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It's All About Your Future


It’s All About Your Future


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 pictures by: Top, Alfred Borchard

Bottom, Barun Patro


All pictures found on FreeImages.com


Space Picture: ESA/Hubble


I hope you enjoy these writings.Feedback is welcome.



A Man—A Survivor

A Path Maker

A Very Sad Tale In Rhyme

Against The Wind


Lady Marion, Lady Joy

Box Store Vision


Who Are The Dead?

My Beloved

No Tears


Outlook On Life

Reaching The Light

Did I Get That Right?

The Gift

Embrace All (Don’t Be Shy!)


The Immune System

Against Time


Elk Mountain

I Dream Of Tara

It’s All About Your Future


In My Search

Losing Sight


Sand To Sand

The Potter’s Hands


It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago



Tears In The Rain

The Tree


To Vote Or Not To Vote

Troubles Of Mind

A Living Entity

The Prophet’s Story – As Told By Earth And Sky

Winds Of Eternity

Living In

The Sea


Waging War On Society

Wild River

Will That Be Dust Or Ashes?

Woman Of The Sea

Wisdom Speak

Prayer Of The Innocent

Worn-Out Coat

You Took My Money, Where’s My Cure, Doc?

Tears In The Wind

No More Secrets

Speak To Me Or Do Not

Future Child

The Sacrifice

Too Early Spring

What Does God Mean?

Who Cares?

Before All Ends

Two Storms



Wind Dancer


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.

A Man—A Survivor

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.

At times,

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.

A Path Maker

A path maker,

beats a track in deep snow,

walking to, then fro,

so older ones,

those not so sure of foot,

smaller of stature,

or a woman with child in arm

can get through without stumbling.


In his dream, the path maker

helps people along their own way;

he extends a helping hand,

a kind thought,

offers an encouraging word

to make a memory from a smile…


I realize how each individual

must walk his own path.

This does not mean, however

one cannot place a few markers

along the trackless void.

A Very Sad Tale In Rhyme

I was walking through a very nice wood

which is what I proclaimed as loud as I could

when they all objected as I knew they would

and to stop listening I pulled up my hood.


There came a pink train with a car or ten

at what time you ask, well I don’t know when

and you should know this did not happen then

but only after all the pigs got locked in their pen.


The pink train huffed and puffed at a pretty pace

and of its passage it left not one trace

save that on my left shoe was a broken lace

which wither I pulled I could not unlace.


A puffing came the train rounding a hill

the noise from its whistle came out rather shrill

while round about the land stood solemn and still

and the ticket-master introduced himself as Bill.


Out came a thousand tickets in great fanfare

as the ticket-master punched and said, ‘beware!

I can spot a fake ticket, or even a silly pair’

and scowling he said, ‘fool me if you dare’


Now came the station as pretty as you please

and round-about the land was a bowl of green peas

so inviting it seemed, as for to give great ease

when a great buzzing came, as from a million bees


A man in a black hat stepped boldly forward

and said, if you please, my name is Edward

had you paid attention, at the start you’d have heard

this is my train, I travel with my bird.


Said a green parrot who just loved to be heard,

‘he travels with his bird, he travels with his bird,

not always the same bird, you see I’m the third

and of green feathers you can see I’m gird.’


The pretty station stood at the bottom of the vale

which if you know your history is much like a dale

and there lay the train neither hearty nor hale

So we come to the end of this very sad tale.


This story of course has a very good moral

much as some seas have islands of coral

and if this could talk the moral would be oral

and as for the writer, what but a crown of laurel?

Against The Wind

She was born to run against the wind;

knowing naught of walking lightly

in silken nightgown on a morning breeze.


Mother said: girl, you make it happen

no one else does it for you…

and she became a believer.


No stepping back from life’s thrust,

no time to create a peaceful, tranquil space

where uplifting thoughts could flow

to people her nights and fill her days.


A child was born to her; a man was lost

and in her joy, and in her pain,

she found the peace she’d never known

hidden within her own understanding.


She became a flowing river

winding her way through life,

allowing the course of events

to mold her, never enslave her.


She found herself moving forward

in laughing twists and crying turns,

adding new dreams to old, and in these,

finding hidden paths to unknown places.


Finally she saw the child grow strong;

free in the world she had nurtured.


embarrassed (more than slightly)

by my silly humanity

its disconnected deeds

glaring, raucous,

destructive witness against itself…


I long for that time

that place I know

sure to be revealed

to be opened

to those whose desires

seek intuitively

such a place


in the universal mind

a world without end

without pain

without death

without this

human embarrassment

without this




thing of time we dare call


Lady Marion, Lady Joy

Fly South, today, Lady Marion,

to the ends of the Earth

Come share the River

and Walk the Sands of Time

once more with WindWalker…


The River flows

in all her Fall glory

garlanded in gently falling leaves;

she waits for You

after the rains.

It may be but for a Day

reckoned in Earth’s old Time

but Eternity will carefully mark

this Soul Passage

as Love in Flight

and when we leave

this Enchanted Place

Eagles will hold it secure

until another Slice of Time

connects it All again…


So come with me

Bringing your Joy

Bringing your Freedom

Bringing your Power

Bringing your Laughter:

Earth will supply the rest!

Box Store Vision

And it’s the year 2020

well naturally.

There’s a computer by the pharmacy

at the local wal-box, China-mart.

Slip in your card, enter

password and etc.,

look directly in the camera,

pictured center screen.

Press for “voice” and follow

the friendly prompts.

Colors, symbols, pictures

and a bit of your Facebook page

with your Google mail address

and map of your back-yard, front

door. And you

eating breakfast: “Can you describe

what you had for breakfast?

and your mother’s maiden name


That’s it.

Press “choose”

for a new pair of glasses.

Go. Wait.

2 days delivery: a drone

buzzes your door and there,

your new $39.99 + taxes glasses

in bubble pack:

30 minutes of careful unpacking,

to reveal, as expected, not yours,

of course, wrong name, wrong street,

wrong town, wrong province,

wrong country. Wrong everything.

Did you really expect anything?

Nice glasses though.


