Excerpt for A Moment Unguarded by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

A Moment Unguarded


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: Belovodchenko Anton

Web Page: http://shutterstock.com/g/belovodchenko


Space Picture: ESA/Hubble


I hope you enjoy these writings.  Feedback is welcome.




A Moment Unguarded

A Moment Alone

A Sacred Place

Aliens Walking Among Us

Anything Is Possible

Be Part Of The Flow

Beware The Poet







Eye Of The Beholder

Freedom Has No History

A Sign Of Change

Giving Your Life

God Is A Committee

Good And Evil Right And Wrong

Healthy Democracy

Impressions Of A Past

Inside Out

I Q Test

Life Is A Game

The Unchartered Path

The Unseen Side

God's Little Stone

The Homeless

Offer Of Night

One Liners

Path Of Evolution?

Perfection Unacknowledged”

The City

The Image I Shall Carry

The Young Girl Who Asked Why

Train Of Love

Transitional Moment

How Rich Is Rich Enough

The Simple Man

The Road Of Experience

The River, The Stones, The Birds

I Am The One

The True Shaman

There Is The Desert

Living Without Love

Two Friends

Two Worlds


Machu Picchu

The Man From Bole

O, Sinful Nudity!

The World Cries

They’re Always Here

My Kind Of God!

Thoughts Of You

Turmoil Of Soul

What Is 'Sin'?

Today God Must Die

What Is Truth?

Twin Flames

This Is Earth

Why Be Frightened?

Who I Am

Thou Shalt Not Kill

The Song Of The Eternally Caged

Stormy Seas

Do Sound Waves Speak?

Honest Government





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 Moment Unguarded


It may be but the middle of February

this day, this crazy wonderful day

but out of the blue the sun came out

as with a vengeance for all the days

his face imprisoned by endless clouds

felt the land's dream as dark and dank

still caught in Winter's vise-like grip


Suddenly and without warning

in a moment of unguarded ebullience

Spring, so shy and hesitant, so light of step

bounced from her deep slumber under the Earth

and with a shout of delight and crazy joy

filled mountain valleys and cities' gardens

with a touch of her long-awaited magic


Buds still draped in the night's frost

dangle pearly mystical drops and silver bells

as dew in a Summer's early morning.

Robins try out their first Spring songs

while a gentle breeze whispers by

rustling herself a bit of hesitant music

in dry grasses, rushes and scattered leaves.


Everywhere come the sounds of renewal

everywhere life springs forth

not caring it's too early Spring for most

daringly unleashed in fervent hope

that Spring, real Spring

cannot now be far away

I too know this and how

can one help but rejoice, if foolishly?

A Moment Alone


A moment alone

brings forth these thoughts:


Why am I here?


A perverse trick of nature?

An accident of time?

A meaningless chance?


- or -


Designed specifically to serve

some so-called loving God

who gets angry when I fail to meet

his detailed (but unexplained) expectations?


A God redolent with needs and ambitions

which I must somehow fulfil for Him

as the good wife for the couch potato?


Is it to work as a slave all my life

so the few at the top can have

what is thought of as the good life?


Is it to acquire or lose

a bit of karma here and there -

without knowing what that really is...

or where I pick it up or drop it?


Is it to learn and grow from experiences

through events and struggles

to get to the next level?


But which level? Up or down?

I don't even know what floor I'm on

and the elevator seems kind of stuck.


A Sacred Place


Standing on soft sand,

the wind gently touching my skin,

I am totally free from society's rules.


I feel the exhilaration of this freedom;

a feeling as old as time - or even before -

before laws were enacted and taboos made

to create human shame and misery.


I allow the sun to warm my body,

stretched out on dry white sand

and the usual crowd arrives

loud, boisterous, ready to do its thing

as is done on modern nude beaches..


I wonder: Why has this sacred place

become a market place for fools

in search of beer, pot and whatever else

lurks to satisfy what's below the belt?

What happened to the quiet enjoyment

of these moments of physical freedom

and simple childlike contentment?


