world
you hear a radio blaring,
or a TV monitor is stuck in your face?
Why every vehicle is factory equipped
with same radio, or other noise maker
euphemistically called ‘music’ or ‘news’?
Why every restaurant, even office
plays these annoying noises in your ears?
Well, perhaps to you they are still counted
as free entertainment -
why trouble yourself with ideas?
But I’ll do the troubling for you -
these noises have a nefarious intent:
to prevent you from listening
to thoughts that may arise
from your own heart, your own mind.
The System needs your allegiance
day in, day out, and if it could
it would short-circuit your dream time also -
suffice it to remind you
it says your dreams are worthless -
So the thoughts you express
are those of Wal-Mart’s and McDonald’s,
of General Motors or Coca-Cola’s…
You argue the merits of brands,
Sports teams and of music bands
then wonder why the world’s in such a mess!
Where do you suppose hides the wisdom
to make a difference?
Or even to know a difference
needs to be made?
It was in those thoughts of yours
the radio blasted out of your head
many, many years ago.
Don’t bother looking for them now
they are dead.
Riches, riches, riches. The world runs after riches as a cat runs after a laser beam. People rush to buy lottery tickets, hoping for the big win. They pay their fees at the bingo halls, hoping for the prize. They enter all kinds of promotional gimmicks by corporations, hoping to be the ones to win that one car, truck and camper, or that all-expenses-paid trip around the world. And for rich or poor, the filing of income tax provides another opportunity to take advantage of legal loopholes and keep something back to be wasted somewhere else.
Some people spend the first half of their lives studying to earn degrees in medicine or law to enable them to earn the big salaries later on, dreaming of that special mansion on a hillside with the curving cement driveway and the majestic oaks in the front yard, the pedigreed hunting dogs in the kennels, the Jag in the garage… Some work to get on Wall Street and learn to trade stocks, making friends with the rich and famous. Some enter politics, hoping to go all the way to the Presidency or Prime Ministry. Some head for Hollywood, hoping to be discovered.
When all is said and done, the majority spend their lives dreaming of riches while spending the little they have on providing the money for the few to actually become rich, that is, to have more money than almost anybody else. After all, that’s really all there is to being rich: it’s a relative concept, all you need is to have more than others.
Things, things, things. To be rich also means to own things. The more things, the more one is rich, or so it should go. In today’s world, of course, that is hardly true because the availability of things is quite mind-boggling! Even the poor can have an incredible assortment of “things” in their apartments. We surround ourselves with things, some useful, most wasteful, some just to decorate a place or to give us a sense of belonging.
What are our things but idols? They make us feel a part of something, of the hustle and bustle which we want to identify with. What is a thing which does nothing else but make us “feel” but an idol? We feel some sort of life come from these things and yet they are quite lifeless. Worse, most of them were not made to actually please anyone but to realize a profit or, for some, merely to produce something in order to earn money for food or shelter. The motive for the creation of our things has nothing in common with the proposed use of the thing itself. Philosophically speaking this means that the majority of our things are lies: interesting, isn’t it.
Well, why shouldn’t they be lies? The system which spawns them, the global capitalist system that is, is nothing but a lie in itself. It exists for itself, feeds those who serve its immediate needs and sucks the lifeblood from the rest of the world.
Why do we feel such a powerful drive to have things? Partly because the system, particularly through education, has been telling us that we are evolved beings who came from primordial ooze (I love that term!) to become what we are today. We developed large brains which in turn allowed us to develop skills which the other animals have not gained yet, or may never have. How the system has made use of that silly lie and our woeful ignorance to make us believe in our own superiority, and to do its bidding. We are civilized! We are intelligent! We are special! We are great, the greatest! We are proud of our race, of ourselves, of our pride! We have not only survived life against the greatest of odds, but conquered our world… we can watch baseball on a large screen TV: wow! Heroes, supermen… did I miss any superlative attribute which declares to the cosmos that man is at the top of the power pyramid of success?
Come on, do you really believe that? That a being who can’t survive in the wilderness while a common mouse does, quite well, is superior to the mouse? Man lives an artificial life, and the cost of that life to the environment is increasing day by day. Is that a sign of superiority… or madness?
I would rather possess the natural attribute of being able to live naked in the wilderness, eating whatever nature provides, sleeping in old logs or in trees, than be able to write the wisest of books, be able to design a warp-speed craft to cruise the stars at will, to be able to conduct a famous orchestra or write a musical masterpiece. Why? Because I would be one with the natural then, a part of my world, not living at odds with it. I would be living in peace with my environment as opposed to the enmity and conflict we have for one-another now.
I could love this world, but could this world ever love me? Just by being I am an aberration in the cycle of earth life. I don’t fit in and it rejects me as a legitimate life-form. Unnatural needs are what separates man from his environment, explaining why he has little or no natural feelings for his world; why he remains an artificial creature and the very worst parasite and predator ever to exist on this earth. Even the dinosaurs could not have been as bad. I doubt that they ever planned the total destruction of the earth just to prove a point. Man has done that, and come closer to actually doing it than he ever will admit. Now he is destroying the very biosphere, the very living environment, the only world he can exist in. Does that denote wisdom? Intelligence? Mental superiority? Or just plain stupidity?
Man surrounds himself with dead things he makes because he is completely alienated from the rest of the world. He is alienated even from himself. It is a fact that the more individuals pack themselves in city apartments, living on top of each other, the more lonely they are and the less they trust one-another. Weird? More than weird. Not so long ago, when settlers or pioneers lived miles apart, they would travel those miles to visit one-another. They would leave their cabins unlocked so that if they weren’t at home, any visitor could still enjoy their hospitality. In such times, crime was practically unknown. People were closer to the land and had a better sense of value. They didn’t have a lot of things, but they had a sort of trusting brotherliness, a natural dependence, not only on one-another, but also on a Creator, however they touched that being. In a natural setting, the reality and need of faith increases dramatically.
Now, people surround themselves with meaningless trinkets and lock themselves in with alarms and guns to protect their silly loot. They will sit amongst their dead things, bombarded by the inanity of disk jockeys and talk shows but will look suspiciously through the peephole at anyone knocking on the door. This is progress? We don’t care what poison any yahoo pumps into our brains, into our memory banks, but we are afraid someone may want to take our DVD player? What sort of values do we operate from? What sort of life is this? Why are we like that? What has created our paranoia? Indifference? Lack of discernment?