White: an empty canvass waiting for the

splash of colour

White: wispy, aimless, rainless clouds

teasing a parched land

White: fog: hiding, camouflaging, confusing

changing without change

White: sun-fearing, hiding, creeping, silent

death sucking saprophyte

White: superior human skin, vain and proud,

afraid of light

White: creaseless virgin sheets proudly

unknowing love

White: snowy web of changeless lifelessness

inert time before life

White: garments of prejudice preventing

perceptions of shame

White: ghostly night-wrought smell of death

illuminated by a burning cross

White: the spectral mantle of power ruling

dying worlds.

White: purity without the mark of passion

shade of nothingness.

Who Are The Dead?

Skeleton parks

of graveyards

and war memorials

make no bones about it:

they are about the dead.


But the city, now,

is another story,

another show.

Here, people hustle and rush

to and fro, doing this,

un-doing that.


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.”?

My Beloved

How swiftly did death take my beloved

at age twenty two they buried her:

her body lies under the maple tree.


I look out of the kitchen window

just before dawn;

I remember watching the birds feed;

remember her delight in hearing their songs;

I cry as her face crosses my aging mind:

it was yesterday we walked along the river bank,

planning our certain future…


I still feel the warm kiss upon my lips

as my hands caress her slender body,

feeling her hand clenched tightly in mine.


The warming breath of dawn draws near:

my heart swells with gratitude

for the short time she was my joy:

a last star twinkles in the sky like her last smile.


How I have missed her in the years;

yet how I have felt her indwelling spirit

keep my heart from bitterness,

unlocking the door; releasing the pain

allowing our love to continue to flow

from here to eternity.

No Tears

An old man sitting on a bench

and I

both of us watching a sunrise

in Springtime- years ago.

He turned to me

and spoke of his youth:


My old man was a mean bastard

and I grew up hating the S.O.B.

he said, looking at the sky

My mother raised me.

She was a kind and gentle person

and I think she really loved me.


But you know what

he said more quietly

when my mother died

I couldn’t cry for her

and no tears would flow

but when my old man died

I cried

like there was no tomorrow.


Once upon a time, I (the child)

knew nothing of life: I

(the man)

followed my fathers’ footsteps

cutting down trees, digging holes,

and putting up fences and walls

Keeping in and keeping out

my possessions and insecurity.


I never stopped to think

why I was doing this: everyone

was doing it -why not me?


Who would look after (me) if not (me)?

Without a fence, my things

could easily get lost

on someone else’s land…

Without a wall, my world

could easily get changed

by someone’s interference…


But all that changed one day

(no, I don’t know why it should)

I heard the voice of the Spirit:


He asked me what I was doing

(I told him what I was doing)

He asked me why I was doing it

(I told him why I was doing it)


He said:

come here and listen:

I know a better way.


You work so hard for food that spoils

When it’s already laid before you:

but you forget that nothing

of value is ever

l o s t


You are one with everything

Do not separate yourself

from your environment

for if you do -you will die.

Do not build fences or walls

they poison the life

I’ve given you.

Outlook On Life

In the soft light of morning

an alpine meadow awakens

as it arches away from me

into the remaining shadows

cast by distant rocky peaks.


In the silence of the dawn

flowers cautiously open

to welcome the sun’s light.

Bright diamonds of dew

sparkle on leaves and stems

spreading colour upon colour:

what awesome beauty!

I think to myself

standing here alone, silent watcher

casting a restful glance

upon the first day of light.


I cannot help but wonder

why so many choose the city.

The suffocating enclosed spaces

of its giant marketplaces;

its endless rush of traffic;

its fumes and gaudy artificial lights

and its painted artificial smiles

rouged by its inferno.


We have a choice, do we not?

If I stand here alone today,

why not another also?

The beauty that surrounds me,

the land offers free every day.

The feeling it gives me

could be that of another as well:

feeling of peace, of tranquillity,

of respect for life

and everything in it:

the city emasculates those feelings

but how many know this now?

Reaching The Light

Angry, pushing and shoving,

and someone loses it:

what should I do

when this happens to me?

Return eye for eye,

curse for curse?


How easy it is to say “yes!”

Negative thoughts run swift

under the dark of the moon;

when shadows replace love

deep in the night…

and how much night there is here.


Who shall shine the light

when there is no light to see by?

Who will calm the angry one?

Who will embrace the stranger who staggers

under the weight of old fears?

Under the whip of oppression?


Who, if not me?

If I love only those who love me,

of what use is that

when no one remembers the victim?

When those who have

forget those who do not?


These are my feelings

expressed in mere words.

And how useless are words

if my life does not demonstrate

in how I live it.

Did I Get That Right?

Sure the ideas are there

and where else could they be but “there”?

Thanks, don’t answer that; I’m not

trying to impress you, or me. Words, words,

oh, they’re so jumpy, today, so,

another piece of recyke hits the can,

un-carefully crushed -- I know,

I know, unpolitically incorrect: should

have been carefully folded

and stacked. And bagged. And binned.

And labelled: RECYCLED PAPER

Aye, but there’s the rub, I survived

from old school. Didn’t recyke

in ‘em days. At least not as

ostentatiously hypocritically as done now.

No politicians in white ties and

white-gloved hands-out legislating,

if not legalizing,

plethora’s of green fees (if

you care to know, we had no golf courses)

and no PC eco-freaks godlessly

praying to goddess mantises

of rain forest fame.

Can’t say I care much for all that eco-freaking,

fracking: you lose, you pay, I win. It’s all

so, so, so, well-oiled and tanked up(!)

this political/environmental bank rupturing


printing out fee samples in fee simple

as if there’d be no tomorrow. If we’re lucky,

there won’t be. And we’ll all be the richer

for having no future. Call it foresight.

The Gift

Do we recognize the Gift?

Winter’s snow falling gently

upon bowing evergreens;

the sun’s soft warming light

when life would seem too cold to bear;

the bright moon’s eerie ways

guiding us down midnight paths?


Do we recognize the Gift?

From some unfathomable depth,

perhaps from within ourselves,

from nature’s womb and cradle,

life courses, races through our blood,

fills our senses to the brim:

a Gift to be of value must be accepted,

understood, experienced.


The life we live, the times we have,

are they of our making…

Or is it a Gift to be recognized?

We have played with life

as if it was some toy;

as if it could be broken, discarded

and another would be found…

Does our knowledge of life

not tell us otherwise?