I wander to a remote point

to let soft waves wash over my body

and listen to their music.


It is here I must make a difficult choice:

Do I leave this place?

Do I stay and watch the Yahoos destroy it?

Or do I create my own sacred space

even here,

where no one but me can enter?



Aliens Walking Among Us


Walking a city sidewalk,

on a cool sunny morning,

I had a thought:

are there people from other planets

walking among us?

if so - what are they like?


Most Earthians believe in God

or at least in some sort of gods or goddesses.

Some believe in lesser spirits;

in angels and demons and such like.


They are not considered ignorant

or particularly stupid

for believing such things -

in fact, their ostentatious religions

loudly attest to the contrary.


Do they see these beings?

Can they prove their existence?

Can they prove their claim

to converse with them

or get "blessings" from them?


They cannot.  Not one of them...

and are not challenged for their "faith."

So if I ask about "aliens"

why am I told that only ignorant people

would believe in such?

Doesn't it make more sense

to believe in aliens among us -

than in gods and demons?


O, the surprise of the day

when it is realized

gods, demons and angels

came, went, and return

but as visiting aliens.

O the surprise of the day

to discover this: that the root of man’s faith

in gods, angels, demons and assorted

invisible entities

came from the heavens

and not from heaven or hell.

Anything Is Possible


Is it possible,

Is it feasible

for a human mind

to conceive of something impossible?


An interesting thought:

can anyone think the impossible?

If “yes” - then what is it?

If it has no description

then it does not exist

because it cannot be conceived!


If that is so, could we say

that whatever the human mind conceives

must then be within

the realm of the “possible?”


Possible, impossible, some would say

it's just a play on words:

I don't think so.

Thoughts create our reality,

not “God” and not “gods” either;

nor fate, nor even destiny.

Our thoughts are what creates

and that is why every “thing” in our reality

exists: It was thought up

because even when it did not exist

as we see it

it existed as pure possibility

within the realm

of all that which is possible.


Be Part Of The Flow


I sat on a bench in the sun,

a wise wanderer came to me and said:

“I take life as it comes, catch the flow.

Did you notice life's like being in a big river:

you don't swim upstream or you'll drown, friend,

take a lesson from a piece of driftwood.

No struggle, just going along for the ride and yet,

an artist on the shore,

paints the scene and there it is:

in a gallery for all to see, yet still floating,

caught in the magic of light and shadow

by the magician in paints.”


“Just by being who I AM in this sunshine

I can heal the world, I can change

the kaleidoscope of life around this town.


Even if I know no one here,

I know all things inside my mind

and this knowing brings me to the edge of time.”


He slowly drank the coffee I bought him

and with a smile, he disappeared.

Beware The Poet


Beware the poet --

an artist, certainly

but more:

a prophet

a soothsayer--

a body, a mind, a spirit

linked as one

as at first it all was.


He re-enacts creation

the poet,

the empath

who can laugh

in pain

shed tears of sorrow

in laughter:

the interpreter

of life

of faith

of love.


Beware the poet --

the silly

the simple

the childlike

the innocent


bright eyed





he travels all dimensions

untouched by the




Beware the poet

the true,

he may change

your world

from within.


Don't listen to him:

mock him

laugh at him

scorn his words

ignore him


misunderstand him:


you may remain


in the arms of

father corporation

father state

father religion

if you close your senses

quickly enough.


Beware the poet

erasing lines


mixing (oh! horror!)



ordinary words,

ordinary ideas:


with the Spirit

of love


with the System

of hate


Beware the poet


your status quo:



He paces a darkened world

walking his familiar path

along a small river

bordered by silvery woods.


His canopy of bowing branches

no longer spring with life:

in his gray silence

he cannot hear

fading, gently falling,

colours of Autumn.


Tossed by a sudden gale,

a bird of passage drifts off course

and lands on a branch

just above his darkened world.


As it sings its last song

before resuming its flight

the walls of darkness lighten

and for the briefest of moments

the man imagines

the sun rising, delicately

brushing the sparkling dew

on yellow irises.




