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The Question, The Quest


Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha’Tara EarthStar)


Copyright (©) 2017 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing


Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada


Cover picture by: Janusz Gawron


Picture found on FreeImages.com


Space Picture: ESA/Hubble


I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.



A Memory

A Trinity Of Evil

An Open Mind

Ancient Clothes

Beyond Fear

Black And White

Burning Bridges

Dampened By Tears




Am I God?

Inner Peace


Life Is A Game

Like The Chinook Wind

To Live By Understanding

Love Is A Bucket

Man’s Children 2

Man’s Damned Machines

Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

Measure Of Marriage

Mentally Challenged

Mind Search


Moon Landing: Hoax Or Real?


My Fate Is In…

O, Bless Me, Universe!

Old Fears


Raw Greed

Running Free

Shadow Vision

Shining Ones

Strawberry Flats

Tall Or Small?

The Castaway

“The Hollow House” (An Observation)

The Immune System

The Last Salmon

The Last Shaman

The Light Shines In The Darkness

The Muad’dib

The Never Ending Experience

The Prophet’s Lament

The Question, The Quest

The Sailor And The Maiden

The Shadow

The Speed Of Dark

The Stranger

There’s Talk Of Flooding

They Call This Time Fall

Three Dogs

Time Is The Artist

True Glory

True Lies

What Now, World?

Beyond The Clouds

What We Settle For

What’s In A Name?

Where To When We Die?

Why The Pain?

Wind Chaser

Would They Be Happy

Zen On A Riverbank

You’re In The Twenty-First Century, Son

Getting Old

Getting A Job

This Was Never My Life



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 Memory

Upon green hills rolling down

to an ever-changing sea,

in white and gold, flowers bloomed,

nodding in whispering breezes

caressing the island;

dancing in passing storms

sending the sheep to shelter…

til the rain came no more.


As a flower, she withered away

under the fiery summer sun.

Empty of her laughter

the world lies in leaden slumber,

parched, brown and silent

beneath my tired feet.


I believe

the universal pool of tears


to ever again paint the hills

in that tapestry of white and gold

above the green of hill and sea.


“A masterpiece in time’s silent museum,

she remains, forever etched in memory.”

A Trinity Of Evil

Seems to me Earth society is ruled by “Powers” -

not the usual plethora of “forces”

operated by human beings -

something deeply nefarious, evil to the core;

something that sucks the marrow of life from individuals

thus keeping itself alive to wreak more havoc.


What are these “Powers” then?

Not Unknowns but quite familiar:


Let’s take the very First to show up in history:

Creators or life-givers: “God”. “Goddess.”

Deity or deities; spirit beings, hence, organized religion.

Ritualistic performance of meaninglessness

leading to social paranoia and collective madness.


The Second to appear, (consequence of the first)

is the Law Maker; the Ruler; the Despot:

Government and its bureaucratic assemblage.

As with the First, this one also claims

absolute right to life and death over others.

It demands huge sacrifices for itself

which it calls “taxes” and which no one

(but its favourites – the rich) may refuse.

It also determines the time, place and nature of wars.


The Third obviously is Mammon. Money. Filthy Lucre.

Credit would be His Most Venerable Name today.

He’s Everybody’s Friend and in His name

do people desecrate their planet of living things.

In His name do people become mindless consumers

in vain attempts to sate Him by sating themselves.


This is the Evil Trinity that rules Earth;

that controls the collective mind

through the imposition of belief systems

based on paranoia, fear and no substance.


Don’t believe it: look around.



An Open Mind

Don’t be too insecure,

and thus easily pushed around;

but do not be too proud

to look at new things and ideas.

Be stubborn enough

to stand firm,

but humble enough

to keep an open mind.


And remember:

keeping an open mind

does not necessarily mean

your brains will fall out.


But if they do

with so little prompting

of what use were they?

Perhaps better as cat food.


Ancient Clothes

A fire has raged through the village;

left nothing in its wake:

I find myself on the road, dazed,

naked and ashamed, thinking:

the Church will certainly condemn me

for I am naked!

Desperately I search for something

to cover my nakedness, but nothing.

Of the ancient clothes I had so proudly worn

none had survived the flames.


Then I looked around and saw

the Church too had crumbled to the ground,

so boldly I strode through the devastation

and others followed suit:

they shed their old, ragged, dirty clothes.


And thus freed, we came to realize

we were no longer ashamed of our bodies

for they were the only real clothes

we were meant to wear in love of life.


And thus freed, we came to understand

that clothing had been forced on us

to hide imputed sin by frustrated gods

who resented our innocence;

who hated our love of life

who cursed us and doomed us to die

in the beginning.


Hah! How fondly they had hoped

we would never remember those days -

but we are remembering;

we are awakening.

Beyond Fear

No fear! No fear!

says the slogan

on jeans and bumpers

but is life so easily reducible

to no more than a slogan?


How many have walked the desert,

crossed the tossing seas

to see what lies beyond

the ancient barrier of dread

called death?


Who has captured the eagle

to ride his mighty wings;

looked over the highest mountains

to see the other side to understand

whether in sorrow or in joy?


Who has understood

the curse in the face of God?

the longing in the face of Satan?

Who has measured the distance

between these polarities?


Have I?

Do I know—

and if I said I did—

why would you believe me

when you can’t believe yourself?


Black And White

Life is perfection

in black and white

side by side

dappled harmony,

a penguin waddles;

a zebra kicks freely;

a skunk arches its tail,

a pinto runs wild;

a boy and girl, cream and chocolate,

hold hands in love:

a togetherness-spun meaning

if grasped,

reveals life

in a pair of scales,

not for judgment,

but for perfection.

Burning Bridges

Your bridge is engulfed in flames

and in panic, you try to run back across,

thinking your life was safer, maybe even better

while still on the other side.

Disaster! The bridge crashes into the river

and you fall to your knees, wailing:

you cannot go back; are afraid to move on

to face unknown challenges that lie ahead

in the unexplored country.


As you watch the mighty river

wash away remnants of your bridge,

a spirit appears in the smoky air,

beckoning you to accept the inevitable.

“You can never relive the past:

why be afraid to let your bridges burn?

The road of life has no round trip fare:

all your paths are but one-way streets.


Learn to rejoice at the end of each road,

at the crossing of each stream and river;

laugh at the fall of burning bridges!

Why should you care about so-called wisdom

which says, ‘Don’t burn your bridges!’?

If I can teach anything at all,

it’s that no life is possible

without burning bridges!

Every experience forges a new link

in the chain of life, moving ever forward

towards man’s final destiny:

there can never be a turning back

once you begin your walk

in earth’s domain.

Dampened By Tears

A heart always yearns for knowing:

to feel the need to understand

why flowers bloom with such abandon,

splashing wild colours everywhere,

releasing life-giving fragrances

while painting nature’s self-portrait.


And the same heart sadly wonders

why this living presence vanishes

so quickly in the onslaught of “reality”!


Perhaps when ego controls the mind

sadness and loss appear foremost

and time is as lead upon the memory.


Perhaps it is best to move beyond the ego;

to play and dance among the spirit world,

to detach from the common woes

of earthbound reality.


Perhaps it is best to wring that cloth

dampened by tears of sorrow and woe

and hang it up to dry

in the warm winds of Spring.


It was easy to take for granted

my eyes would always see

the beauty of nature’s world

unfolding in a morning’s blaze.


Now that beauty fades away

like the end of a movie:

darkness creeps into my life

as I stagger blindly to find

an exit from this theater.


The sun’s light fades:

when it is all gone,

what shall I have left?

Memories of sparkling water

and colorful dresses in Spring?


Mountains, trees, sun-lit skies

where did you go?