Are we but a memory in the making?

A mist passing through time and space?


“This gift of life man takes for granted,

Who is the Owner and final judge

of use or misuse?”

Embrace All (Don’t Be Shy!)

Embrace all who enter your life,

the young, the old, the weak, the strong

friends and strangers, gather ye ‘round the table!

For whatever reason exists, let them sit:

are they here to be awakened by growing wisdom

or to share a changed outlook

following a massive Earth change?

Or are they of those who come to enlighten,

to increase awareness within this duality,

bringing experiences from life in the beyond?


Embrace all who enter your life, friend or foe

and you will surely know who you are!

How else can you transmute energies

from this obsolete and dangerous system,

or help another seeker through his transition?


Help each other discover knowledge

from sharing dreams that seem to make no sense;

from speaking of other worlds seen in the shadows;

not forgetting to understand this world

through this experience in broadened perspective.


Be ‘off the wall’ and who really cares

if you come across as really “out there?”

You’ll still walk those streets tomorrow,

‘cause the System’s shut down its loony bins

due to a perceived lack of funding…

you can have the last laugh, Oh, yes!


fogs lift slowly

from sleepy valleys

to remote barren hills


fogs lift and part

a ribbon of sunshine


down narrow draws


high-faced bluffs


to timber line

above rising clouds

domain of ice and snow

lichens and mosses


wild anemones

bloom and shiver

in the restless breeze


curious marmots

stand innocently

among coal-black rocks


quiet beauty

and gentle dreams

still exist

above drifting fogs.

The Immune System

America: the coddled society

with drugs are a-plenty

pill pushers – doctors – more!

so eager to give you paradise.


Feel a little ill, feel a little pain

rush to the doc’s office to complain:

take a routine examination

and what do you get?

a routine prescription, that’s what.


Rush to the drug store,

don’t wait to get it filled,

pop, pop! POP ‘em all!!!

the red pill, the blue pill, the white one,

now everything’s OK,

you can watch TV again -

no head-ache, no pain,

need something else to complain.


But what are flu’s and colds and such:

Diseases? Signs of poor health?

Of course not!

They’re testing the immune system,

see if it’s working; if all is OK.

By-pass the test with a pill -

feel OK in the moment

but your immune system is not tested,

its batteries may be dead;

last upgrade not done

comes a deadly virus,

sorry, it is not there for you

your body becomes infected

and death not far away.


Choice: make yourself feel good -

pop that pill, relieve that ache, carry on

with the party, the game, whatever:

sooner or later the real thing comes

and you won’t know until too late

your immune system lacked an upgrade

and wasn’t standing by:

no response to the alarm.


Accept a cold, a flu, an odd ache and pain:

they’re there to test the system, not to kill.


“Every human being is the author of his own health or disease.”


Against Time

The River of Time flows faster

as one approaches its gaping mouth;

roaring waters echo wildly

through canyons of time-bound lives

seeking to escape the surging stream

into the unknown sea.


“Stop running away,” it says,

“I am life’s normal rhythm:

my flow cannot be reversed with fear.

Let my life-giving water become a mother

carrying a child: the soul of your life.


I am not an enemy,

I am the companion.

All that comes here

must reconcile with me

or fear me!


Give up the need to conquer,

the selfish demands crowding your mind,

the desire to win eating at your soul:

I can give you peace in this sojourn

as I must carry you to the portals of life.


Earth body,


to darkness,

will you see the light

in the morning?

Elk Mountain

In the first splash

of dawn-coloured hills,

the enchantment begins.


Through my portal of desire

I enter the forest,

beyond my senses.

The path I follow,

trod by angels’ feet,

brushed lightly by angels’ wings,

filled with angels’ laughter!


Beauty accompanies my heart;

love buoys my spirit;

joy cries to be recognized.


Dappled hues brighten

a peach-toned sunrise;

morning mists dissipate

in laughter and dew drops sparkling

a diamond on every little finger!


Here is the full glory announcing

a new mountain summer day.

I Dream Of Tara

Dark clouds roll in from the West

marking a change in the weather;

warmer air heralding Spring.


This is the time

for the return of Tara!

She will ride her dark stallion

from a far away land

beyond the distant horizon:

will she stop for me this season?


I remember the times we shared

which passed as love to me,

But what were they to her?

Spring and Summer

she laughingly shared with me

as she did with others…


She left in the Autumn,

springing away lightly

over wildly tossing waves

on her shoreless ocean:

left me yearning for her touch

as Winter cast her frigid spell,

in the wake of her leaving…


I wonder:

does a flower dream of the sun

touching its petals

long before the dawn arrives

as I dream of Tara’s return?

It’s All About Your Future

It’s your future we speak of (They said)

You should be concerned – and don’t you know

It all depends on believing in the right things?


What sort of right things? (I said)

I’m sorry, I wasn’t really listening there,

Thinking rather of those without a future.


Where will you spend eternity? (They said)

Don’t you know there is a hell

For those who do not obey God?


I’m sorry, what was that again? (I said)

His load is heavier than I had anticipated

no wonder this man was down on his knees.

Let’s try again – do you believe in God? (They said)

The Bible has all the right answers

for those who sincerely seek salvation.


I have heard that before (I said)

It’s OK, let me carry this a bit farther for you

You are exhausted and obviously hungry.


Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ (They said)

And he will forgive your sins

And in the end take you into heaven.


Yes, I know, I’ve heard that too (I said)

But for now could you give me some money

so I can get food for this man and his family?


Oh no, we preach the gospel (They said)

It’s not our job to look after the destitute

There’d be no money for the ministry.


Ah, I see, of course (I said)

I let the anger in my heart flow out silently

no worse off for blessing than for cursing.


“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.

In My Search

Out late at night, walking the streets

searching for pocket change

in aluminum cans, plastic, glass bottles.

In my search I see the police,

I was taught are heartless, uncaring people:

but tonight one policewoman chose

to show me where I could find

lots of empty beer cans…


Such a simple gesture,

yet leaving me glowing with joy.

Police officers are what they are,

the product of a society living in fear;

sometimes they get a bad rap.

They enforce a law; they play the system=s game;

they hired on to referee, make sure the game

is played by the rules, and that

is what they get paid for.