This pathetic life we now fearfully scamper through, waiting to be pounced on by the known and unknown hawks: the bankers, the lawyers, the doctors and dentists, the politicians and crooked cops, the corporate CEO’s, the muggers, the rapists, the serial killers, puts us in much worse conditions than the field mouse. Such disempowerment demeans us and turns us into denatured creatures of darkness. What is wrong with us? We seem so smart, yet are so incredibly stupid and vulnerable. To add to our problems, we know that no one in this world outside of ourselves really cares for us. Someone may care for our money, our handshake, our look of admiration, our adulation and worship, our body, our mind, our labour… but no one really cares about us—as human beings. Ultimately, we are all alone with ourselves. To those who prey on our fears and weaknesses we are but resources, functions that must be made useful and “productive” in the marketplace.
There is a wall between individual human beings that nothing in this world can bring down. Even the closest loving relationship always has a wall between the lovers, even if that wall is only the privacy afforded by the lack of thought communication. We can’t read each other, and that is likely our main problem.
We resolve that and we’ve resolved the rest, because to read each other, we must have total empathy for each other. If we have that, it means we have tapped into the life force of the love energy field of the Creator. It means we have finally found the source from which we emanate as human beings. It means we have unraveled the mystery of man. It means we are no longer afraid to be what we are. It means we no longer have to pretend to be superior life-forms, whether special, evolved, civilized, chosen or otherwise, because we are none of that; we only believe we are and that particular human belief is based on false assumptions rife with dire consequences.
At this point in our so-called development (I can’t honestly use the term “civilization” since that is collapsing) we remain an overcrowded bunch of disconnected, confused, mentally unbalanced (and quite dangerous) beings unable to reason the why’s of things. We should properly be walking in abject self-loathing and repentance for our past temerity and on-going stubbornness in refusing to face the truth of our screwed-up nature instead of strutting around in our covered-up humanity; instead of going from store to store looking for that Calvin Klein or Victoria’s Secret fig leaf or from sale to sale for more loot to drag into our dens, adding to our fear of the proverbial thief in the night. Yet who can stop him? No alarm system, no pit bull, no Smith and Wesson, no world-class police force can ever stop that thief.
I wish for someone to take pity on us; to approach us with the ability to make us see ourselves as we truly are; with the wisdom to convince us of this; with the strength to make us change our warped sense of value. There is, or there are, such beings, of course, but the problem remains that we must of our own free will go to them. They are here, always, but because of our false sense of superiority, we refuse to acknowledge their presence. And if we did, would we listen? Did we listen 2000 years, or 4000 years ago, for that matter?
And he told them this parable: “The ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He thought to himself, `What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.’ “Then he said, `This is what I’ll do. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I’ll say to myself, “You have plenty of good things laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.”’ “But God said to him, `You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’ (From the gospel according to Luke)
What does it mean
to have an open mind?
No it doesn’t mean
as some wag put it
that your brains
most certainly will fall out.
To have an open mind -
the idea brings this to mind:
believe all things -
believe in nothing.
I’ll illustrate the open mind:
a friend tells me she saw
three pink elephants
fly over her house at midnight.
Closed mind: that’s stupid,
you expect me to believe that?
Open mind: that’s wonderful,
must have been quite a thing to see!
Result: closed mind loses a friend
and creates rejection and confusion.
Closed mind remains static
full of undisturbed cobwebs.
Open mind binds the friendship
in simple acceptance
of another’s vision -
but more: it allows the open mind
to consider new ideas
to enter into the realm of
Only the open mind can say
“All things are possible.”
thus only the open mind
can ever be free.
A moment alone
brings forth these thoughts:
Why am I here?
A perverse trick of nature?
An accident of time?
A meaningless chance?
- or -
Designed specifically to serve
some so-called loving God
who gets angry when I fail to meet
his detailed (but unexplained) expectations?
A God redolent with needs and ambitions
which I must somehow fulfil for Him
as the good wife for the couch potato?
Is it to work as a slave all my life
so the few at the top can have
what is thought of as the good life?
Is it to acquire or lose
a bit of karma here and there -
without knowing what that really is…
or where I pick it up or drop it?
Is it to learn and grow from experiences
through events and struggles
to get to the next level?
But which level? Up or down?
I don’t even know what floor I’m on
and the elevator seems kind of stuck.
Abstemious, bicephalous, convolvulaceous,
digitigrade, erotomania, flavescent, glossolalia,
hebdomad, isomorph, jonquil, kyphosis
logomachy, malversation, nihilism, onomastics,
paronomasia, quidnunc, rudimentary,
semiabstract, traditionalism, unidirectional,
vaporization, whirligig, xenodiagnosis,
That’s a list of some big, BIG BIG WORDS.
I can’t spell these words,
I can’t use these words,
I don’t know why they have them,
I don’t know what they mean,
I’ll never understand these words
I’ve lived all these years without ‘em
got along fine with the little guys
and yet… and yet…I can’t help myself:
I SAVOUR THE AMBROSIAL QUALITY
OF THOSE GRANDIOSE ARTICULATIONS!
(d’ya get my drift?)
(the Laughing Poet looks
in his dictionary!)
As I watched the wind blow unpredictably across the grassy field, darting about like a swallow hunting, I thought, “Just like me, looking for meaning, the meaning of life.” I’ve existed, sometimes lived, through forty-seven long and short years: for what? Like the restless wind, I am still searching.
"Most of my old friends have given up the search to wallow and waste in the warped wants of waning life, seeking to satisfy every sensual passion and obsession. You won't find them standing here, on the edge of this field in the wind and rain, but in the so-called fun places, screaming, yelling -for a win or blood, laughing vacuously at a worn-out stripper or staring with glazed eye at cigarette butts swirling inside an empty beer can. Pathetic."
The playful patterns formed by the waving grass uncovered a Molson’s beer can, torn and half buried in silt… While considering that can, victim of a different kind of war and so indecently buried, I was reminded of an earlier vision which went like this: A giant being stood in front of me. My eye level came to his waist. He held an egg in his hands. The egg was proportionately large, like an ostrich egg you could say (but I won’t because I’ve never seen an ostrich egg). He broke the egg neatly in half, holding one half in each hand. There was a yolk in each half. End of vision.
I ponder this mystery. What does an egg with two yolks represent: life? Perhaps, but what sort of life? A dual sort of life? Two lives, existing together in one entity? Two in one -sounds like some corny commercial, doesn't it. Wait, I can see myself in there, having two separate lives. I think I understand.