Alone, always so alone

walking sandy river bars

or climbing rocky canyon walls

in calming sound of wind and water

or driving unkempt city streets

and the madness of the freeways

in restless, angry noise.


I feel this terrible loneliness,

as a sea of pain, immeasurable

tearing my soul to shreds.


What is this aloneness

which no human voice can express,

no gentle touch can heal?

which no sun can burn up

or wind ever blow away?


Vibrations from a million echoes

shatter the stillness of the day,

grind the air through which

unseen gulls plaintively call across the void

and I hear myself crying too

for the undiscovered, the unknown

hidden by time-shrouded mists.


Alone in this emptiness

my mind fills with many thoughts

seeking to understand the ancient paths

we're told are past finding out

lost in a long forgotten past.



Early in life

I was taught this great truth:

"all men are brothers...

(if they think like you,

the rest are enemies...)


Later on, I discovered

(quite by chance--

the lie in that

implied truth)


"all men are brothers

(I said to myself--

it's not something you

talk about freely

in such a free country)

I stopped there

and let it go at that

it seemed enough

it was enough

for me

(I did nothing to prove

the right or wrong of it)


Still later on, joining a group

(a fellowship, they called it)

the original lore

the ancient lie

sprung back to life within

with little prompting:

We--had the truth--

possessed the book of books

stolen from another race

(now cursed, of course)

and added on for good measure

(well, one can always use

more truth--

from God himself, no less)



if at the end

God decreed eternal torment

for any who did nor read, did not


the book in its entirety;

did not accept its believers

coming with lies and guns

plundering the lands

raping the women

enslaving the children

then so be it: God is just...


But wait:

God in his way is also very merciful

(to all sinners--

even to believers of lies--)

and I believe again



"all men are brothers"


there never can be

written absolute truth

for the book itself says--


if everything was written

the earth itself could not contain

the books written

as a witness

to it all


Now I understand

and won't be fooled again.



Once upon a time

there was a very sad boy

by the name of Chris.


Well, that's not so strange

you may be tempted to add,

but how would you like it

when walking with your mom

and people say:

here they come again,

Chris and the mum?


The moral of this little tale

is quite obvious to me:

If your name is Chris,

and walking with your mom

don't go past the flower shop

or you're sure to get potted.



What is 'conversation'?

To get one's point across?

To preach a dogma?

To convince someone

we somehow, hold the only truth?

To tell stories, boast,

put others down, complain;

puff out one's little ego?

To share tidbits

of tick-tock information

of little or no value?


I thought about this as I walked

a wet sidewalk in November,

and I heard this bit of wisdom

as an answer to my question:


“True conversation is about touching

another's heart, happy or heavy:

It's about listening;

about feeling deep rooted pain

or inexpressible joy whispered.


About giving advice sparingly;

about 'believing' another's truth,

however outrageous it may seem.

Allowing a flock of donkeys

to fly the midnight sky,

and damn your own logic saying no!

Conversation can be turned

to 'conservation'

with a minimum of effort:

Conserve friendship, even when

the mouth must be muzzled.

There is nothing under the countless suns

ever needs attacking, defending or pushing.

Original Life is flow.”



Has poetry, drama and music

lost their spice in these weary days?

Words are written at lightning speed,

songs fill the airwaves twenty-four seven,

while the competition to be “at the top”

remains fiercer than ever.


With empty mind the world

hears and pretends to listen

(dutifully shedding an artificial tear,

applause or ovation on cue)

to sound tracks of dreary, empty notes

indistinguishable, but for the volume,

from the dross of commercials;

as moving as the platitudinous banter

of second-rate “live” entertainers.


And what of the words read?

How fresh and new, each day?

A “news paper” from last year’s pile

substitutes for today’s offering:

what has changed?

You’ll notice something’s wrong

only when you see a date

and the price!


All have gone to market:

actors, writers, musicians, painters, poets.

– in the name of ‘entertainment’–

Should it surprise us indeed

when all that is heard, or read, or seen

is but what the market wills?