If we don’t like it this way, there is a better one.

We don’t need rules, referees or a System,

to make us get along:

may I suggest what the policewoman demonstrated?

Unconditional love, no judgment?

Or… is that too simple? Too frightening?

Losing Sight

As steel filings on a magnet

are overwhelmed by its power,

so are we drawn into the currents

of other people’s forces;

draining our strength,

feeding their hunger for control,

causing us to lose sight

of our sense of direction.


We must find the strength

to contain this hunger for power

—this lust for control—

so stifling to creativity:

We cannot long survive

being thrust in strange rivers:

to do nothing

is to become flotsam

on the sea of time.


I walked


a soft field of

dancing purple asters

under an afternoon

waning summer sun

in moss

still damp with dew



turning white light

to gold

the royal color

preferred of those

who like to rule



powerless and

(barefoot still)

I walked a gentle field

of purple asters

in my child’s mind





Sand To Sand

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,

so it was, so it is, so all must go.

But that is all so wrong—it’s

dirt to dirt, isn’t it? Wait, no: more accurately,

sand to sand. Each death, a grain of sand;

each grain of sand, another death.


Sand! Sand that blows in the winds;

collects at the bottom of the seas;

piles up in dunes on endless shores

and the deserts grow apace

from baked ground gaping blindly

as each day another garden dries

and brings more death, creates more

sand: such a healthy, deadly growth.


A desert was made of a world

and not from movement,

but from death—from billions of deaths;

uncounted deaths spanning endless time

and the sands whisper and slither

through sun-baked cracks, worm holes;

fill beetle tracks and crickets’ holes.

never needing to ask permission.


A proper home for those destroyed,

are the sands of planet Earth

hissing out awaited revenge

upon the quasi-living knowing naught,

devoid of understanding remaining.

It’s as if it was written in a Book

that so it must be, and that, forever.

The Potter’s Hands

He moves the wooden paddle

that spins the wheel

that the clay rests on:

clay he extracted with care

from the bosom of mother earth.


Hands move gently;

fingers probe and push,

shaping a piece suitable

to honour the imperfect

which fills his world

within creation’s love.


This new piece is not just an object

of visual beauty,

but a burst of spiritual energy

reflecting an image

revealed from spirit.


Once it is complete

it will forge new thoughts,

give birth to new experiences;

fill life’s soul with compassion;

its wild heart with love.


Emerging from the wheel,

it truly is a rare sight to behold,

strong and firm, perfect

in every way, flowing

from the potter’s devoted hands

the ultimate gift

to a heart longing for bliss.


The potter gives the breath of life

and she runs from his hands

to laugh among the daisies…



my outer light


the soil of earth

birthing new life


in nature’s gentle




my spirit


the sun’s radiance

the wind’s breath

over earth and sea

I journey

I am



thank you!

It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago

A black sky reluctantly reflects faded lights:

it could be harbinger of an icy Prairie drizzle

or maybe a blizzard of snow, who’s to say

all he knows for certain is

it’s all the colder because this is the city

and it’s only been a month since he left the country

when the leaves were turning red and yellow

and through denuded hedgerows one could see

the combines hungrily searching for late harvests.


Without plan he walks along a poorly lit street,

unsure, thinking perhaps he shouldn’t be there at all

thinking also that not being there would mean

not hearing, or seeing; not observing

and remaining ignorant of a way of life

billions experience, endure and he knows nothing of.


He passes a bar, a drunk staggers past him,

he dances out of his swaying path

to be rewarded with a round of curses,

Get used to it he thinks to himself under an uncertain light,

‘it’s the city, don’t let it intimidate,

and forget the ‘always ready to offer help’

for although they need it, they don’t want it

for they are afraid, and their fear has turned to anger:

a black, involuntary anger cultured in blind hatred.


He passes an apartment, a man is yelling at a door,

pacing the wet cement walk on the ground floor.

A woman shouts obscenities and a child wails.

Lewd swearing accompanies verbal threats;

a door slams and the man backs away,

turning slowly back toward the bar—his second home

and in that moment he becomes a leaning shadow

beside a creosoted power pole—the unseen watcher

hands clenched tightly, heart full of tears

watching the drunk going to keep faith with his bottle.

He walks on into sprawling suburbs of row houses

that all look the same silhouetted in the dark,

stunted trees and shrubs creating ambiguous shadows

on dried-grassed lawns waiting to hide under snow.

A dog barks behind a fence, a cat hisses and snarls,

and on the far side of the river a whistle blows


a shift change at the brewery.


Further along the broken sidewalk

and frost heaved pavements of un-kept streets

a row of slum-lord housing outfaces him,

dark phantoms protecting their sleeping ghosts

for another night—if no one comes by, if no one shoots.

A light smell of garbage endures the cold,

mixed with spilled gasoline fumes from a wreck

without front wheels or doors—a sad old Buick

that has already told a story no one remembers

until now—for he listens and it tells him

of the drugged up teens in the back seat

and the engendered child—now dead.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger walked a city’s cold-shouldered streets

and sought to see into the heart of the people,

but found only fear and rejection.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger turned from the city’s unfriendly streets,

looking for other places where the people lived

but everywhere he went he found the people

busy building another part of the city,

buying and selling shares in corporate misery.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger left the city with a sad sigh,

returning to the country where he died quietly

just before the people came with another section of the city

to establish themselves in depravity

and when they burned down the farmhouse

they also burned his diary and his notes.


Do we lose things along the way?

We say:

I lost my hat; I lost my cat;

I lost my way!


All is energy:

it is quite impossible to lose


Other things or other lives

simply grow tired of us

and slip out of our control

for a time or for ever.


To be able to lose,

we must be able to own,

but where or when did we

get the idea of ownership?

No one can ever own anything

and life is full of surprises:

who knows:

I may “lose” myself before morning!


The things I own

likely understand the truth of it:

they break free of owners

and suddenly disappear.



Not for those who have learned

to think outside the box.

Besides, it’s a lot more fun

than just tick-tocking along

stuck in the same old beliefs.


Go ahead, lose your mind!


I heard you playing last night;

the notes cascading softly

through the wall

and settling gently in my heart.