Like dreams, you vanished

from waking but unseeing eyes.


I smell flowers and bread baking;

I hear children laughing

and a robin calling its mate.


“Excuse me” says a voice:

ah! I am standing

in someone’s way.



Is “democracy”

a contradiction in terms?

A short description:

Government of the people,

by the people,

for the people.


But who are the people?

Individuals, or collectives?

Collectives aren’t people -

they are groups.


If “democracy”

is ever to be what is claimed

then it must be

government of the individual,

by the individual

for the individual.


But how can that work

since “government”

is essentially a collective process?


any self-empowered individual

would have no need of




democracy is a utopian idea

that will never work

for as long as government endures

the people will be ruled

by elites with an agenda -

never will it be the peoples’!




portals to the spirit world?

pathways to realities unseen?

Places unknown?

World’s forgotten

except in fairy tales?


Do they seek to impart wonder and awe

for what the mind conceives

in moments of rest,

far from the daily grind?


Some say dreams are make-believe,

to listen is a waste of time…

Some say dreams lead to spiritual wisdom,

the teachings of the sages of old.

It matters not, what some say:

dreams flow as rivers of colours,

creating moods, evoking emotions.


Dream a grizzly bear, a wise one

who beckons you to follow:

“Come, walk with me (he says)

through coastal wilderness

where giant firs cast their shadows,

harbouring a host of unseen life;

to jagged glaciers piercing clouds

where even the eagle dare not fly!

Feel the wind push away the clouds—

the body vibrating to new power: here,

the soul ascends pulled by its own thirst

for a greater knowing.

Here, you truly dream!

Am I God?

It’s cool, it’s common

to say “I AM God” these days

and not consider it

the ultimate blasphemy;

a great sacrilege

and the greatest of all lies.


Well, should it?

After all, can anyone not be

anything one chooses?

Besides, how many truly realize

what “being God” would mean?


For most “being God” people

it’s just a phrase, meaningless, empty.

No idea what “God” is anyway

and I’d bet if they knew

they wouldn’t be so quick

to pick up that mantle!


I’ve got an idea about God:

What that is, that is.

God is the Force – everywhere

and available to all:

a generic entity.


God is also “me”

and that’s quite another thing:

that is God self-aware;

God: personal, interactive;

God: loving and nurturing

or (and usually the case)

God: fearful, hating, killing.


I think most know this God

only too well,

and the first God

certainly not well enough.

Inner Peace

We speak much of peace:

we say war

is the opposite of peace.

Nothing is further from truth:

peace has nothing to do with war

and war cannot prevent peace.


Peace is only found

in the inner world:

not in the outer fringes

where life exists in chaos:

for all movement

of necessity

creates conflict.


Inner peace

is neither of body

nor of mind:

for it transcends

all thought, all matter

all movement in space and time.


Inner peace exists everywhere,

yet is nowhere.

Few there are as yet

on this small planet

who understand

the absolute concept

of peace.


Real peace does not end

movement (conflict) in time

for that is not its purpose:

it is but the final refuge

when conflict burns itself out

leaving no place to go.


Your life’s journey

is a walk on hallowed ground.

Here you leave an inscription

of your life’s many trials and joys

to be read again some day.


Though your path may become covered

by the swirling sands of time,

one day it will again be uncovered

and wondering eyes will scan

the dazzling truths

of your experiences in this reality

and someone will think

they are beholding the passage of a god!

Life Is A Game

If life’s a game

it isn’t one that can be won,

this we know.

But can it be lost?


The placid and the tame

won’t get you in the game!

The stakes are high

and yes,

it is a game of fools.


Earth is a gambling casino,

the maddest in the galaxy.

More than fortunes

have been lost here

when the great ones

from neighboring stars

came to gamble.


Once upon a time,

so it is said,

earthmen in dire straits

beaten at the gaming tables

gave their daughters as prize

to the Lords of space.


The ante today

is not your daughter

but your very own soul:

will you play the game

for the play’s sake?


Will you rashly taste

the spice of your winnings

then drink to your losses

to the bitter dregs?



Like The Chinook Wind

Like the soft whisper

of the chinook wind

gently swaying branches

of spruce and poplars

on warming winter nights,

you came into my life

unannounced, but hoped for.


Under your springtime softness

my winter apathy melted,

dripped away so quickly

like snow on rooftops;

new life flowed

in endless rivulets and streams.


Like the chinook wind

I thought to myself, bitterly,

you would cool away and die

under cold eastern skies:

but you were the Spring Maiden

and with your breath

this new life flowed forth

joining the eternal river.

To Live By Understanding

To see with my eyes; to taste with my tongue,

is no gift; only nature doing its thing.


But to see with my eyes closed,

to taste with my mouth empty:

this becomes awareness.


Do I now possess such power?

If not, how to attain to it

when feeling unworthy of such?


Am I forgotten, misplaced,

by those who saw my birth;

who handed out my destiny

in this one life?


If so my being has no reason,

I am but a void, a creature yearning

for what can never be.


Is understanding given only to those who ask?

Imputed through belief or given freely?


If imputed, it is no longer a gift,

but a wage, payment for service rendered:

and I ask you: What sort of creator

needs to be paid for anything?

Certainly one much too small

for me to waste my time seeking.


The Life Spirit has provided my spirit

with a quality hidden from man’s eyes:

How does that feel? I ask and

I see, taste with my spirit,

hear, feel with my heart

and what could not be known, I know;

what could not be believed, I believe,

what was wrong, is now right

and what was right is even more so…

and that is understanding.

Love Is A Bucket

Love is a bucket:

if you kick the bucket, it’s game over for love:

you can no longer participate in the game.


If you spill the bucket

through carelessness or inattention,

you’ve spilled out your heart foolishly

and run out of love…


If your bucket is full of holes

you have “holy” love: it won’t work

‘cause the substance of your love

is only something to talk about.


If you leave your bucket outside,

opened and unattended

it will fill with dead bugs and assorted dirt:

and that’s what your love life will be.


If you keep your bucket stored,

sterilized, empty and closed under a tight lid,

that means your love is as good as dead:

It won’t benefit anybody, not even you.


So, what should you do

with your bucket of love?

That’s entirely up to you:

I gave mine away.

Man’s Children 2

Man’s children accompany

their mothers to the mall,

their senses crushed, broken,

to fit the mould of techno-frills:

can’t you hear their whiny,

rebellious little voices,

choked, stunted, denied,

endlessly clamoring for life?


Can’t you hear their angry cries,

muted in pyramids of garish plastic,

distorted in static of pallid fluorescence,

subjugated to the lowest price law,

soothed by the gumball dispenser,

terminated by the video street fighter?


Can’t you feel their hunger, their despair,

as helpless, unheard, unheeded,

they rage against the emptiness?

As denied life in the moment

they struggle to survive the lie

long enough to reach tomorrow?


Man’s Damned Machines

Brake and tire dust lay blanketing

darkened grass and tired soil.

Exhaust fumes thicken the air;

oil, antifreeze and waste gas seep

into Earth’s pores.

Motors roar all around us,

toxic wastes; endless noises;

permeate our daily lives:

there is no escape.


Rusting hulks shed fragments,

dropped-off parts scattered along road sides;

fields and streams become waste dumps,

a hazard to all life

but the black fly and mosquito larvae.


The combustion engine stands guilty

of eating up nature’s natural fuels,

but having done so, it too

vanishes on some lonely stretch of broken road;

under blackberry bushes in some abandoned yard;

releasing more toxins into the soil…

Yet, is it really that horrible motor

who is to blame for this horror?

Or lack of foresight and understanding?

And when, I wonder, will there be a change,

a change of heart and a change of pace?