He who pays the piper

certainly will call the tune.


When all is measured in dollar terms,

the death of all cannot be far behind.

So drone on, ye slaves of Mammon

and watch yourselves turn to dust

led down the path in varied lusts.

Eye Of The Beholder


Beauty, they say,

is in the eye of the beholder:

how close to truth that is!


We live among images of life;

among things we sometimes call beautiful

yet such images in themselves

do not possess the power to create beauty.

It is I, from my passion, who creates beauty

from the puzzle of images

presented to my senses.


A mountain reflecting a sunset

is of itself not a thing of beauty:

it is but an image of nature -

beauty is born when I look at this image

and from somewhere within

decide that such a sight is indeed,



When we expect ready-made beauty

from an image in our eye, or a sound in our ear,

how can such maintain our expectations?


Fortunes are spent on places with a view

yet within moments their beauty fades

and we're left with just another place on a hill.


It takes constant effort

to hold beauty within the heart,

for beauty comes from the heart

and can only return to the heart.

Think not it can be bought

and maintained with a mortgage.


Freedom Has No History


Where does freedom come from?

Does it exist in absolute form

or is it but an abstract,

a thought, an idea,

a state of mind:

perception or apperception?


Can it be won or lost?

Attacked or defended?

Can it be imposed on another?

Can the statement: "I am free"

be universally understood?


Freedom has no history.

It didn't come about

by preaching, teaching or marching.

It didn't happen here and not there.

It is but a relative concept,

understood in countless ways.


More changeable even than love:

a dangerous word, a two-edged sword,

and those who least understand

use it always as an excuse

to impose slavery on others.

Beware the one who boasts:

"I live in the land of the free!"

A well-fed slave utters such nonsense.



A Sign Of Change


What if it was declared legal,

for anyone who so desired

to walk nude in public

thus marking a sign of change?

What would be the effect of such an edict

in a society so deeply rooted

in believing nudity is immoral?


I "saw" one such daring individual

welcoming this new freedom

by walking nude in a public park

and I heard another, shocked, uncomfortable,

say to another in bitter judgment:

"That person dishonours our culture.

There should be respect for the majority

who can never accept this."


I wondered about that question

and this is what I came up with:

"If I were black-skinned and without rights

in a white supremacist society;

If I had to sit at the back of a bus

or stand because of my colour,

would I swallow my pride; do nothing

to safeguard the feelings of others?

Or, should I become an agent of change;

one who acts in such a way

a world stuck in fear and apathy

will be forced to act or react?"


Either way presents a dilemma,

force creates its own counter-force.

No, I won't try to change the world

or force it into change.

I'll just be the change I seek

and enjoy "me"- and if you like

what you see,

come play with me!




Giving Your Life


I walk the streets, with tears in my eyes

on this grey and cold October morning.


So much error and terror

on this piece of rock

and here I am thinking

there must be a better way

to interact with one-another.


I think about the concept

of giving your life to save another's.

Were we all willing to do that

(just because it's the nobler thing to do

than to take a life to save one's own)


I think in a very short time

there would be no more killing

because there'd be no need to kill -

no reason to fear the other.


But here's the real question:

Is such a thing possible

given the current mindset?

Given the fear, the paranoia,

the anger and the hate that move so many?


And the rain begins to fall

and I wonder

what good are tears in the rain?


God Is A Committee


Plenty of people would talk about God;

God this and God that and God whatever.


What is it about God that makes tongues wag?

Better yet, what is God?


We could write up a song about God...


"I got a God and you got a God and

he's got a God and she's got a God and

Everybody's got a God, got a God...


OK - not very original, but you get the picture:

God is a figment of people's imagination;

a creature, not a creator;

often more a caricature, a cartoon character --

depending on the skills of the artist --

a social convenience,

made in the image of every imagination!


Were I to believe in God,

and asked to describe

this marvelous object of my belief,

How would I describe it?

I don't know -- do you?

Were you a believer in God, and asked,

how would you describe that?