They came as waves

drifting upon a shallow sandy shore

on a quiet moonlit evening,

I could feel your caress

on the polished wood

and every brush of fingertip

on vibrating strings

pulled strange feelings

from deep within my soul,

stirring up some un-named passion.

Your guitar gently sang,

expressing a new meaning for life,

an essence of happiness.

I felt as if I had found the freedom

to cast my unbound love

throughout a world

burdened with sadness;

as if I had the power

to change that old melody.

I hope you’ll play again this evening -

I’ll be listening.

Tears In The Rain

It is a hard thing, is it not

to know anyone’s tears in the rain?

Yet many tears fall thus

and only the tear-maker knows

how they were created

why they came to be

and where they went.


Tears flow with the rain

when the fabric tears;

when what should be

does not come to be

and what should not be

breaks down the door

to take away the child.


I have seen tears in the rain

for I have seen the sky

cry over the earth and the sea

many a time, too many a time;

when the sun could not shine

upon earth nor sea

for sorrow would not let it.


And the child that was lost

I saw again past her wandering.

I saw her somewhere

as another face in the rain;

another tear-streaked face

staring at a dark-grey sky

and barely did I recognize it.


I knew she’d looked her last

upon the things once called good.

Through tear-filled eyes

she’d reached for the hand of faith

and grasped at the arm of hope --

but hand and arm dissolved --

how bitter are tears in the rain.

The Tree

The tree,

symbol of vitality,

symbol of life;

anchored in pasts

and possible futures

where I walked and walk,

not always alone—I hear

its voice echo softly

through the mind—I feel

its life energy healing

my soul deadened

by the city’s chaos:



I stand recharging

under its green protection

and I say, not proudly

“thank you, tree

and I hope you’ll still be

here, giving life

when I, or another child

needs you again.”


Praise Capitalism!

A toaster is built!

Ah! Made in Mexico, profit!

It lightly browns gummy white bread.

It kills what nutritious value

the bread may have accidentally contained

but who cares? We can hear that delightful

crunching sound in our mouth, feel

that commercial goodness fill our guts

when suddenly, expectedly, one of its coils dies.

The whole damn thing must now be thrown away

in some overflowing heap called a land fill

oozing with toasters, dirty diapers and

other such non-recyclable human waste.

Thus we are forced to buy a new one

and the game goes on

until we too,

are toast!

To Vote Or Not To Vote

Comes election time and people say:

You’ve got to vote!

It’s your duty to vote.

If you don’t vote, don’t complain

if they don’t do what you would like.


This gave me food for thought.

First, ‘tis obvious people vote

to have something to complain about.


Secondly, if I were to vote

it’s just as obvious to me

there’s only one person on this world

who’ll always do what I want

and that would be ‘me’

so put my name on the ballot

and I’ll vote

for my majority of One.

Troubles Of Mind

I took a walk I’d hoped would be pleasant

on a cold, wet and windy day

and how I wished the sun had shone;

how I wished for a soft, warm breeze

to warm my face and hands today.


My troubles hound me like a cold wind;

like a driving November rain.

They penetrate my clothes;

keep my heart in their icy grip;

keep me from the love I seek to share;

they numb my hands: and I cannot touch.

There is a way out of this;

a place beyond these troubles of mind;

where bitterness is washed away

as rain washes down a street.

There is a way to see;

a way to skirt potholes and cracks

on the uneven road of life;

a way to not stumble, nor to fall;

a way, a sure way, a final way

to replace fear with love.


How? Consciously choosing

to transform the fear-filled mind.

A Living Entity

Is everything a living entity?

a tree, a leaf, a drop of rain,

a piece of paper, a stone,

a hammer, a flower,

a cloud, a universe:

do they have feelings?


What does life have to say to that?

Yes, they all have identity,

existence, energy, feelings;

a sense of self-awareness

all being a part of the All-ness:

life expressing itself.


Thus do I understand; do I know:

everything deserves respect;

for I am of everything

and if I would be understood

I must express same in turn.

A simple enough lesson to learn.


But man has no compassion;

he is but a mindless consumer

that cannot feel the pain his needs

engender in a world that can never be

his to use or abuse at will.

And so he brings forth his own end.

The Prophet’s Story – As Told By Earth And Sky

The prophet heard the coming of the times:

of course he did, that’s what prophets do.

The prophet saw the rising of the tides:

of course she did, that’s what prophets do.

The prophet tasted fully the changing of the times:

of course he did, that’s what is said people will do

to those who insist on being prophets --

to those who always must give the right message

always in the worst possible time: when society hears

but finds it terribly inconvenient to listen.


The prophet for her trouble was nailed upon the tree

and her children sold into slavery.

“Should I have remained silent for the children’s sake?”

She screamed in agony dying abandoned and alone

but for waiting vultures perched on two lesser trees.

The question has been answered already by society:

by a railing, mocking, gawking, thieving multitude

that stole her last possession and jeered:

“If thou be the Prophet and True, save thyself and us!”


The prophet has returned to her own world to grieve

and “The Prophet’s Story” is now known far and wide

across immensities of space where other worlds spin;

where humans evolved beyond the plagues of darkness;

where they listened to their gifted ones and realized in time

no one has ever choked from swallowing one’s pride.

A new body has been given her but she insists

that on her back, her hands and feet, as in her heart

it must continue to broadcast the scars of her passage

to remember, to feel, the hate-filled sea she faced in trial

and every night no sleep she allows to ease her sorrow:

cry she does, tears uncounted she sheds, for her children lost

who unknowing and un-remembering must now die

beyond reach of any compassionate heart or mind.

Winds Of Eternity

She was sprite, elf, wild, untamed:

she loved to dance to danger’s beat,

always one foot on the very edge of life.

Thus I encountered my mystic love,

in a place of her own devising.


I knew any love she expressed,

even from the depth of her heart,

would be as fleeting as a desert storm;

that she would fade away as a season;

as a summer wind.


I needed the experience offered

of a sacred moment of passion:

I boldly stepped within the circle

she drew for the daring in the sand of her life.


Though the wind blows cold now,

and the love I knew, beyond the farthest star;

though I walk in emptiness and pain

of a fire no longer kindled, yet still burning,

I remain without regret

in the memory we created and lived.


Now I too can dance with danger;

can live on the razor’s edge:

from her I learned to disregard caution.