While in the question mode, let’s ask one more:

Regarding change: when is too little, too late?


Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

Heaven is mashed potatoes,

creation is alphabet soup!

cried the laughing poet

driving down main street

in an old sports coupe.


In heaven all’s as well as well can be,

or so we’re told, and who’s to say?

No difference at all, we’re all the same

an unchanging world and really tame.


No need to ‘practice’ love in heaven

for that only works in black and white,

and isn’t that so? Have you tried loving

what you cannot differentiate?


False prophets of this age

‘There are many more than many’

say all is 'one'- there is no difference

Oh, sure: but one what? One mess?

It’s a bowl of mashed potatoes.


There’s a contradiction in the theme:

ego it seems lives on in higher realms.

As proof – angels no less

once found it lying near the throne of God.


So they picked it up and thought it better

than harp and halo and flowing gown.

Why? How should I know? Were they bored

in their mashed potatoes heaven?


Ego gave them their coveted difference:

it pissed off the Big Guy, but what the hell,

they had fun playing with their alphabet soup

and we(re still doing it – and we call it life.


And the moral of this little tale

is quite simple, and more than obvious:

if you learn to spell and eat your soup

the world is on your spoon.

Measure Of Marriage

Home of the free? Yeah right!

Try shacking up together,

a man, a woman to make life easier,

ease boredom, share costs,

put a dent in loneliness:

what happens next?

the State marries you,

common law, they call it,

did you have a choice in this?


Control, that’s what it is.


There’s more:

churches are working hard

getting you common law sinners

properly hitched,

and one must admit,

they’re having remarkable success,

considering the lawyers getting rich

through divorce proceedings.


Ah, the System,

what a wonderfully twisted world,

what a wonderful scam!

what a wonderful lie!

There’s no way on God’s green Earth

they’ll let you live a life of love

they can’ write up in triplicate

and put through a fax machine.


Cause if they can fax ya,

they can tax ya!

Mentally Challenged

I was considered unworthy

to experience a “normal” life;

with my speech impediment I did not fit in at all,


TSK, TSK, TSK…what do we do

with the retard?)

among the robotic standards

of their pastel coloured world.


When someone is a slow learner,

has a speech impediment,

or looks unnormal or abnormal,

the regular ones quickly label them

retards and idiots:

they remember the warning pinned to their cribs:

“When encountering another not like you:



But now: look!

they’ve discovered political correctness

(from the point of view of normal, that is)

and have declared terms like retard and idiot

socially repulsive or at least, unacceptable.

How interesting: they were their labels, not mine!


Under the new charter of rights and whatever

my PROPER description is “Mentally Challenged!”

I just feel So Privileged, So Special!

I am being challenged by my incredible mental faculties!

That’s sort of being like Einstein, I think.

(you know, the guy who wrote about an E

adding up to MC and a little 2?)


It feels just great to be recognized for what I am:



How would You like to work with idiots and retards

if YOU were a proud PHD?

Wouldn’t you rather work with geniuse-suz like me?

Please, Mr. Shrink…

may I have another look at those ink-blots?

I need to amuse my Inner Child some more.

Mind Search



life’s full of them

they arise, no warning.

Time for the great search,

of mind, that is,

and how to do that?


Let’s see,

a walk by the sea

away from the city’s endless cacophony:

sounds good, I mean healthy, really

but sound is sound

and those thundering waves,

rushing up the rocky shore crashing

then sucking their drool after:

very distracting.


I sit long, pondering

on cold, wet log

deposited here, half buried

during a winter’s storm,

and I watch those green waves roll in,

crash and rumble,

swish back, foam following.


It’s just more noise, I think

but there seems to be a Voice

in this timeless tumult,

a specific set of words, a message?

Perhaps, yes,

and having accepted such possibility

I can hear it now.


“You can’t get away to someplace

or somewhere special

to do mind searching.

Nor is there a special time:

it all takes place inside the mind,

inside you,

and it all takes place

all of the time. Are you listening?


As long as outside influences distract you,

you will never know your mind,

never discover the real you,

the one born to become

not just to be or to exist.”


It does not matter now what they say,

I know, like it or not,

that mind queries

are part of every moment

and every moment becomes a treasure.



The greatest takers, users, abusers?

Money people,

money traders,

Business: industries and corporations.

Banks: debt kings;

polluters of minds, land, sea and sky;

twisters of reality; buyers of “love”

sugar-coated in ad campaigns.

Their money: worthless manipulated numbers

from high-rise dungeons.

What energy lies at their source?

None. For-giving no longer comes near

those gilded dens of impoverished thieves.

Kings of “greed”;

who worship, live and die

at the feet of their idol: Mammon.

A burden so heavy to carry,

only bankruptcy can break them free

of their bondage!

Yet more jump in the gap,

raping and pillaging remnants

of natural resources and labor

for only these are real enough

to feed their drunken greed.

Have we reached the end?

Are we beyond a choice

as to whether “Money”

will consume earth

and sacrifice the last human?



Moon Landing: Hoax Or Real?

Did man land on the moon

or was the event faked in a studio

(As America’s most expensive and famous

home video?)

And what difference will it make

should we ever discover the truth of it?


If faked, it certainly has the qualifies of a great show

but does this mean we no longer trust

Governments, news media, scientists, lobbyists

for deluding us? For lying and scheming?

Would that be new? Really?


But if it happened as they claim

(and a good video is worth a thousand lies)

that the men who returned from

some billion dollar jaunt in space

(purchased from the working poor

to enrich a gang of kleptocrats)

were the same men who left and

they really had moon dust on their mukluks,

then what? Does this fact

change anything? Change everything?


This is not a question of some accomplishment-

after all what came of it?

It’s a question of trust. Not just any trust

but trust in the basic workings of the System.

And here’s the thing:

we know they lie, cheat and steal

with every opportunity they create,

For ‘they’ it is who have their bloody hands

firmly gripping the gang-switches of power,

to turn on, and to turn off, at will and whim,

and we it is who must swallow their lies

(and of course pay for them).


So did what’s their names

really walk on the moon,

or were we utterly and maliciously

“mooned” by con men and Capital Jokers?



In a rush of compressed time

created to fit within this eager moment

as the moon slowly wanes

disappearing behind haloed clouds

I find myself standing

upon a much younger earth

and with young eyes I scan

mountains I will climb and cross

in another time.


My fiery young heart

beats fiercely within

with a forever springing hope

that she will be waiting there

when I come down the other side

of the mountain.


And I still believe as I did then

that beyond this towering granite wall

lies the land of rainbow-colored dreams

“and they lived happily ever after”

is written on the sign at the border.


In the same compressed moment of time

I also pause to remove

my tear-soaked glasses from my eyes

to stare at the waning moon again

in the stillness of the night:


I try to remember that my youthful dream

was fully realized

and my life’s drama did unfold as foretold

each in it’s own precious time and space

to bring me here once more

older, wiser, and still full of hope

having seen both sides of the mountain

in the moonlight

My Fate Is In…

Your eyes say you do not know

if you should mock or pity:

you look; you stare   

of course: I make you!

A simple test of your strength.


Yes, I wish I could answer

the endless questions in your eyes

but I cannot!


Only you, you see

can decide who or what

I am.

My fate rests

in the patterning inherited

from your beliefs.


Perhaps you can love me

as freely as I love you   

perhaps not…

In any case

the choice is yours:

my fate is in your mind.

O, Bless Me, Universe!

How many times have we heard the line:

Oh, the Universe is a big wish-granting machine.

Trust the Universe and all will be well

for the Universe cares about you.