I exist in this physical, sensual world, making me equally physical and sensual… but I can reason about such things as love, mercy and peace, moral affections, abstract ideas whose source resides in a realm outside matter as we know it. That makes me also a part of that realm as implied by my abstract thoughts. I therefore possess a physical nature and a spirit nature. Together they equal the one complete “me”.
That makes sense, so why does this world reject the abstract ideas just mentioned? We know they are good, so why don’t they form the foundation of our social systems? Back to the vision of the broken egg: that explains it. Man lost his wholeness when he chose to favour the physical half of his two natures. Discovering pride and power in his physical state, he grew to suppress his wise, life nurturing, understanding, spirit.
You see why man loves control and violence? Why he continually oppresses the physically weaker than himself? He has suppressed his mind, which is spirit, replacing it with our fancy computer we call intellect. Computers aren’t moral. They sort through input and spew out mathematical answers. What sort of results would you logically expect to obtain from a data bank fed with thirty years of “World Wrestling Federation” matches and four cases of beer a week?
Science fiction or reality?
Space crafts propelled by phantom drives;
by anti-gravity; by the spice mélange;
by ‘warp’ or space-folding energy:
people traveling across space
from galaxy to galaxy
following worm holes
in the blink of an eye: here, there…
To many this is but science fiction
but what if some have lived this reality?
Experienced in pain or joy, the discoveries
brought about by living aboard such ships?
Perhaps there is a place for new paradigms;
for believing the unbelievable;
a place where we can safely listen to such tales;
intuiting where logic wants to stop us.
Here, we might begin to conceive
how we can indeed travel to the stars;
and perhaps infinitely beyond!
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.” (Macbeth – Shakespeare)
What difference would it make if all the tales and stories that have proposed the idea that Earth is nothing more than a stage turned out to be true? Probably none, as long as the players keep taking themselves seriously enough to ignore the evidence that points to Earthian life as the working of a long-running and very twisted soap opera.
“Man was created in the image of God (of the gods). So the ancients believed and taught. “There is nothing new under the sun.” states an ancient wisdom text (Ecclesiastes).
“As below, so above.”
Earthians love drama, theirs and that of others. Endlessly, pointlessly, daily, they create and re-create their dramas and melodrama-dramas. They suffer in them and entertain themselves with them. All of their systems rely on drama to promote themselves. Their divinities – whatever they believe in – are nothing if not complete drama. All advertising is based on drama. Fashions and fads are drama. Love affairs, their successes and more obvious failures: all drama.
Why is drama so popular and necessary to life on Earth? The only conclusion is because every Earthian was “created” to be an actor who performs on cue. Life on Earth is basically pointless, beginning nowhere, leading nowhere. Rich or poor, famous or unknown, what is the difference in the end? Where’s the payoff, whether one is a good or a bad actor? Whatever is being said has already been said; whatever is being done has already been done.
If the Earthian actors were permitted to realize they are but bad actors in a soap opera some would probably be intelligent enough to question the wisdom of repeating the same moves ad nauseam. To keep an entire world as an on-going live performance over hundreds of thousands of years for the entertainment of sophisticated galactic watchers requires great skill on the part of script writers and producers. Some Earthians do wake up to the fact that all is not as it seems here. These are summarily written out of the production: the show must go on.
I have always wondered about the necessity of maintaining vast numbers of unknown and innocent victims -- those tens of thousands who die each day of preventable causes. Who benefits from this? Not Earth, certainly. But these "extras" are necessary to the drama. All those deaths make it so much more real.
Would we not collectively be moved to resolve our gross planetary injustices if the power to do so was really in our own hands?
She begins her dance
on the stage of life,
her passage, a series
of rhythmic bodily movements;
sometimes with a partner,
The heartbeat of earth
and the music of heaven
become her inspiration.
With every performance,
she moves to new heights
of joy in growing awareness.
When her earth dance is complete;
when death gently takes her hand
her lightened soul lifts into flight,
shrouded in a wave of ecstasy:
O, how easily she flies
to the eternal sea of love!
A strange old man, a very ancient figure,
that’s who he was, who he is.
A man of many titles in as many times:
poor Bill, mendicant, beggar and tramp.
panhandler, good-for-nothing loafer,
deadbeat, vagrant, hobo, gypsy
and in more recent times,
a welfare bum.
Sometimes this strange man
comes back from the sea,
sometimes from the wars or prison:
no one comes to the quays to meet him
and to hug him. Alone
carrying a damp and dirty canvas bag
he limps down some dark alley
to find a familiar den,
a smoke-filled tavern, an inn.
For a few coins, a room under a stairway
a garret with drafty shutters
become his home ‘til the angels come
or the demons, but who can ever tell?
Sometimes he just gets tired of jostling
for position and wealth—leaves one night
never to come back. What for?
His wife re-marries, but does he care?
Who’s to know? Not even he
wandering the drafty city streets
with his new title and essential wealth.
He’s a successful miner now,
mining garbage for treasures
carefully arranged in a rusty shopping cart
(of missing front and bent wheel
from an accidental encounter with a taxi)
until deposited for safekeeping.
They call him “homeless” now—the
politically correct term
for this strange old man who never did fit,
who in his youth had a strong back
to break up the coal, carry gear and pack a rifle
walk through flooded paddies
and burn babies in their mothers’ arms
inside grass huts in a land so far away.
He knew well enough then why he did this:
for God and country and freedom
they’d told him and he believed.
He came back from the killing fields
to log the dark green hills
until the trees were gone.
He cleaned out curbs and culverts
for a pittance in part time jobs
to bolster free enterprise and capitalism.
“It’s all good” they said with a leer
and what could he do but believe?
He doesn’t remember much of that
and really, what does it matter now?
the rich got richer and died,
the dead remain dead
and he’s got his place
behind four loosened cement bricks
under a bank where he keeps his valuables,
drinks, sleeps and feeds his nightmares
of bullets and blood, of flames that roast flesh,
of screams of pain and terror:
endless screams—the voices of the dead.
Until it’s time to work the streets again,
push the rusty cart with the one bent wheel
until the angels return again
or the demons, and who’s to know?
He’ll be there again tomorrow
and the day after that
and the day after the Great Day
there he will be in his dirty tattered rags
his long stringy hair blowing wildly
in the cold, cold winds that haunt
the endless noisy, dirty, drafty city streets
and who knows what his title will be
next time I pass him trying not to notice?