The past is the springboard,

the future, free to look to its own ends:

I can but live for the moment.


I knew heaven in her season of passion,

in her laughter and her kisses:

why refuse a taste of hell now?

My life belongs to that untamed past

where she still dances in kinetic waves

but my soul soars on winds of eternity

where I surely will recognize her again…

Living In




( get all you can while you can and

damn you, yes! my antiperspirant





M U C H !



other brand of antiperspirant )




is quite a bit like

what it’s commercially tele-







The Sea

The wild easterly sweeps from the open sea;

gray ocean waves batter a gravelly shore,

their white-crested manes tossed

like some watery hell stallions galloping,

neighing their freedom; thundering madly

over a heaving, frothy wintery moor.


Whipped snow and sand hiss among brown grasses

mixing brown sugar puddings, drifting, filling,

mercilessly driving shorebirds from shelters.

Plaintively peeping to one another

these seek new refuge among standing rocks.


White gulls glide on motionless pinions,

skirting lashing waves, crying;

black cormorants in rapid wingbeats

skim the green tempest purposefully

diving out of sight in rolling trenches.


Scavenging along the thunderous beach

turnstones and black oystercatchers

seek their allotment of daily sustenance

among tortured seaweed and rolling gravel

occasionally bashing to its death

a small crab flung high upon the shore.


From a distant rock hidden by driven clouds

a mournful horn blares its warning:


warning passing trawlers and freighters to

!stay away!!stay away!!stay away!!


The storm rages unabated

its perceived violence proving once more

that in contest between man and sea

primordial force will always possess

the last word upon this magical world.


I once met an old man,

who said:

“Time is never a friend,

my friend.

It conspires against us;

allows us to believe

it has a generous nature

then proceeds

to rob us of life.”


I’ve thought about those words

every day since that encounter

and what can I say?

He has a point!

Who can deny it?

Waging War On Society

Waging war on society,

creating global injustice

in the name of security or profit:

does that really work?

Does this make us “better?”

Longer-lived; morally superior?

Does it not just bring us closer

to some catastrophic downfall

of a world that has turned its back

on sharing and understanding?


If history shows anything at all,

it is that continually waging wars

has never brought forth

the “intended results” -

namely -

given individuals or nations

the peace and security they crave.


All violence is not evil -

but violence planned

to achieve some selfish goal

at another’s expense,

at the cost of another’s life

or livelihood: that is pure evil.


All the wars waged by man

upon this benighted world

fall in this latter category:

there has never been a “just war” -

only “just more war” -

for wars create enemies;

and “enemies” are fed by fear, anger, hate

and a desperate need

to get even if it takes a thousand years.


Kindergarten lesson number one:

Wars, by their very nature

are not waged against enemies:

they are waged against society;

against what we call life;

against all; against our self.

Wild River

Some ponder daring trips

down rampaging white waters

driven by the need to conquer.

A perceptive one told me:

“To travel a river quietly

in a light canoe or sleek kayak,

is not to conquer or to win

but to find oneself far away

from driven madness.

The exercise rests the mind,

giving it a peaceful unity

within natural surroundings.

What point is there fighting for life

in raging waters

making it impossible

to savor the passage?”

I learned from this that

challenging white water canyons

at the risk of life or limb

is but another expression

of thoughtless human pride.

It is best to remember

that nature’s mighty or tender ways

are given to be enjoyed

not dared, conquered, tamed or killed

(and may I add:

not raped nor destroyed!)

Will That Be Dust Or Ashes?

Some live on and long

past the expiry date

on the birth certificate

brandishing a valid

credit card number and

some die young

some not so

some in notoriety

some in fame

some still popular

and some, oh well

that should read

and for most, oh well

not much of anything

young or old

the poor rich

and the rich poor

in faded jeans and business suits

exchanging places

in trading places

and they unseeing

walk the same sidewalks

drive the same freeways

frequent the same attractions

and death, like a mousetrap

snaps shut

on the fat and skinny

the cute and ugly

the smart and dumb

the white and (the

politically correct) non

will that be dust or ashes

the undertaker asks

his death silent


seriously reposed overtaker

eight hundred and twenty-third

lopsided grinning loser

that’s all she wrote.

Woman Of The Sea

Dawn, and I open my arms wide

creating a vision of you dancing,

O beautiful woman of the sea:

of your love sweeter than the finest wine

to fill the hunger of my heart.


Noon: your soft hands caress my skin

lighting the fires of desire

and now, on these golden sands

the whole of me consumed

pants and sweats – the sun smiles.


Evening: by the gentle flame of our fire

I touch your perfect body

feeling the feeling that gives life to life;

the feeling that defies all languages;

the feeling which only you

could ever kindle in my soul.


No other has cared, even less dared

share the sacred place, the sacred space,

with one like me between land and sea;

or soared among the stars to love one such

as I but you: wonder not why fittingly

I dedicate this day to you.

Wisdom Speak

Roaring oceans

call surrender

from selfish goals.

Raging mountain storms

chastise hunger

for mundane thrills.


In the tossing chaos

that is my mind

I hear a peaceful voice

speak this wisdom:


“When darkness

pervades your soul;

when anger and fear

grasp your heart;

when selfishness

rules your desires;

reach for yourself

and you will see

you are not the things you own

nor the beliefs you were given.

You were never

unclean or sinful,

but a being of light

hidden in a coffin.

You can open the lid

and walk out

…anytime you choose.

Prayer Of The Innocent

Old man in broken shoes, stinking rags;

back bent by harsh, cold years:

What are you telling me,

when you shiver on cold nights

barely kept at bay by dirty damp blankets;

your exposed skin stung by drifting pebbles

in drafty spaces under a railway bridge?


Old man, why do you pray? You say:

Please, all I need today is enough money

for a warm meal and a smoke.

Who do you talk to, Old man?

What sort of crazy are you?

Was it a mother who taught you such foolishness?


Like a hunchback of old, he walks away

and a gang of kids eye the raggedy shelter.

Their laughter is harsh: they speak of thrashing

the meagre belongings; burning the blankets,

destroying the collected treasures

carefully packed in Safeway shopping bags

when unexpectedly, one of authority says,

“Wait! Could be one of us some day, huh?

leave him some spare change

instead.” And curious,

they hang around for the old man’s return

but what they hear and see

shocks even these wingless pavement angels

for the old man, childlike kneels down with tears,

and thanks his God so naturally.