Oh… yeah… says I?

let’s see if I can use a comparison

to illustrate this particular New Age saw:


Your entire body is renewed every seven years,

meaning every cell in your body has been replaced,

meaning every cell has died and gone to heaven…

or wherever cells go, that is.


How many of those cells were you aware of?

How many did you call by name every morning?

How many did you ask if they were doing well?

How many did you offer a hand to

or give a big “Thank you” for taking care

of that wonderful organ you call a body?


We are but cells in the universal body.

The universe couldn’t care less who we are,

what we do, how long we live, or even

where we go, if we go, when we die.


Like a drop of water, a leaf, a bird on the wing,

we are a function within the greater function,

and that’s that – for the universe at least,

personal beliefs notwithstanding.


So, ease off on the BS of universal goodies:

the Universe is not your big sugar daddy

and a diet of such beliefs makes one obese

in the book shelf area – save your money:

buy an ice cream cone – enjoy the moment.


Old Fears

Do I feel a need

to coerce another?

To push a particular belief system,

a particular way of life?

This is weakness and insecurity

disguised as assurance;

social and spiritual bravado

when I know deep within

that I do not really “believe”

whatever it is I’m pushing.

This stuff is just old fears rising

for such as peace, joy and freedom

speak for themselves -

they cannot be hidden

if they are truly lived.

Let’s speak of those old fears:

they are what the world “systems”

are based on; how they function;

the energy they use

to exploit and to oppress;

how they coerce people to their will.


I don’t need to convince anyone:

I need to rid myself of old fears!

It is written in ancient texts:

“There is a way that seems right to many

yet it is clearly the way of death.”

Indeed: the way of old fears

is the way of the System

and the way of death.



I read this somewhere:

“To live within unconditional love

I must join the greater whole,

the oneness of all things.

I must learn to open my third eye

to understand how to speak to anyone

without lies, sarcasm,

deception or exaggerations

so frequently used to avoid the truth.


When people begin to see themselves

as equal with all things,

they will experience a shift in awareness

to a more enlightened state of being,

connecting every heart-beat

to the rhythm of life, to Mother Earth.”


But I wonder,

does this kind of thinking work

or is it just more ‘new-agey’ baloney

that tickles the ears

but when put to the test

falls short of the mark?


What I think of all of that

can be said very simply:

those who write stuff

expect “me” to prove their words

and as for them,

they’re in the marketplace

selling their wares,

same as, same as – for if it did not sell

they’d be writing something else.




Raw Greed

Governments crumbling,

spending more, much more,

keeping alive

their slave making,

tax grabbing,

dream shattering,

energy wasting,

war mongering,

fear generating; and for what?

To spread the terror

of earth-destroying dictatorships

through raw greed.


Teach your children

as we taught ours,

man does not weave

the web of life,

he is merely strands

within it.”


(Chief Seattle)





Running Free

The ‘awakening’ process brings us

in touch with “Spirit guides” and others

appearing full of knowledge and wisdom

to set us on the path of power…


But there is a neurosis among humans,

the curse of dependency:

so when spirit people enter our life to guide

we grow to rely on them instead of our self..


How do we know we are really on the path

to greater understanding and love?

How do we know we are breaking free

of addiction to dependencies?


One day, driving along a tree-bordered road

I became aware I was running free

along the road, through trees and shrubs-

effortlessly loping, keeping up with the vehicle.


Then I realized the concept of being one

for at that moment I had indeed become

my own Shaman, my own Spirit Guide:

I had broken my human dependency cycle.

Shadow Vision

Upon the mountain side

I rest: my shadow

laughing as I cry

in emptiness of soul,

unaware my

tears flowing give

new life

to a solitary withered flower.

As it opens in



earth energy

touches my spirit:

light espouses dark, I

discover the harmony.

Set free to soar,

my eagle spirit

with keen eyes


the breath of the


and perhaps


Shining Ones


shine in daylight,

sleep in the night:

cradled in crimson cotton sheets

they slip in their sea of dreams

closing their eyes

in evening indigos.



watch by day and night,

their eyes never closing,

their faces always soft.

   Children can look   

the mother does not burn

nor blind;

she is gentle and kind

showing fulness

or emptiness;

flow or ebb   

She knows her light

is borrowed to be shared.


Strawberry Flats

She is an old woman, hunched over,

huddled in an old coat, its faded blue

reveals the threadbare material --

she shivers in the cold wind

and seeks shelter deeper in her lean-to

among the strawberry flats displayed for sale.


Why is she there?

Do I have the right to wonder, even?

Perhaps she must be, to support herself,

too old to move through the muddy fields

or withstand the whipping rains and winds

along with her family recently arrived.


Perhaps she hopes to redeem her last times

bringing some added coins to the treasury

before her years stop falling as dominos.

upon the board of life.


If nature cares not for old or young,

I think that maybe society certainly should --

and if it cannot for whatever unclear reason

then surely “God the Responsible” must?


But the old woman in the strawberry shack

with four poles to hold the roof and no walls,

tells the story accurately – no blandishments

in the emaciated lined face that looks up at me --

or the lines around the mouth

that attempt to put forth the necessary smile.


She troubles me, this old woman

from a world I will never know

who came here looking for a better life;

who now must shiver in the unfamiliar cold;

dependent upon the bounty of strangers

whose language she cannot understand.


I’m troubled, not because of her, particularly,

but because she is one of millions

sitting thus by highways promising better things

while the world rushes by deaf to her sighs

and blind to her losses, bruises and wounds.



She troubles me, this old woman in faded blue

because she need not be there, begging,

drenched by the cold mist of plenty

expelled into her lungs by a thousand exhaust pipes

of happy campers on a Friday afternoon.


But why do I care? I think to myself --

what makes me want to engage this drama

within my heart and mind?

Then the child in me speaks the word

I no longer dare speak to those

whom I would call my equals: “No!”

Tall Or Small?

O child of woman

Crouch small

Under the waterfall

The mountain towers above

The womb of Earth is love


Son of man

Stand proud and tall

By the sewer’s outfall

Receive the mayor’s blessing


Why can’t we see us all

as we proudly rise so tall

Only to fall

Only to fall


A wind of change

Blows unannounced

A tall man falls

No one hears his calls


The next morning

Another stands as tall

Mapping out a new mall


O Child of woman

Remain small

Beneath the waterfall

Nature gives her blessing

In evening

As well as morning


No need to fall.

The Castaway

There’s a road that winds on and on,

forever, it seems

and she’s flying over that endless centre line,

like the road, on and on…

Where to, woman?

Where are you flying to?

but she no longer needs to think about it

because now, it no longer matters:

she has no need for a home,

no need for friends or family.

She is the castaway --


self-proclaimed rebel of the universe;

nothing can stand in her way now

as she flies ever faster

until suddenly there it is:

the end of the line;

the end of the road.


She knows the most beautiful sight:

fulfills all imagination: her dream --

nothingness, pure, unthought

beckons and without hesitation

she joins



“The Hollow House” (An Observation)

I pass by in time and wonder

at that house beside the winding road

abandoned for many years

empty hollow and mute tribute

to a family severed from its natural roots

disappeared without a trace


It sits in a small meadow

green mould growing in vinyl siding

grass once a green lawn

scattered with children’s toys

and puppies snarling over bones

now a tangle of weeds fallen over covering all

broken rotten toys and old bones


The windows stare in stark emptiness

upon a blind world driving by un-heedful

dirt covers the panes

blinds and drapes falling

bit by bit and piece by piece

to be replaced by the eternal grime

that reduces man’s passage

to primal dust in the book of time


The people in that house had a god

they worshipped in weekend rituals

the common god of this land

a god of pleasure fed by death

a household god of taste and stomach

powerless to prevent loss or ease pain

and standing testimony to that god

a leaning idol in the front yard

still stands the dark and rusty barbecue


The Immune System

This world is plagued

with diseases and death:

man knows this, fears it, accepts it

Inescapable, inevitable, they say.