I think I already know this, in my heart
as I look around and ponder this place:
he’ll be a survivor.
Clouds form and re-form
up there, playing in the afternoon sky,
The prairie grass rustles in the breeze
and in my arms
a beautiful woman lies sleeping.
Am I dreaming? Maybe I wish I were
but here she is, nevertheless;
this woman free enough
to express a side of human love
I had never fully experienced.
The sun sinks quickly, too quickly,
behind the western hills;
a cold gust of wind touches my skin
I shiver: she awakens, surprised
We dress quickly. The day is over.
Perhaps, I think,
I shall meet with her again.
But she is a free being:
to live in hope of another afternoon
with this same one;
would that not seem a touch of madness?
Yet, am I not now bewitched forever?
He knew this would be the last day. His eyes wandered past the window to the outside world. Light clouds floated in a deep blue sky, gulls soared: LIFE! He sighed, turning to the still form on the bed. How quickly the disease had ravaged her body and dashed all their hopes! First, the diagnosis, then the loss of the baby, then the pneumonia. She never had a chance. He had accompanied her through it all, from specialists, to treatment clinic, to hospital. Now at the end, exhausted, beyond hope, beyond anger, beyond even despair, he searched for meaning.
An agnostic, Jerry didn’t understand the strange power that had sustained Karen through the entire ordeal. The sudden illness, loss, and approaching death had seemed a strange, confusing experience to her, not the terror that had haunted him. Granted, there hadn’t been much time to think, to rage, to indulge in self-pity; only constant adjustments to the unexpected. The bad news followed so quickly, she just bounced between the shocks. She cried only once: when the baby died.
He mused, “If I believed, would it have made a difference? Was there a way I didn’t see? When we hiked together and sang, laughing to the echo of our voices in the mountains, we never doubted that life was ours to last: did we trust in lies? Is this an exit… or an entrance? Can anyone know?”
She moaned and moved slightly, opening her eyes. Bending over her, hoping she would whisper something to remember, to hold on to, he gazed into the gentle eyes reflecting a soul filled with love and life. “Yes honey?”
With the last of her waning strength she reached out. He held her emaciated fingers gently. She blinked her eyes. He had to kneel down beside her bed to catch her words.
She whispered, “It’s both an exit and an entrance, Jerry. I’ve seen it. Everything’s OK…” A long pause, then, “Don’t grieve anymore, please. Go find your life again and set us both free. I love you. I will always love you…”
Her hand went limp; her eyes closed halfway: she was gone.
The empty feeling he had expected didn’t materialize. Despite the impossible, he felt lighter, happier, as if a great burden had somehow been lifted from his shoulders. He straightened and looked out the window. The sky had turned a rose-pink. The gulls were now flying in a single direction, swift, purposeful.
One rose from the rooftop of the hospital and after performing a graceful loop before the window, joined the others.
"I understand now. Yes! I really do! Everything has its own reason and purpose -everything. Thank you, Karen... Good-bye!"
He pressed the buzzer summoning the duty nurse and walked out into the sunlight: he had an appointment to keep.
“Rage, O winds!
Thunder mighty seas!
Crash upon the rocks of time;
defeat them, grain by grain;
each a memory
scattered with purpose
upon the vast expanse
of my watery world
where lie the remnants
of golden Atlantis.”
Long ago, but in this past;
in pouring rains and pounding surf
a Mermaid clung tightly
to cold, dark granite rocks
for days seemingly without end,
her fingers dug painfully
upon the cutting edges
of Earth’s young stone.
The rains lessened with time:
she felt the changes
in the swollen tides;
she tasted the winds
full of the rot of exposed death.
But the air became clear—
Earth’s mighty thirst
quenched by the deluge
and she knew then
life would once again
drape in emerald hues
the alien lands of Earth.
Her time had come:
she dreamt a soft sandy shore
under a protective cliff
of soft white stone
and there brought forth
her first born from the sea
while a Mer-Lin watched
in deep amazement.
Hah! I hear you say, heaven, indeed:
who knows what that means?
Who has been there and come back
to assure the rest of us that such a place exists?
Yet, I must ask this: If there is no such place;
if life is this and nothing else,
why don’t we all live the same lives,
experience the same things?
We say “hope springs eternal in the human breast…”
and I ask you: where then, does hope come from?
So, let me say this:
if humans lived a life of pure, blissful love
for each other, for all things making life beautiful,
wouldn’t that in itself qualify as heaven?
Why do we have to think that “heaven”
is necessarily some place else?
Why couldn’t earth be heaven?
Don’t get mad, don’t get upset…
its just a thought…
or perhaps too much of a challenge?
fogs lift slowly
from sleepy valleys
to remote barren hills
fogs lift and part
a ribbon of sunshine
down narrow draws
to timber line
above rising clouds
domain of ice and snow
lichens and mosses
bloom and shiver
in the restless breeze
among coal-black rocks
and gentle dreams
above drifting fogs.
It followed a rutted dirt road along the north edge of the property, carrying on in the open for half a mile, then entering “the slough.” It emerged from the stunted black willows and coarse grasses, to climb over a small hill, disappearing from sight.
You could say there was nothing special about that fence, that is, you who haven’t worked on it or experienced it. For me, it was there, big as life. It was filled with memories, not only of the sultry days spent trying to drill the hardened clay, or fighting the swarms of hungry mosquitoes in the stagnant waters of the slough, but of other, related memories of that time. Being young and in love gave me a sense of wisdom and strength. Possessing a horse, a dog, and a rifle gave me a sense of power, following in the footsteps of my heroes such as Daniel Boone, or the Lone Ranger, or Davy Crockett, among others, populating an illusory time. It is all a bit like some sort of distant black and white movie now, playing in the deep recesses of my mind.
Yet, the snowshoes, made out of drilled out pieces of plywood and twine which worked remarkably well, come back to mind… as does that episode in the harsh winter of ‘fifty nine, one day before Christmas. Walking from the farm yard into the deep, soft snows of the silent woods, I slipped on the snowshoes, dragging them over the endless drifts brought in by a series of blizzards, following the edge of the gully northward to the corner of the north fence and sighted along its straight edge.