And I wonder at this miracle, this foolishness

of a man and his God…

Who is this God? Who answers such prayer?

Is each one of us “God”?

Each capable of stunningly amazing things

just not aware, too scared to dare?

To be that which we always were?

Ah, soul! I pray you be re-made

in the image of a real God of love:

dare I believe such a prayer? Can it be answered?

Worn-Out Coat

Years of taking, years of greed unchecked

leave a rich man’s coat threadbare,

with open seams and little warmth.

Faced with bitter winter winds,

vulnerable, fearful, apprehensive,

the rich man does not part easily

with outmoded ways and worn-out rags.

He hugs himself in tattered remains

of pride and prejudice.


He shivers in bitterness,

knows the inevitable is nigh:

the cold winds of his dying ways

end his money-powered life:

the worn-out coat disintegrates

as a new sun unleashes it’s warmth.


Survivors of his downfall,

who struggled; who did it with so little;

those denied the warmth and comfort

of the old winter coat in its prime

are thankful now they were not taken in

by false claims of earthly wealth

for now, in peace and comfort

they walk the shining new earth:


The rich man’s grave sprouts flowers

which children pick for their mothers.

You Took My Money, Where’s My Cure, Doc?


I say, will they ever find a cure

for that dreaded thing we call cancer?


Think for a moment what would happen

to all those fancy establishments,

research facilities and accoutrements;

specialists and their bevy of helpers?


It would certainly mean more

than a few jaguars repossessed, wouldn’t it!

A few multi-million dollar mansions

in the hills, on the seashore, on some island,

would also be up for grabs…


Patients: oh well, why not call a spade a spade:

I mean, managed human pain and suffering

is the price we must be willing to go on paying

to keep the money rollin’ up those golden streets.

Well, at least it’s the price the selected few

who lied, cheated and kicked their way to the top

are certainly quite willing to charge -

The question is, how much we are willing to bear

while we watch our children die?


So, you will be tempted to say:

do you have a better way? A certain cure?

Well, let me say, at least I know this:

that whatever “they” are up to in their white coats

certainly isn’t working, so nothing to lose here -

everyone of us possesses any cure for anything

for there’s no such thing as a disease,

just a great collective lack of understanding

coupled with a great collective fear.


Didn’t a man of his day once claim,

(after curing a man blind from birth)

that greater things than that we would do?

Isn’t it about time we got serious about it

and stopped putting our lives in the gaping mouths

of little white sharks with drugs and scalpels?

I’m willing to think about it – seriously!

Tears In The Wind

Tears in the wind

from life seen and tasted

in eternity

past the boundaries of earth

past the last signpost

of this universe,


I saw

(but what did I perceive?)


that I could understand


walking this vale of storms

of tears

in restless winds

—time’s Autumn

weighs heavily on my heart -


a tumble weed

blown about

shifting sands

disheveled, naked, hungry

lifting scarred hands

to unsmiling copper skies

I cried to faded stars

out of my pain

“Tell Me Why?”

—I heard my voice carried off

in raucous laughter

the wind’s laughter


through tears in the wind

I caught a glimpse of something,

unusual, fleeting, intriguing

and I called it compassion.

No More Secrets

It’s no secret

secrets are the parents of gossip:

a secret that cannot be told

chokes the mind

and puts a fire on the tongue

until someone is found

to impart the secret to:


but don’t tell anyone!


The fastest way to spread a rumor

is to call it a secret!


So perhaps we should do away

with the concept of secrets:

hold everything in the open,

everything public knowledge.


No more secrets!

(And an amazing side effect:

No more gossip and of course

No more politicians!)

Speak To Me Or Do Not

Speak to me of compassion

if you would speak at all

and do not speak of love

for love (as has been said)

covers a multitude of sins,

or should I say, hides them well.


Many terrible acts are committed

in the name of love,

but never out of compassion

for compassion cannot lie.


If you are to speak to me

of compassion,

yet know nothing of sorrow

then waste not my time

with your drivel

for compassion is found

deep within the well of sorrow.


Such knowledge is not

a popular flavor in the dish

of written new age spirituality

where uninspired corn

meets its twin flakes!

Future Child





of authority,


often angry,

wanting everything,

and equally,


that I can give:

already bored

with life barely tasted,



beyond inquisitive:

what are you, child?

Why can’t I recognize you?


I look into a mirror

and there I am!

The Sacrifice

"It's mine to think on, mine to decide, mine to know --

mine to act upon” – so she thinks alone in the dark

as the day wears on the snow, the sea, the city of noise;

as she conceives it all -- the torrential flow of despoliation

to fill every valley, level every mountain, dry every river.


“It is mine to do as I please in this respect,” invisible

she stumbles through her thoughts alone in the crowd,

jumbling the words that will not form the conclusion

she is looking for in her mind -- "mine, not theirs"

she repeats endlessly as the winds suck her breath dry.


“However acceptable, however deformed, however strange,

my life belongs to me and me alone. It is mine.

Thus am I empowered to keep it, or give it away:

who shall gainsay me in this? The gods?

Those who had me killed for my healing hands?

Those who said the Devil empowered me?”


"Perhaps the Devil rules this planet of the damned --

his works are plain enough for all with eyes to see --

but if that’s so, the God who craves humanity’s love

most certainly is drunkenly asleep on His golden throne

with no one daring enough to wake him from his stupor.”


“So, earth, I ask you: if those in whom you trusted

have abandoned you to the ravages of predation;

forced you to serve them as a bawdy, denuded whore,

will you accept my help this time around?

Will you speak to me if I bring you the wisdom you lost?

Will you turn your heart to me for the compassion I carry?”


“Will you this time accept the alien cast down upon your shores

and agree ‘tis time you should humble yourself

before the one who would pardon your waywardness

and teach you the one sure way to save your innocents?

Will you reject your false lovers, your handsome Powers

your predators whose hearts carry the stench of death;

your oppressors whose mouths are filled with carrion?”


“Will you settle in my cupped hands as a wounded bird,

seeking refuge from your emptiness and loneliness?