Is it?

Or is it pure programming?

Could our physical immune system

be strengthened,

if we were more conscious within?

More aware of our thoughts?

More present in the present?


When greater consciousness

flows into our bodies

it’s an awakening, a rejuvenating;

each cell vibrating at a higher frequency,

each part rejoicing!


Without consciousness, illnesses creep in

and maintain themselves in grand style;

when no one’s home, like drifters

they move in and consume

whatever energy is stored therein.



The Last Salmon

A sadistic predator,

awaits by the riverside

as fish struggle upstream,

hoping one will take

the bait of death,

fighting back,

providing the “sport”,

pulling, trembling,

trying to free itself,

with its last breath.


Another mans a trawler,

reeling in nets covering

the ocean floor:

as the struggling bodies are

hauled aboard, all he sees

is the balance at the bank.


Some fish escape the gauntlet

to swim up the ancient streams

twisting, winding, leaping

over jagged rocks

and cascading waterfalls

to reach the remembered place

and beneath pebbles on the river bed

leave their dwindling legacy.


When the last salmon spawns

in some dying stream

not far from a coast

empty of seals and eagles,

will man have learned then

—if too late—

not to take more

than what nature can give?


The Last Shaman

Time’s lonely shadows lengthen over the earth:

the spirit of Wind Walker stands alone

atop a rising knoll overlooking empty rolling plains;

a restless autumn wind blows unchecked, untamed,

moaning tearful over desecrated burial grounds.


Wind Walker hears the coyotes howl in pale moonlight;

the thunder of mighty buffalo herds crossing the plains;

feels the throbbing drums around flickering camp fires;

sees his people, ghosts from years of fulness,

performing the ancient buffalo dance.

He smells the smoke rising peacefully in the clear night…

then the vision, so sweet to the eye, vanishes,

as did the buffalo and the people.


Numb of soul and empty of heart,

Wind Walker turns toward the spirit mountains,

taking the hallowed path of the grandfathers:

the last shaman of the great plains

to seek a vision for understanding:

why did the white man so savagely destroy

his world? kill his blood brothers?

annihilate the life-giving buffalo?

What kind of hatred moved such a plague

across the once-living prairie?


As Wind Walker approaches snow-capped giants

a thunderous echo beckons: he realizes

his earth time is of the past;

his restless, homeless spirit,

like the people of the campfires,

the coyotes of the moonlight,

the buffaloes on their ghostly trek,

must relinquish their place in the foothills:

the conquerors lay their pipelines and fences

cutting furrows deep into the soil.


Only acceptance, only love can now decide

the future of a once proud and virgin land:

no challenge, no showdown, no vengeance,

but simple understanding,

can ever demonstrate the truth.

The Light Shines In The Darkness

“The light shines in the darkness,

but the darkness has not understood it.”

[John 1:5 – The Bible]


It is understood or believed

that before the beginning

there was utter darkness,

Chaos the master

ruled endless realms

of nothingness.

Weighted by gnawing emptiness

Spirit in thought overthrew

the bonds of darkness with light –

and what is that called light

but life become self-aware?

Light is revelation –

and the reality of things

that had always been

but unseen and unknown

even unto themselves

locked in the dungeon

of darkness’ pride –


And what is that called darkness

but utter ignorance;

the state of unknowing,

not being alive even unto oneself,

unaware, while and yet

always existing

in cosmic Pangaea?

In the beginning

Spirit brought into the worlds

the light of life

to run its course, long or short,

to become swarms of fiery stars

burning themselves up

in cosmic orgasms,

proliferating wildly

even unto


Whispered thoughts among the spheres

weigh its inscrutable path

cutting down friend and foe alike:

inevitable abomination

proscribed end of light –

and what is death

but the unalterable return

of primal ignorance?

Thus comes the end

the laziness of forgetfulness,

forged chains of ignorance

tighten and lock;

the lights wink off one by one:

allness once again

hidden in primeval


Chaos rules,

once more Master un-creator,

unchallenged, proud

yet ever fear-bound

to the next awakening

and which state is this now?

an ending, or a beginning?

The Muad’dib

Listen, my friend:

shake every inhibition and fear

every self-centred thought

engendered in you by this life…

or never

will you succeed

in expressing the inexpressible longing of man,


comprehend the race’s collective sigh

for its lost life.


Learn from freedom;

allow yourself to be set free;

allow your mind to roam freely,

whatever the costs to your body or reputation.

find paradise -hold lengthy talks

with the Creator:

if you do not,

you are not one of those called,

much less chosen.



lest you be found wanting!



when choosing someone to reach the heavens,

to save this planet from disaster:

chose yourself.


You still remain

the best choice you can ever make.


Why look for someone else?

There is no one else!


Every age has its saviour

and its martyr;

every age, its laughter

and its tears;

every age its life

and its death

This is a new age.

The Never Ending Experience or:

[] The vision of AlTara as related by Sha’Tara


It is generally believed on this world

that once the spirit reaches God

it completes its quest,

its reason for experiencing

this one,

this only


Armed with this belief

many are the ones who

one way, or another way

seek to give meaning

to one fleeting life

in the passage of time

and many are the ones

who prey on the fear thus engendered!

But is it so?

In a vision, AlTara joined the flow of life,

travelled the galaxy,

crossed the universe,

to seek an audience

with the one who must know!


In a grey misty place of gentle love

God sat quietly, peacefully

(on a very ordinary bench!)

His gentle face turned to AlTara

and she boldly asked:

“So you are God, the Creator?

I’ve come through the cosmos

only to find this ‘end’?

This completion?

There is no more”?

God looked at her, smiling,

and waved his hand across the mist

to reveal a wall and a ponderous door…

saying with deep, gentle voice:

“I have yet to go though that one!


Do you understand what this means?

Now you must go back

and share with the people of earth

this knowledge I give freely:

for I desire to be known

within the truth,

not worshipped blindly

within age-old lies.

The Prophet’s Lament

[2000 Years After]


They were to welcome me as the "Friend of God" --

and that is why I came.

I came back to them to remind them

to turn from their endless wars;

from their senseless destruction.

I came to stop them from feeding their children

into the insatiable maws of death

decorated in holiday fashion

as fireworks, candies, roasted turkeys, fat Elves in red suits

leaving piles of useless “gifts” under dead trees;

or as colorful pills and shiny handguns.


But those who sent me were blind old fools;

the Old Guard caught in endless deliberations

of mindless politics, waiting too long to intervene

and when I awakened upon Earth

I found the poison of time had spread as a cancer

filling every thought in every mind

as sand fills every hole in every dune

in the great deserts of the outer worlds.


They remember nothing! Absolutely nothing!


God -- they have turned into myriad lies;

into idols fashioned by minds inflamed with lusts.

Their religions are but tattered rags flapping in the winds

as do the tongues of their preachers for hire;

their teachings as bleached bones

left by beached whales dead long, long ago.


I walked the land in silent shock,

seeing no hope anywhere, sensing no future.

All I encountered were the rapacious claws of greed

tearing the soft blush of youth

into bloody rivers upon a scarred and battered land

as smoke billowed from factories

where they ground and burned the bodies of the poor.

Yes, they still speak of God,

perhaps more than ever before

but their prayers invoke only cold ritual and dead magic -

creating more smoke in the parching winds.


Now the prophet speaks:

No longer will I be called the “Friend of God”

among the people of Earth.

I will not allow this blasphemy to spread;

this travesty to continue.

For the sake of the Great Balance

I turn my back upon my Ancient Friend.