Only parts of it still protruded out of the snow. Most of it was buried in drifts, as was the road which only horse-drawn sleighs could now use. This was semi-open country and another blizzard was rising. The snow drifted steadily, swirling from darkening clouds. Everything, the snow, the sky, the very air, seemed imbued with greyness. Protected by a raised mittened hand, my squinting eyes scanned the fields: the snow moved like giant waves on a demented ocean; the wind whined in the few strands of barbed wire still exposed above the rising drifts. Standing alone, poised on the edge of another adventure, exhilaration and fear filled my heart. This was my day, and it wasn’t going to be wasted staying in the house playing silly games… or worse, doing remedial studies or plain homework. No, this was a perfect day to test my skills against the storm and the harsh, open country which seemed to dare me.
The dog, that coward mongrel collie/shepherd cross, sniffed the air with that seeking up and down nose motion of all canines and slunk back to the woods and the security of his kennel and bones. Riding was out of the question: too dangerous, with ice under the snow. The winter before, a friend had been killed while galloping his horse in such a manner. The horse had slipped on hidden ice and thrown him into a tree, breaking his neck instantly. These harsh lessons were accepted as part of life: we were of a tough, survival breed.
Half a mile away, the edge of the frozen slough, covered with some four feet of snow, provided a distant, fading dark-grey patch on the fading horizon. That would be my first goal. The north fence offered guidance, providing the added enjoyment of a feeling of height while dragging my home-made ‘shoes across the top wire. Eventually, the slough materialized through the squalls as a series of half-buried clumps of black willow. It was simple to cross, walking around the tops of the willows, but emerging on the west side, facing the hill, the question arose: should I continue? The snow had increased, as had the wind. My luminous dial Bulova watch, a gift of my thirteenth birthday, indicated eleven o’clock. Still lots of time to do some more exploring, to pretend being lost in a Prairie blizzard, pitting my strength against the storm, daring it, while thinking about the stories of men lost in such storms falling asleep in a snow drift, their bodies found later in the thaw, partially eaten by hungry coyotes.
It was easier to slip the snowshoes off to climb the hill as the ice forming under my moccasins made me slip. I dragged myself through the deepening snow and reached the top to a new perspective. All was now a uniform grey-white. The dark outline of protective evergreens around the farmyard was gone. This was wilderness, the only life to be accidentally sighted would be a ghostly snowy owl, a half-witted field mouse or the ubiquitous coyotes slinking about in the drifts and brush, hunting warily. I slipped the small rifle from my back and checked it. Everything functioned properly: no frozen parts. It had a magazine of fourteen extra-long shells, plus one in the chamber. The balance of the box was kept safely in a deep parka pocket zipped shut. A box of matches was equally safely stored in another pocket -you never, ever, carry matches and bullets in the same pocket! The horn-handled hunting knife was safely in its sheath under the parka. The small hatchet was safely tucked in my belt.
This had the crazy excitement of a daredevil act, but always with a calculated reason: to discover, in some sort of inarticulate way, what sort of person stood there, alone in the storm. It was the unmasking of one more fear, as I had beaten my fear of heights earlier that year by climbing the highest evergreen on the land and, swinging wildly from its swaying top had extended a hand to reach its nearest neighbour, letting go and crashing safely into the other top. The incredible thrill of discovering these strengths!
Taking a last bearing from the north fence, I headed in a general south-west direction. As expected, my path soon crossed the first wind-break, a thin band of denuded white poplars, willows and birches. Another field to cross and the next windbreak would materialize out of the swirling blanket of driving snow. Despite subconscious fears, inside my clothes my skin tingled with warmth and well-being. There was a sense of being truly alive in this experience.
One moment, a fleeting shadow crossed my eyesight, but the ice building on my eyelashes and the fur of the parka’s hood, blurred my vision. What was it? A timber wolf? Not likely. Probably a coyote, and there would be more. Despite my best intentions, my imagination began again to race with tales of horror and dread. It became necessary to control the senseless panic, the silly questions, such as: “Why aren’t you safe in the house reading or playing chess with your brothers? Why are you out here, trying to get lost in the snow? What if something attacks now?” These primordial fears were trying to make me turn around, to give up, to conform me to a life of safety and comfort. I grew angry at myself: “Shut up! This is a real adventure. Leave me alone!”
It was at that moment of inner struggle that the straw stack, blown upon another wind-break by the threshing machine in the fall, materialized in the swirling gloom. The strain of the arduous walk made me want to run to it and dig in to rest in its warmth for a time -oh yes, dry straw covered in snow is very, very warm, believe me, especially in the midst of a blizzard!
Despite the storm, now in its full force, I sensed an indefinable something around me. I approached carefully, unslinging the rifle… momentarily feeling like some mighty hunter stalking a dangerous prey. Yes, there was something, more than feeling. Cautiously, pulling off the hood of the parka to increase peripheral vision, I circled the stack and peered all around its base. The source of my unease was revealed by a black hole, fringed with hoar-frost, leading into the stack. I knew what that meant: a bear had taken domicile in that straw stack!
Time to think. One: I could be the mighty hunter and crawl in there and shoot the bear… with a twenty-two? Two: I could circle to the other side and crawl in myself, see if I could get close enough to hear the animal snore… or whatever bears do in hibernation. That would make a brave-sounding story, but who would believe it? Three: I could turn quietly and head back home, following the faint traces that remained of my trail. Soon the chores would start: time to head back anyway.
Shouldering the useless rifle and heading back was a simple matter. The trail was mostly covered, but something inside acted as a compass. Once in a while, although aware the bear was probably in deep hibernation, I fought the hood of my parka to peer backward into the gloom and shifting waves of snow. As the light continued to fade, eerie forms and shapes danced behind me, their spectral laughter calling in the wind. This was due to fear and panic, of course, but control was difficult to maintain, nevertheless. Driven by these apparitions, the first windbreak was crossed, the hill reached and climbed, the north fence found and followed along its straight line back to the gully and the protective evergreens.
Yes, it had been a perfect adventure, one to provide fuel for the imagination for some time to come!
and war memorials
make no bones about it:
they are about the dead.
But the city, now,
is another story,
Here, people hustle and rush
to and fro, doing this,
But who are the dead?
Those who lie quietly underground;
whose names are etched in brass?
Or those who run about
mindlessly making more
of what is already too much?
Those who punch in
too early for death;
too late for life;
who live in twisted shadows
of flickering fluorescence
and shrill neon?
Who run through smog
chased by a million
“Out of my way!
I have an appointment
at the clusterfuck.”?