And if you did manage it

for some are gifted with imagination --

how would you prove to me that your image

is the one and only image of "God"?


So much for the image of God,

but what about function?

God, it seems, is a social committee.


Good And Evil Right And Wrong


Playing with concepts:

good and evil; right and wrong.

Are these identical twins?

Can one set of concepts

interchange with the other?


What is “right” or “wrong”?

Isn’t this simply

awareness of consequences

for actions taken?


What about good and evil?

Isn’t it the same concept

as right and wrong?


It should be, but is not.

Now judgment is implied;

followed by condemnation

and gods meddling in the fray.


A right move can be repeated;

a wrong one can be corrected -

but when “right” becomes “good”

that becomes an institution.


When wrong becomes evil,

there you will always find violence:

witness man’s endless wars;

witness the end of the world

as predicted in the Bible!

Witness a “God of love”

becoming a heartless and cruel

judge of creation.


Better to let our “rights”

free to move around in our minds.

Better let our “wrongs”

free to endure correction

and not become

instruments of Devil worship.


Healthy Democracy


I saw a billboard today that proclaimed:

'Healthy People

Healthy Planet

Healthy Democracy'


Well now, imagine that!


A healthy people?

What will doctors,

healthcare workers,

pharmaceutical companies,

researchers in diseases

and cures for diseases do


Work for a living?


And what's a healthy planet?

No more 'natural' disasters?

We know these cause much destruction;

but so much sweet money

flows to the hands of the rich

seemingly so eager

to repair the damages!

Ah, sweet emergency measures!

And various agencies can claim

they are creating jobs --

what a bonus: your pain, our gain!


And what about democracy?

Would it be healthy

if the planet and we the people

were healthy of body and sound of mind?

This begs the question:

do the "sounds of mind"

call for democracy?

I never stop being amazed:

no limit to the BS humans will


when marketed




Impressions Of A Past


The camp fires still burn

as ghost dancers step soundlessly

in swirling, spiraling smoke

weaving an old tale across the night sky.


Outside the flickering shadows

of the dwindling night fires

a she-wolf stands alert,

twin points of incandescence

observing the ghost dance unfold

past the meeting point of days.


Sleeping under leather blankets,

the tribe receives the vision

to strike camp and relocate

for the place has become stagnant,

threatened by disease,

discovered by the enemy,

reeking of sudden death.


The shaman, in his dream,

reveals the message of the dancers,

through the motherly instinct of the wolf:

 "Go! Break camp, move on

where the she-wolf prowls under pale moon,

where tall trees protect from inclement weather

and hide from dangerous prying eyes;

where water and visions are clear."


In obedience to the voice of Spirit

as in times uncounted,

the morning sun welcomes the tribe

breaking camp, preparing to trek:

no one will turn to look back

upon the weather beaten grass huts

nor the cooking circles

where the smoke still rises

in silent farewell.

Inside Out


What is felt inside

is projected on the outside:


will make the world

appear to be a miserable place;

and in this place,

sorrowful events will unfold,

prolonging the suffering

until even the shadow of death

will be seen as a possible relief,

as a ray of light on a dark path.


Wiser ones who have walked

this path of sadness

advise a change of perception

for the world is shaped by thoughts

and these lead to life,

or just as easily, to death.


Better to believe in oneself

and let each day’s struggles

form the foundation

from which visions and dreams;

even at times lofty ambitions,

may be boldly launched.


Better to go at it with passion

and aim for the highest peaks

for death is never slow to respond

and will come soon enough.


I Q Test


They pondered the way

my eyes squinted

in their swivel lights;

they frowned at my funny ears

the way my lips quivered

when I stuttered a reply

over an inkblot:

they questioned I had a brain

they could exploitiferate.


They gave me an IQ test:

It came out negative

so they set me free to

roam the streets by day or night.

Well, lucky me, yessiree,

oh, such a lucky me!

I won't be making missiles;

I won't be dropping nukes

and the innocent I don't kill

might even be me!


Life Is A Game


Life is a game not meant to be won

but to be played for the play's sake.