I return my soul into his hands

and refuse to look in his tear-stained face.

Hard of heart I must be now;

as harsh and cold as the people of Earth

are to one-another.

Now we must go on our separate ways

until the people turn from their addictions


until Earth is no more.


The Prophet will not return

until the land has been cleansed of pollution;

until every heart is filled with compassion;

until innocent blood is no longer shed;

until every desire of every mind can only be quenched

through the imparting of wisdom.

These Words are true.


The Question, The Quest

We search for deeper experiences,

no longer satisfied to just be;

transcending our own animal acceptance,

we splinter reality: what do we create?

We set “The Question” in motion.


From our fevered quest,

an overflow of new thoughts emerges;

on perfections and imperfections we dwell

balanced precariously as on a pinnacle of rock

centered within a shoreless stormy sea.


Assailed by a mind unbound

as wild gods we search the unmanifest,

drawing meaning from holographic images.


So much confusion, pain, sorrow,

The Question has unleashed within -

but why should that be so?


That question is easily answered:

our primary search pattern or quest

is bound up in intangibles of faith and hope and love

and to understand this we must know

the taste of our own experience

stored within a treasure trove of feelings.


A mountain goat will stand still for hours,

upon some precarious ledge,

waiting, observing, thinking

while its world lies at its feet;

of canyons and crags and pathless ways.

The Sailor And The Maiden

I’m old, whispers the white haired man,

dying, and from this life I depart.

A life-long dream I would share

with you, and not with anyone.


She replies, I love you my father,

and am living, in this life remaining alone

and such a life-long dream I would receive

from you, not from anyone.

Then listen carefully to my dream,

come closer, my voice is weak

and have no time to repeat:

open your mind to my vision, child,

reserve judgment on my state of mind.


There is a sailor I have known long

who only knows certainty when on the deck

of a strange and wonderful craft sparkling

under gossamer sails adorned in arabesque;

alight with the fire of a hundred suns.


The sailor is ageless and strong,

never will he speak the lying words of man,

singing only songs from infinity:

in his eyes, my daughter, you will see

the spinning galaxies, the nebulae.


I said, “will see” for he awaits

in his golden suit, at the edge of the sea

for the companion he’s learned to love:

I impressed him of you, and he waits;

you will go to him, and sail his starry seas.


He will call to you so you see the way

and with him depart this earth forever.

I go to your mother beyond the wall;

I would not leave you to mourn and regret

so I molded your heart to his: this you can know.


She looked in her father’s vision

and saw the stranger near the sea;

a longing took her to speed away

and sail the strange ship with him

upon the spreading solar winds.


It is told in stories of old Earth

of a maiden of such surpassing beauty

no man would dare approach or touch

a lonely and aloof woman who walked to the sea

and rose from the earth on a pillar of fire.

The Shadow

When light shines

upon a solid object,

a shadow results;

a lone tree

on a country road

provides shade

from the noon-day sun.


What were the creators

- was that you and me -

thinking of then

when they invented

the shadow?


Ahhh, but perhaps

they were thinking

that some day

they could be walking

a dry and dusty road

in bright sunshine

and the shade

of a weeping willow

or perhaps an oak

would be welcome.


Could it be that in life

things happen

for simple reasons?


We lean

to the complex;

believing the complicated,

seeking explanations

for that which is

self explanatory.

This does not result

in knowledge

but in self-delusion.


The Speed Of Dark


What’s the speed of dark?

an innocent lamp

perching bedside

asked the dim lit room.

Shhh… never speak such

“blasphemy” child,

answered the drawn curtain

sunward blanched,

its experience in tatters.

Look at me,

he whispered turning

in the light morning breeze,

‘twasn’t the dark burned my skin

and shattered my fibres,

‘twas the speeding light,

the damned searing light,

but tradition avails and

as always the light

is praised and held holy

while passive dark

receives the stigma of hell.

Extinguish yourself;

sleep your innocent shadows;

cast not your light

for many a thing will die

this day, and none the wiser

but fear not:

dark will speed on his way

bringing healing in his wings.


The Stranger

Autumn came too early:

one storm followed another

and leaves began drifting

silently in the cold wind.


The sun peered meekly

through denuded branches

casting uncertain shadows

upon the twisted mat

of flattened Autumn grasses.


On a lonely stretch of road

I passed a tired soul:

I turned back to look,

and when he turned his face

in the faint light

I saw that he was me.

There’s Talk Of Flooding



Every so often

Old timers and young whiners

start up the talk of flood

‘cause there’s no political scandal,

no summer Olympics

or other brain-dead cause to rally ‘round.


Out here in the valley

we live below the great mountains

and some years bring less snow

(and the talk’s about the drought)

and some years bring more snow

and the talk’s all about the flood.

(Ain’t never seen one or the other

but that’s the way of it down here.)


There’s those that watch

that there snow pilin’ up higher and higher

and so sure they are there’s gonna be

the mother of all great floods.


It’s always exciting for humans

to have some certain disaster

to talk about and worry about

But what better than

a certain flood deep and wide

and bodies floating in the wreckage?


But I’ll let you in on a secret:

those mountains, they’re the cake

and that snow, that’s the icing.


And all that water that flows down

when the morning comes clear and bright?

tis but the tears of the newly weds

awakening to the terrible mistake

they talked themselves into

realizing in the morning

they don't even love each other --

Yeah, maybe it was great sex, but…

The party’s over, family and friends

have hit the open road and gone;

the gifts have all been opened;

the white dress is in the drawer

and it’s time to go back

working for the man.

They Call This Time Fall


They call this time “Fall”

I no longer wonder why

temperatures fall

leaves fall

fruit fall

nuts fall

rains fall

and when you get “here”

and the walk gets icy

you slip and fall

so that clinches it

it’s all “Fall”

but wait a minute

do I have to wait

six months

to spring back up?

the temperature


it will spring back up

but what about the leaves

and the fruit

and the nuts

and the rains

will they spring back up?

I do wonder about “Spring”

as I do not about “Fall”




Three Dogs

A lovely sunny day in winter:

a green canoe upon blue waters,

the river free and happy for a time

the gentle wake of the light craft

matching the swirls from the paddle

deftly handling changing currents…


I push up the mellow winter waters

along muffin-shaped rocks

accompanied by eagles, ravens and gulls:

the breeze is light but with a bite

reminding me this isn’t summer time!


As I look at the shoreline, wondering

three dogs come running along:

three beautiful wild dogs, one white

two dark, loping like wolves,

they follow along the shoreline


Eying them suspiciously, at first,

not knowing what to make of them

I guide the craft closer to the bank

and call to them, they come running

tails wagging, happy, full of joy!


I extend my hand and they lick my fingers

shake their heads and look at me

as if laughing at my confusion:

“why aren’t you snarling and biting”

is what you’re thinking, aren’t you?


“Yes” I answer in my thoughts, knowing

they would know my thoughts anyhow:

“but who are you, dogs?” and I wondered

as the question was irrelevant,

we were happy, they running on the cliffs,

I paddling upstream to a sandy bank


I jumped down and they joined me

in a joyous dance upon the sandy shore:

we ran and jumped and played

petting, touching, licking, laughing -

oh, yes, dogs do laugh, these anyway


Then I laid down upon the dried up grass

to rest and take in some of the sun

and they too laid down and rested

as if waiting for me to make the first move:


I wonder still, who were those dogs

so friendly and free, one with nature

one with me, as if I were no longer human?

Time Is The Artist

Time is the artist

who paints age upon the world:

though we find Autumn leaves beautiful

not so the lines upon our faces;

the bony knobs on once limber fingers

that caressed a lover’s tender skin

or skimmed skillful over a keyboard.