Sidewalk slick with early Winter rain nor yet icy,
not yet sleet nor snow, undecided
sometime in afternoon
after school has closed
she walks alone under crying maples
by the ancient cemetery so full of old ghosts,
parka neatly closed, head in false fur-lined hood
a soft brown face smiling at life, at
everything in particular,
brown eyes watching natural, guileless
not warily, not yet, not yet
under long eyelashes collecting raindrops.
A human child, perhaps of nine years,
perhaps of ten or twelve, a native child,
perhaps happy in childhood fantasies
quite innocent, still
full of wonder and latent trust
considering an open deck
of life cards not yet dealt,
table not yet filled of card sharks and cheats.
I drive by and I see her again at that time
walking alone. Smiling. Of course.
Then she is no longer there:
for the cards were dealt viciously, cruelly
and she lost, not just the hand but the game.
Under a pile of leaves, she was hidden
some days, some weeks later perhaps, found
and I wondered when I heard
realizing it was she, the little earth angel
of sidewalk slick with early Winter cold, wet,
not yet icy, undecided,
of neatly closed parka and head in false fur hood
who smiled at something no one could see
now no longer here to bring it life:
O Earth, thou hast truly been cursed in your ways,
in all your sickened wayward ways
for what kind of world kills its child angels?
Can you stop your madness, if for a moment
and answer that One question
for an occupant?
I’ve now realized that expanded consciousness is not what is generally thought it is. Nor are the results of being in such a state what is generally taught.
For people who go on this trip through formally organized processes – retreats, group sessions, lectures, seminars, book readings and daily meditation, it becomes a matter of adding new tricks to the already learned routines. Interesting observation is that this process has no lasting value. Some people get hooked and spend their time and resources following these processes while the rest of their lives remain unchanged or get worse. Some even turn to drugs to effect change. There is no difference in this than you find in people who run from doctor to therapist to legal drugs, involving themselves in processes that show little or no improvement to their actual physical/mental conditions. They simply become increasingly dependent on those who “prescribe”.
I’m not sure I have a definite “way” to clearly explain how one arrives at a state of expanded consciousness. I don’t think it can be done consciously at all. One of life’s contradictions. You see, what we expect to be able to accomplish in a state of expanded consciousness is what we have to do – BEFORE – we reach that state. Expanded consciousness is a result of some choice made that caused a sudden and dramatic change to the way we were used to living.
One does not seek expanded consciousness – nor, must I add, does one ever actually reach such a state. It’s also part of the never-ending story. Expanded consciousness is a journey without end. All we can hope for, having determined to change, is to notice consciously that we are changing. But not just “changing” – but breaking society’s programming. Daring to go forward along paths no one else has walked, though some may have had similar treks.
Expanded consciousness is not sought for its own sake. It happens because I made a change. Having made that change, stuck with it, pushed it past limits my mind would have set and having seen this expanded awareness in myself, how does that differ from what I’d been told, or had read about?
Expanded consciousness is uncomfortable. So many things once taken for granted and still the norm among peers and friends are now seen for what they often are: mindless stupidity. Name almost anything the vast majority of “Earthians” run after and the higher state of mind will cringe. Think of belief systems, almost any institution relied upon, the quests for security, safety, pleasure and comfort, how people enter into their various relationships and what they do with them; the self-blinding acceptance of how the rich and powerful manipulate, how they lie, cheat, destroy, poison and murder to enhance their positions; tolerance of gross injustice and violence and participation in such; the horrors done in the name of greed. I could go on.
Expanded consciousness will turn on you if you try to cut corners or give pretexts or excuses for skimming. It cuts to the chase with every thought, every word, every deed. The light shines within 24/7 – and only gets brighter. Your tiniest “failure” to follow your own prescribed path screams at you when the new system runs a diagnostic – and these diagnostics are pre-set and cannot be turned off. Every thought-form is analyzed and the results publicized in the mind so all know: will, heart and body. Your words receive much more than a cursory “spell check” – they are instantly compared to your previous accomplishments. If your words run ahead because, let’s face it, talk is cheap, and you have not made a mental note of this you will be labeled a hypocrite. And why not, if the shoe fits? Would you expect any less of this new thing if it is to be trustworthy?
Then come the deeds. Since my state of expanded consciousness came as a result of setting upon a path of detachment, compassion and accompanying “lofty” ideals, the new system will also scrutinize each deed and mirror them against the stated ideals. Whenever they fail to measure up – and would it surprise anyone to learn they often DO NOT? – I am called to account for the failure. It isn’t “blame” or “judgment” in the classic sense. There is no condemnation. It’s a simple assessment that tells me my books don’t balance and if I don’t correct this problem immediately I’m going to be in thoroughly deeper shit with each new step off the path. When it comes to accounting the Golden Path does not allow any math to lie. You cannot run this business with two sets of books.
Expanded consciousness is irreversible. What I know; what I have seen of the past; what I gather of the future – that is now absolutely real. Referring back to my “Stacked Worlds” scenarios, yes things could change in my favor. I may not have to engage the path given to me by YLea as a result of my requests for a definite future. But I am living this reality now. Already, I am working on ways to enter the world I mentioned and how I can use what I know to make a significant difference there. Expanded consciousness does not allow escape from commitments, not even momentary ones. It demands total commitment and self-sacrifice.
Finally, is it a difficult path? Only if one is blind to what is going on here, on this world. By comparison to the terrible apathy and utter madness of violence that characterizes modern Earthian man, the Golden Path is kind, gentle, generous, even sweet. All that is required to sustain it is to have one’s vision on the greater picture: to finally succeed in becoming fully human, breaking free of the caricature or cartoon character the “Powers” have made us into.
“For of what value is it to a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul? And what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” (paraphrasing Jesus – from memory)
Life is a stream all must cross
and we step from stone to stone,
each intervening space a problem to solve:
each secure step a challenge overcome:
Endless decisions, endless choices.
Makes me want to ask:
Where do problems originate?
Do we create them from ignorance?
Do we inherit others’ mistakes?
These endless dilemmas:
are they nature’s way to select
those more fit to survive the test?
I don’t know, but this I’ve noticed:
There are those who love problems;
who love the taunting of opposition.
who rise to the challenge presented;
who step, jump, vault, from stone to stone
and they make it seem so easy!
Come to think of it:
are we not all a bit that way,
in our own way?
There is a star in the night sky,
one that shines for me alone;
one I have tried to reach,
yet the closer I seem to get,
at certain times,
the farther away it appears
the very next night.
Will I ever reach that star
I have followed so faithfully?