Will you draw close to my open arms under the moon

when I offer you my life to heal your boils and open sores?

There is coming upon you and I the day prophesied

when the sun shall not rise as expected and the stars will fall;

when a poison of darkness will seep into your very marrow

and death will proclaim his victory over you and yours.”


“In your pride you said: “This shall never be.”

for the people said you were a goddess of power:

Gaia, they called you, and you accepted this false honour

though it never was yours to accept – and you knew it.

I just wanted you to know that I know – for it was said

that all things would be laid bare, even the deepest secrets

and they would belong to those who sought for truth.”


“Here’s my olive branch, wrought from my heart, my very life,

offered to you without strings attached: will you take it?”

And without waiting for an answer she continues her walk

whether to hall of fame or scaffold, she no longer cares

for now she sees it all and all makes perfect sense.

“Yes,” she sighs, not in weakness but in renewed strength:

“I will do what I determined, what I set out, what I came, to do.”

Too Early Spring

She brushed past my heart

in too early Spring,

her love’s fragrance briefly

filled the empty space

around my life.


I have seen flowers bloom

impossibly in lingering snows;

eager to cover earth’s nakedness:

I should have believed her,

put aside my doubts.


Now rain drips from leaf to leaf,

nature weeping, hushed in mist

and ever-present low-lying clouds-

or so it seems to me-

should I too, give in to tears?


What impressions do I retain

of my heart’s sudden encounter

with a love unexpected, unrequited?

My sorrow has replaced

my so foolish fears and doubts

and I wonder: will she ever return?

What Does God Mean?

There’s a question about the Bible

in Christian circles, maybe others!


What does the Bible really say?


Seems it all depends:

if what I read is what I like

(then it means just what it says)

but if what I read I don’t like

then it’s obvious

the text needs interpretation.


Seems pretty simple:

I think the way to take the Bible,

not being of Christian persuasion,

is like any other political speech:

read my lips,

never mind what you think you heard.


I can look at biblical text this way:

I imagine God looking down

in perfect seriousness saying:


“I know you believe you understand

what you think I said

but I’m not sure you realize

that what you just read

is not what I mean.”


See? Now it all makes sense

doesn’t it?

Still, I have another question:

How will I know the interpreter

has figured out what God really means,

if God himself doesn’t seem to know?


By the monetary value

of his divine blessings?

By my health and happiness?

Well, by what?

Who Cares?

(re-touched when the war against Iraq began – March, 2003)


How much pain,

How much suffering

How many deaths

will we continue to accept

(in the name of corporate greed)

before we develop the courage

before we realize our power

before we say “Enough!”

and change the course

of our history?

What’s too horrible to contemplate?

The alternative.


And what would that be?

How about sharing

all of earth’s resources?

How about acceptance:

me of you,

you of me?

How about respect and honor

for one-another?

Is there some great ancient law

that forbids us from loving one another?



if we get the guidelines right

the details will take care of themselves!


“Some are guilty -

all are responsible.”

(Abraham Joshua Heschel)

Before All Ends

I see those who rape the earth,

and rob the sea of its life;

who hunger to condemn the innocent

and lust to enslave the weak,

unmindful even of the dying.


While the over-abused world

hovers on the brink of death,

but before all ends in darkness

I stand at the edge of the sea

and beseech Gaia, the Earth Mother

to remember the day in eons past

she brought life to the planet.


To Gaia, goddess of earth

giver of life.

Two Storms

I hear the wild ocean pounding

upon a very ancient shore,

its waves crashing and thundering

shaking rocks and rattling stones,

dragging the earth back into itself:

I hear the thunder as lightning

whips unruly clouds wildly driven

by swirling winds.


Yet, upon that shore I can stand

Alone, naked and unafraid – touch

that wild ocean’s back with fingertips,

‘til it lays purring at my feet,

caressing the shore gently;

‘til the sun comes out,

‘til the clouds turn white,

‘til the breeze whispers softly through my hair.


In that storm, there is great strength:

A movement of shaping, creation in toil,

majestic, wondrous changes being wrought.

Did it destroy? No, only a creative spasm,

Birth pang of mother earth, evolution,

A way of continuance, endless change:

Not power, nor death, but eternal life –

in eternal motion!


Daily I witness another storm

Full of brute power, savagery, unstoppable:

imprinting deepening scars upon the earth,

fueled by wild unreason and demented minds,

darkened by lure of greed, by lust, by ego gone mad.


I try to tame this one with love also

but it lunges madly at my extended empty hands,

attacks, tears and leaves me to die

among its legacy of dread and death,

to rot amidst shards, shreds, shatterings

of expiring life it sends flowing

down a polluted river Styx:


The power storm whose epicenter

holds so deathly still, so confident

in every boardroom of every land.


Who has experienced love

as a dance in the morning sun?

Who has realized

that love is never found

cringing in doubt;

clinging to old fears

or crying in loss and abandonment?


Who knows how love reveals

its depth and warmth,

its wisdom and life?

Who are those who,

in good times or bad

have offered her their hand

and walked her uncharted paths

with an open heart

filled with understanding?


Wistful golden waters

flow, twist and wind

deliberately westward:

an inviting amber path

to the setting summer sun

where skies burn crimson

and lovers make promises

they cannot hope to keep;

where my soul is drawn

by earth’s magnetic pulse

as a shaft of light pierces

burning scarlet clouds.

Wind Dancer

I saw her dance in autumn leaves

of misty vales;

I saw her run with wild horses

over wind-swept plains

passing through

her fading untamed world.


I don’t know why I saw her

as I was following the trail

of other hungry, greedy men

stripping her land of riches

long dead in the madness

called trading centres.


Perhaps it was just

a sudden warming breath

of the Chinook wind

which brought me a fragment

of her song from the wilds

causing me to stop and listen:


“Your soul will never be content

with riches sought from greed:

they bring but pain and misery

true riches are found only here—

in a garden planted with dreams

watered in celestial love…”


The sound of her voice,

the measure of her words

will haunt me forever,

the wandering poet

no longer able to believe

the world’s version of riches.


It's All About Your Future

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.

  • Author: Sha'Ra On WindWalker
  • Published: 2017-06-16 20:05:20
  • Words: 11089
It's All About Your Future It's All About Your Future