Time is the artist:

what school did he attend

that he is so limited in scope?

Where was he taught

the necessity to age his models so?

Who buys his finished masterpieces

when they lie within the grave?


Time is the artist:

his teachers are from Earth’s school

for what he expresses,

is but the collective belief of a race

caught helpless in death’s patterning.


I wish, Oh, how I wish!

I could speak to him as I stand

behind his easel today.

Though young and pretty and full of life

I stand thus for this master,

I wish he’d see into my heart

and not paint those telltale lines

around my eyes today.

True Glory

Walking the path

from experience to experience,

I discover and learn to appreciate

the wonders of God’s world.

I see tiny living things

becoming as wonders of the world;

feel the magic, the joy

the cleansing in the breath

of the open sea

tasted from a wave-washed shore…


I behold clouds in formation

arrayed in white light

as choreographed displays

of angels in graceful dances.


I must not think foolishly

that God will just lead the way,

simply unwinding those precious images

when he thinks I’m ready for change,

for change is wrought from within

and the God without always waits

for the one within to open the gates.


I search within myself

for the wisdom I have gained

through countless land slides cleared away;

I, only I, may pilot my soul’s flight!

I, only I, may change the space surrounding me!

I, only I, may change the fate of time!


Finding God’s true glory

will not be by waiting patiently for miracles;

it will not be found in some man made wooden box

erroneously labelled a church,

but will burst forth from within nature’s kingdom,

from within my kingdom…

from within myself!

True Lies

Isn’t “truth” a relative term?

However one says

‘I swear to tell the truth

the whole truth

and nothing but the truth’

… one may as well say:

‘I swerve to smell the soup,

the toll booth

and nuts sing on the roof!’

(with apologies to Jim Unger)


What is truth?

Only that which someone accepts.

Truth to a system is that

which the system accepts as such.,

which the system sees as beneficial (to itself)

(and a human is a system)


True lies? All lies are true,

else, how could they be called lies?

There is nothing else but truth:

all is truth, however you shake it

shape it, express it:

for if you believe it, it is your truth.

But if another does not, it is a lie,

but to be a lie,

it must be a true lie, or it is no lie.


Nothing is impossible:

that is, it is impossible

for something to be nothing

and so it is with truth.

If you say: “That is a lie”

you are making a true statement;

validating the lie as truth.


What Now, World?

Well here I am, world.

Yes, I have returned to you

because you begged me –

and I must certainly be a fool

for listening to your pleading

and trusting you again –

but who knows the ways of the heart?


What now, my great lover?

Will you bare my soft shoulders;

caress them with your calloused hands?

Run your fingers over my skin

and drag your rough beard

over my slender arms

to make me tremble and shiver?


Or will you take your whip

and rip my flesh open

as you did the last time we were together?

Will you despise me for what I am;

be jealous of my kindness

and give me no chance

to defend myself?


Will you walk me to your bed,

lay me gently upon your silken sheets

and make love to me under the moon

until the sun comes up over the purple hills?

Or will you drag me into your dungeons,

tie my wrists and ankles

and beat me black and blue

as in every other time

since neither of us can remember?


I haven’t changed you know.

(And I do wish I had –

though I do not know which way)

I’m still the same old me

though in a different body.

And you -- how have you changed

beyond your tearful promises?


Ah well, I’m here now

once more in your power –

whether by choice,

foolishness or ignorance –

and how well we both know

you may do with me

absolutely as you wish.




Beyond The Clouds

Expectancy fills the land:

forest rain softly falls,

evergreens sigh softly

in the freshening breeze;

a stream trickles merrily

beneath dampened moss

shadowed by giant granite cliffs.

Leaves turn to gold,

reflected still upon a lake

and a loon yodels, unseen…

The evening weaver

layers the skies

in streaks of deep magenta

as from the shimmering horizon

a golden eagle emerges:


On its mighty outstretched wings

I rise beyond striated clouds

to see where I have been,

to assess the furrow

I ploughed through this life’s soil

and refocus my dream:

for whether I plough smoothly

through rich loamy soil

or break my plough against boulders,

I realise if I keep moving on,

one day I will reap the benefits

of my labour,

my life experiences.

What We Settle For

It’s there – for all to see were they not blind:

it doesn’t work – but no one can see it; not even you,

not until it collapses in your lap:

when the hopes and dreams

shatter as glass when a rock is thrown

and children run laughing

while another screams inside a dark house.


Isn’t it amazing what we settle for?

What we convince ourselves of?

There is the tried and true and failed -

Oh yes, failed, utterly failed -

but what can one do? It’s all there is, isn’t it?

We are born into society – a pattern set in cement -

and even if we notice (too late)

the cement is cracked and crumbling

no one is pouring fresh stuff down here.


Let’s see, what are the options

for the budding human’s dreams?

There’s church – some kind of religion

so you can get hooked on God – the Great One

who’s more silent than the grave;

family – parents and siblings and fights

followed by separation and divorce

and relocation to another school.


There’s government – you register to pay

everyday of your life and beyond;

school – education – to make you fit in

and teach you to walk with eyes wide shut.

There's work - you have to make money --

it’s what makes it all go round and down.

There's repetition: your own family --

“The Home Environment”

(translate please) -- certainly, read:

the confining straights of marriage

and kids and responsibilities no one ever taught --

you fly by the seat of your pants

and you remain afloat – maybe -

or you lose and fall and lose again.



And at that point there's jail --

you had your good times

they brought you too low and you couldn’t climb out

so they scoop you off the sidewalk,

in cuffs you watch your shiny stolen car

burn inside the basement of a house

and an ambulance screams away.


Stop, you say, stop already --

it's not that bad, not for most --

and sadly I have to agree, it is not:

most accept the middle road, the common ground.

They warm the pews, fill the voting booths,

sit at desks half asleep and they commute,

commute, commute, commute -

like the beat of a train’s steel wheels

on a badly laid track --

I owe, I owe, it’s off to work I go

to the job and back from the job, to and fro,

and it all becomes the same, blurred, wasted --

somehow mixed with forgotten dreams

remembered once or twice at a party.


And hope, what happened to hope?

Well, it's still there, somewhere --

in the shoe closet, in the doghouse

the baby’s crib or the barbecue.

Sometimes it’s in the hot tub

and sometimes in a boat or swimming pool.

Or a promotion for him.

Mostly it's in maxed-out loans and mortgages --

All just enough to stave off the divorce,

barely enough.

Dreams and hopes become memories

written on a note lying limp

between the fingers of the deceased

and the coffin’s lid is shut for the last commute:

the roll down hell’s door into the furnace. Amen.


“And the people shall bow and say, ‘Amen’ together

then shall they depart from this place to eat and drink,

and they shall continue… continue… continue…

and whatever they may have learned here

shall be wiped from their memory.”

That is the real story.

What’s In A Name?

Ah! But are we not the ancient ones—

shape shifters, form shapers, alchemists, dreamers?

Do we not create only to un-create and re-create,

trapping energy in form only to set it free once more?


“I” was born in a human form, trapped—

like a slave with no will and no choice

a name of sorts infused into my child’s mind.


As time would have it, I broke free of some bondage

to human expectations, traditions and common ego,

but for the name I carry weighing me down

with other people’s chains anchored in their past:


Does a name given at birth really define my beingness?

Does it not rather spell a group’s hopes and dreams?

Having re-discovered my ancient powers,

my own true roots anchored deep within the flowing magma;

within the bloodstream of my own sister Earth,

tell me: Do I not have a perfect, appropriate ‘right’

to choose that word, or words, called a name,

which I, only I, can recognize as being ‘me’?