Just then an old man passing by
seemed to read my thoughts:
“I, for one, am thankful,
the star I have been striving for
remains ever out of reach;
then I can continue to seek it,
and in doing so,
I can find countless ways,
to walk through this life.
“When my focus is on that star,
and not on the worlds I pass through,
chances are I will enrich these worlds,
as I use them as stepping stones,
dancing over them lightly
while going on my own way.
The cosmic dancer
does not desecrate the stage
nor step falsely to the music --
she is the dance!”
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?
The following subject is difficult to express. It follows from many queries and replies I’ve received and studied.
The history of man is one of terrible consequences from ignorant and uncaring behaviour; a history written in bloodshed and violent death; a history of oppression, extortion, war, bloody revolutions, genocide and now planeticide. What is not recorded is no better than what is. Man, by his own records, is a creature that loves to interact with violence and loves to inflict pain on others, particularly on those who cannot defend themselves, including other humans. Most species do not naturally oppress and kill their own kind to take their resources.
While the written record is but an overview, it says much as regards man’s inauspicious beginnings. For lack of anything better (and yes, I’ve studied researched material and documents based on archeological discoveries) I’m referring, once again, to that ancient and much maligned and mostly misunderstood book called by the Jews (Hebrews) The Torah (Old Testament of the Bible).
It is said that man was “created” in the image of his God. It is also clearly stated that this “God” was plural in nature (an embarrassment to modern Christianity and Judaism, but not to the ancients who “knew” these gods in a very personal way.) and that they interacted physically with humans. The Edenic episode reveals this God to be fearful, petty, jealous, vengeful and easily angered. He loved to play mind games with his creatures. The account also reveals – in clear and certain terms – that this God was very much a physical being. Later, as the story develops we find that this great God is more than a genocidal maniac: he decides to annihilate an entire sentient species from the planet, even if he has to kill every air-breathing creature along with man – which he proceeds to do, seeing as there is no one around to stop him (or so we’re asked to believe).
He failed of course and the global stories of survival of a few humans and animals say volumes about that episode. Someone else saved humanity by disobeying a divine order. The story was subsequently re-written so that this Edenic God could get credit for saving Noah’s life and that of his immediate family, as well as a cross-section of EVERY air-breathing creature then in existence – all sharing a sealed accommodation aboard a tiny wooden ship without sails or rudder for something like over a year. Thank God for miracles – I could have used some of that in the barns I’ve worked in.
Important to keep in mind that “man” was the lucky recipient of such a mind; the replicant who was programmed to emulate his “God” – no matter what. The program included an unsupportable “fact” – that this particular creator or cloner was the One and Only God of all that is. Now we have history and we have archeological evidence that much of what is claimed in Genesis is political window dressing and damage control for a physical entity which today would be called “alien”.
So far I haven’t said anything new. It’s all there: read it and weep. Weep, for man was indeed created in the image of his God – a fearful and violent God. At his basic humanity, man is like God – violent and misogynistic. His genocidal mania is also a trait from his God – for God orders his followers to commit genocide in any land they are to “inherit” – namely Canaan or Palestine – a land of simple agricultural people who at the time of the Hebrew invasion existed in relative harmony. But it was a land that, unfortunately, was rich in resources and whose people did not know the God of Israel and worshipped other gods and goddesses, thus bringing upon themselves the terrible wrath of the Lord God.
The rest of Earthian history predictably follows. Populations expand, exploiting, oppressing and killing each other in the name of their One and Only God who cannot abide any other group also worshipping this One and Only God. Of course in recent times under the European empires, the industrial revolution and the fascist capitalistic imperialism of the New World Order the killing is not necessarily done at the behest of the olden divinities such as Yahweh and Allah et al,. They are given credit, of course – the programming still runs its course, even in the most depraved minds ruling this planet. But the great powers and their satellites worship Money and bureaucratic power under an elitist system called a “Meritocracy.” And as long as the “Lord God” gets His cut, I don’t hear Him complaining about global conditions.
So are we in a winless quandary? Having this mind of God and His gift of a soul which makes us need to believe in Him as well as guaranteeing that we will continue to be bloodthirsty genocidal maniacs and planet killers who would sooner curse than care, how do we pull ourselves out of this mire if all we have to pull on are our own bootstraps?
Maybe we can engineer the “straps” in a way that they pull us out. I’m no engineer but sometimes “engineering” is a simple matter of common sense. Of understanding existing conditions; the current paradigms. We have to do the “If, if, then” reasoning.
If we are created in the image of God and if history (quite apart from wishful thinking and false Biblical exegesis) clearly demonstrates that God is a violent and hateful being, then it follows that we are violent and hateful creatures whose primary motivation is based on fear and leads to senseless competitiveness and destruction.
If we accept the above and if we choose not to remain impotent slaves of this divine mindset then we can change the paradigm.
It is abundantly clear, after thousands of years of failed attempts to fix the old system, that a new beginning based on an entirely new way of thinking is needed. Based on what I said above, it should be quite clear what kind of change of mind will be required to bring about that long-awaited new beginning.
I’m wondering if anyone else is evolving along the same brain wave?
I have experienced
that giving has a natural flow;
flowers open to receive their gift
of sun and rain,
then splash vibrant colors
across a green canvas;
green things feed elk, deer and caribou.
pollen and seeds abound
for insects and birds to live upon.
Can I emulate this giving side of nature?
when I give freely,
wanting nothing in return,
the energy of plenty attracts;
I receive much more
than I ever gave away.
The act of taking is energy-wise inefficient:
it requires great expenditure of energy
to indulge the illusion of ‘taking’ -
for ‘taking’ is repulsive energy:
that which one seeks is pushed away
and must be chased… or lost.
All organized ‘Systems’ are takers:
governments, banks, businesses or churches;
they all chase the illusive ‘dollar’
and all wallow in dishonesty and corruption.
When we understand how energy flows
we can see it could not be otherwise,
for taking causes an ever-growing debt;
a net loss of ‘income’ or gift of life.
Corruption and lies are inevitable
to hide the loss and keep the power:
“In God we trust!” says Mr. Dollar.
A sylvan mountain lake
mirrors spires of rock, snow and sky;
spreads an angels’ paradise
beneath my tired feet:
I sense a gentle presence
as a rush of sublime love;
my soul sighs, my spirit rises
soaring above the land, absorbed
in divine light,
in strength, beauty, gentleness
and peace about all things.