Do I not have the complete right

to present my own identity to the world?

Or, for that matter, my many identities?

In the drama of life, am I not permitted

to play more than one part, from birth to death?


If you think not—whatever your reasons,

then tell me who “I AM”!

Dare to define what I have become

not in this life alone, but including all,

absolutely all!

my experiences as the cosmic “me.”


Where To When We Die?

Where to when we die?

Some say “Heaven”

and some, well, think it’s Hell,

and for some,

could be somewhere in the sky.

but how many people know for sure?

How many have worked it out

and know who they are,

where they are going

and what they will do once there?


Now dying is pretty serious business:

it’s a big-time move -

would one go to an airport and say:

“Can I please get on a plane?”

In the real world, you need a ticket,

and a destination, at the very least.

Does “dying” remove responsibility

for what comes next?


So there go the earth Humans

without a clue out into the Cosmos.

No idea where they wish to go

nor how to get there.

And if they do get there,

what do they use for a resume

when asked what they’d like to do?

Looked at this way,

doesn’t it seem rather silly?

No wonder there are so many Humans

crowding each other here!


They go out into the cosmos

thinking that “others” will take them home

not knowing what that is -

so they are put on a great return loop

and when their turn comes

out they pop, back on Earth again…

and again… and again…

and for most, none the wiser.


Why The Pain?

Why does the blackberry

tear at the skin

of the small hand reaching

for nature’s food

in hope of simple sustenance?

Why does the sweet smelling

rose of mid summer

prick the soft finger

touching its stem,

leaving drops of blood

in its scarlet wake?

Why does the goldfinch

always watch the skies

for the predator hawk,

the swift sharp shinned

swooping with death

in its short rounded wings?

Why does the black vulture

endlessly circle the blue skies,

surveying the open fields

for the dead and the dying

even in the blush of spring?

Why does the human race

bid for first place in death

constantly planning hate

prepared for war in fear

exploited by power for pleasure?

Why does the gentle empath

walk with pain in her heart,

her soul heavy with sorrow

even as the breath of the divine

carries her aloft?

Wind Chaser

The wind was always a rival to defeat,

so I ran the path set forth,

training for the marathon of life

to cross the finish line

on some distant horizon,

and I imagined turning back

to see a tired wind

come in second.


But in trying so hard to finish first,

I never could pause long enough,

to appreciate the simple things

that had no need to run in any race.


One day

a gust of wind

gently passing by

whispered softly in my ear:

“Learn to run with me, not against me.

Don’t worry about who finishes first!

If you must run along my paths,

let me be your companion, not

your competitor!

Allow the pleasure to flow within

life’s own gentle pace.”

Would They Be Happy

I sit beside a mountain lake,

its surface smooth as crystal,

reflecting changing hues

of late afternoon…


I get to thinking.

Would doctors be happy

if no one

got sick or hurt?

Would weight loss clinics be happy

if no one

became overweight?

Would drug companies be happy

if no one

needed drugs to ease their pain?

Would judges and lawyers be happy

if no one

broke any laws?

Would marriage counsellors be happy

if no marriage ever failed?

Would religious leaders be happy

if no one sinned?


A horrified and mortified lot they’d be

if everything worked perfectly.

All those self-important people

cut off from the gravy train

made of human pain:

How long would it be, I wonder on

before they’re competing with me

hunting recyclables in ditches?


A bald eagle sweeps over the waters

just as a beautiful crimson sun

touches the edge of a distant peak

turning the sky a bright orange:

it’s time to set up the tent.

Zen On A Riverbank

Life is but an illusion, a trick

we play on our physical selves,

we are the trickster, but why?

Because we live in the eternal now

yet desire to know,

and how can we,

without a past or a future?

The present is but the source

recreating the past, creating the future.

Immovable, it creates movement:

universes appear; suns blink their eyes;

a shooting star blazes across immensity;

an eagle soars and a child laughs

at the edge of the crashing wave.


Everything is but illusion:

the longing for something entirely else,

What is joy, if sorrow is unknown?

What is health where disease was never?

What is serenity without turmoil?

Thus do we create our reality from duality:

from what is, we get what seems not

and from what is not, we get what seems:

illusions… dreamtime…


fear not the dream gentle spirit:

the god in you is unfolding

each moment of your life.

You’re In The Twenty-First Century, Son


You’re in the twenty-first century, son:

don’t bother looking up, there’s nothing to see.

Keep your head down and another laced cookie

will reshape the world differently, no need

to lift your eyes, there’s nothing to see,

is there.  Vacant eyes studying the rug:

perfect pose for the occasion.

Everything that’s shopped for

gets carted away in stretching plastic bags

under sagging shoulders and drizzly clouds.

You’ve seen it a million times, or you’d have

if you’d ever opened your eyes

beyond the keyboard.  But hey, forget it,

never mind that, I can wax philosophical

at the most inauspicious moments.

It’s all completely meaningless, isn’t it,

a happy meaninglessness created just for you.

Don’t let me spoil your high.  Build it up,

your high school reunion is tonight.  Not

all of ‘em are dead yet if they’re still

on Facebook.  Was I talking about

global warming, or warning?  Maybe.

Maybe it’s a train; maybe it’s the rain,

that clatter, maybe it’s your pain.

But what does it matter to you

sitting there not knowing why, or where?

You’ll get through it, son, you will. 

You’re special, like everybody else and

death is there for you too, so don’t worry

there’s always somebody who cares

enough to put you in the stretchy plastic bag

after being shopped for; after

your environmental fee is duly paid.

Oh please!  Don’t get up; don’t thank me.


Getting Old

You know you’re getting old

when it takes you all night

just to try to remember

what you used to do all night;

when you painstakingly put

your pants on, one leg at a time

and the zipper is on backward;

when you go to brush your teeth

and they’re not there

and you can’t find them

because your glasses are

in another room—which one?

and you go to bed

only to fall head first

in the closet:

it’s only then, you remember

this may not be your house,

and that…wasn’t the bathroom:

you think, …Oh, hey!

Who is that woman

in the bed I was in?

Does it really matter?

But it should: I spent an entire night

thinking about it…


(and on that note, the Laughing Poet

got up and made coffee…)

Getting A Job

The Government says;

‘the people we serve are a resource’

I guess this means,

we are like stocks and bonds:

when we no longer bring in money,

we are cashed-in

to die in some darkened alley.


The Government says,

getting a job is good;

leads to a sense of accomplishment,

provides economic security,

in a fulfilling and independent life:


Yeah, but isn’t it more this way:

that fat-cat Politicians need taxpayers,

to keep up appearances

and pay back political promises?


The more money a government rakes in,

the fatter the individual “elected official”

can legally get.

Who ever heard of a government

going on a tax diet?


This Was Never My Life

A loud sigh of deep frustration:

(and the dance begins)

“I no longer understand you –

what have I done

made you so cold?

made you want to leave?”

“It’s not you, oh!

I so wish you’d try

to realize this –

it’s not you, it’s me:

the problem, it’s me,

let me explain, I…

do not wish the hole I dug

to get deeper here.

I walked beneath the trees

and under the stars

there was also

the moon

staring, perhaps sharing,

behind a shimmer of cloud.

They talked to me: the trees,

the stars, the moon;

maybe even the clouds.

The owl in the treetop

translated for me,

he told me to move on

or remain stuck forever.

These are the forces

that move me – once again.


I do not belong here, I…

I made a mistake!

This was never my life,

forgive me. Goodbye Larry.



The Question, The Quest

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.

  • ISBN: 9781370987023
  • Author: Sha'Ra On WindWalker
  • Published: 2017-08-15 01:17:39
  • Words: 12577
The Question, The Quest The Question, The Quest