I sail high in a sapphire sky;
The wind becomes my friend:
I Am! I cry, becoming an eagle,
seeing, experiencing, feeling,
exuberant in total weightlessness,
filled with adoration for all things;
After a timeless moment in flight
strong energy beckons me back,
returning me to my prone body.
I feel the pounding of my heart,
physical reality in pebbled grass
but forever and profoundly changed
by this love experience.
Now aware my life had been
but a chasing after the wind,
a feeding of the ego’s desires,
now conquered, vanished, replaced,
by the simplest of truths: the necessity
to share this love with all.
“Time doesn’t seem to pass here: it just is.” (Fellowship of the Ring – in Rivendell)
Time: the background ticking of the Great Universal Clock built by the Time Lords eons ago.
But what of time? It is no more than a mere arbitrary measure, yet so much is made of it here – and on other worlds. It is nothing – nothing at all within infinity. The flow of life and its seasons are none of them bound by the concept of time. Time may, for some, measure their doings and their passing, but time does not cause any of it.
The great flow existed before time was invented and will continue on, after time ceases to exist.
Therefore, time as a concept of power, is a most terrible prison because it is believed in while yet a complete illusion.
It has become such an important aspect of human life. As is the case with money, the symbol has supplanted the reality of things. Decadent thinking leads to death – the legacy of time-bound thinking.
So think, could acceptance of “Time” as a Power be one of the aspects of life on Earth that continue to foil Earthians as they seek to make their place in the world truly better? Could it be the cause of the continuing demise of all great societies and the tragic failure of man’s hopes of a better life to ever manifest? Why all we accomplish becomes nothing but dust in the wind?
Dust in the Wind -- Kansas
I close my eyes only for a moment, then the moment’s gone
All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity
All they are is dust in the wind.
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see
All we are is dust in the wind.
Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky
And all your money won’t another minute buy
Everything is dust in the wind
Drillers of liquid black gold,
miners of shiny diamonds or black coal;
builders of glass penthouses above the clouds,
collectors of crucified butterflies:
Who are you who cannot feel?
You pollute your water and your air;
blow up big holes in the gentle soil;
you kill this and that at will
with a legal permit for show and tell:
who are you whose touch is death?
You destroy a living world
as if you had a home to return to,
not plundered; not abused, not diseased
somewhere in the vast universe.
Who are you to be so smug?
When this Earth lies in rack and ruin;
when you lie gasping for air and water;
will your alien parents sweep down
in shiny mother ships to rescue you?
Who are you to be so blind?
Aliens on this planet is who you are;
children of pirates, thieves and murderers:
you have not changed; you have not learned -
this world no longer abides your presence:
Pray the ships are not long coming!
And pray your ancient worlds
were not destroyed by others just like you
when they passed by…
If, as some so boldly claim
we are divine masters,
there is but one way I can see
to experience this unusual idea.
That would mean:
live a kind, gentle and loving way;
be willing to see beyond
the childish ways of society;
beyond the fear and selfishness.
What does a divine master do,
but bring fire to a cold hearth;
set a light within pervasive darkness?
Teach anyone willing to hear
that whatever they may have done,
wherever they may have been,
to brighten the darkened corners;
to view enemies as neighbours
and neighbours, with love!
The task at hand is pretty simple:
heightening spiritual awareness
to new levels of understanding.
There is but one tool that can do this,
but one key that fits this door
and I call it… compassion.
Slowly and in obvious gradations, I was taught, and learned, to contemplate endlessly living: I AM -- "spirit" entity ever going through life, in life, with life.
A participating observer contemplating aeons in endless space while toying with the remembrance of what I had been, what I am (knowing now I move too fast to ever know that aspect of me), what I choose to project myself into: so many variants. A speck of dust, plasma, light, wind, water, biological freak. Mutating, changing, disappearing to reappear along the Great Way… without end.
This is truly exciting. This amazing nature that can morph itself to effectively match every change in circumstances. Observe the flow, swim alongside of it… jump in!
Find a new expression (say as an Earthian human) and if you use an acceptable pattern of introduction (the birth process), who’s to know you’re just a hitchhiker? Only those who also know, who do their laughing and crying inwardly. Logically.
Feelings are for surface people.
A surface person? How about a re-incarnation in a short-lived, overly complex mammalian form so taken for granted by those who have forgotten the depths? What could be riddled with more feelings? What could be a greater riddle?
Does it matter billions of ISSA beings insist on thrashing about in their small polluted pond unaware that an ocean awaits just a thought beyond?
To the one who has ridden that thought and tasted that ocean, it does not. But if that same one has learned compassion through service, life then beckons in reverse. Time to redeem. Time to plow, blending joy with sorrow. Carry the surface image, live below in the depths.
Searching for a word to bless the meaning of life with, I chose “effervescence.”
To discover one’s reality within life is an outbreak, a bubbling, the accompaniment of a stormy turbulence. Life never sleeps, though it may certainly hibernate. A pause, that’s all. Then an awakening filled with an awe that quickly turns to hunger.
Will that hunger be that of the predator, or that of the redeemer?
The world understands the predator. He can slake his thirst in blood, satisfy his hunger in flesh easily enough.
What does the redeemer find here?
“Yes” I replied somewhat hesitant
to the question (no one had asked) --
it seemed proper to answer the silence:
questions unanswered get lonely.
“No” I replied a bit louder this time
to the same question (still not asked)
and listened for something stirring,
hidden perhaps before the next plane.
The moon silently slips behind a pall of smoke
and nothing walks beyond the ashes of the day.
A haunted wind hunts in darkened fields
chasing forth the too common smell of death.
“You answered wrong” (rasps the fetid wind)
scything through broken, shattered stalks—
it wasn’t a “yes” or a “no” question:
only those once alive here asked these.
Will the soft-hued moon ever appear again?
Will a radiant dawn light this empty valley?
Will a blazing sun drench the mountains?
Slowly passes Old Time in eternal night.
Brightly twinkling stars
in blackened evening skies
harboring orbiting planets
those worlds adorned
of diamond waterfalls
dazzling children who play
fearless under thunderous cascades.
Though yet to be equipped
with the knowledge to unlock
the eyes that see
into such far-away worlds,
I know those waterfalls
and glorious rainbows exist;
I know some day I will see -
and I will hear – those children
laughing in crystal waters
beneath those waterfalls.
These books contain a form of free verse poetry, essays, short stories, thoughts, 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.