But many are the fools

who think the game's a race;

who become the leaders in it -

not by effort, knowledge nor passion

but simply by blocking the way

so no one else can get by!


And these bullies would make you think

that life can only be played

by the idiotic rules they make -

and make - and make some more

thus hoping to hide their greed and ignorance.


And so, sadly, it becomes for most:

the great gift of life held in contempt;

earth and humanity existing as thralls

to the vexing absurdities;

the murderous greed

of market-minded entropic minds

(otherwise known as the rich and powerful).


There is a way to beat these arrogant fools:

play the game as it were your own

play it in wide open fields under the sun and rain;

allow it to develop its own tempo -

to create its own cadence:

Know it is an endless dance.


If others would compete with you in it;

if they would make new rules

insisting its how the game must be played,

find another field, another corner of earth:

play there with other friendly hearts.


And when you are tired of the game?

Smile or laugh, and say goodbye

then just move on -

the Cosmos is a big place after all

and beyond every hedgerow

there hides another field.

The Unchartered Path


Waves roll gently upon the white sand,

soothing my weary, questing soul;

heat and light from the morning sun

inexorably disperses the mists

and a new path unfolds before my eyes

leading away from this roundabout shore:

yes, the time has come to leave

the tattered shelter of old memories

and to resume my life's journey

following it's unchartered path.


Why did I not see this before?

It is impossible to enter the wrong path

in life's travels, for wherever I turn,

whatever highway or wild trail I follow,

that is exactly what I had determined

I should do, before I ventured forth,

and the mystics are proved right once more.


It is foolish and utterly futile

to worry about, or try to predict,

the outcome of this particular journey.

Step forth bravely; step forth freely

and enjoy the whole of life!


"Only by walking the unchartered path

will you find your new horizons."

The Unseen Side


More than a few people

have made sure

I'd be well advised to know

"writing poetry"

is a dead end street:

well, perhaps, I thought

as I headed out into the hills.


I came upon a lost and wild trail

leading into the high mountains,

past sun-filled meadows,

and bubbling crystal streams

to where endless snows beckon.


Here one can let dreams

soar in summer breezes;

one can gently feel

every wild color

in every flower...


Here one can touch the sky,

kiss the sun goodbye

welcome the moon goddess

in robes of white satin.


Here, one can just be,

and here, feelings define reality

and words truly become

best friends.


How could I ever

regret my choices?



God's Little Stone


Man generally thinks of himself

as some kind of creative genius:

well, perhaps he is: am I to judge

his voluminous output of gadgetry?

But if that is the case, why can't he see

beyond all those little things

he makes from gases, liquids and minerals?

Why can't he understand that life exists

beyond the things themselves?


Imagine God, the Creator

having made a round, two inch stone,

turning it over and over in his hand,

and filling his mind with the details

of this cute, but still rather common

little piece of simple life:


What happens if instead of forging on

from stone to universe,

taking chances along the way,

He gropes instead for the meaning of life

dissecting and studying the stone

for ten trillion years or so?

Not much ... not much at all,

but if he were a priest

he'd have a tightly organized stone cult;

and if he were a ruler

he'd have armies to protect his stone;

if a scientist: stone experiments and theories;

if a banker, stone interest.


Well, the universe is proof

the Creator, unlike man, isn't stuck on toys

and can think outside the box.

The Homeless


The "homeless" - who are they?

Are they those who "fall through the cracks"

of a System gone awry?

Victims of those in power

who deny them access to the welfare net?

Are they the proverbial "too-lazy's"

who won't look for a job or work for pay?


These are stock assumptions: I don't buy 'em.

These individuals are not as "homeless"

as they appear to be outwardly.

They have a very real, necessary purpose

especially in the richest nation of the world.


Though they may be blissfully unaware

of the status I'm about to confer upon them,

this is who they are:

The Survivors.

Yes, they are the ones who will survive,

pass into the shadows for a time,

refined by the fire that will rage over this world

and emerge from the ashes as they mostly do

each and every day in the city.


When the nation and her systems collapse,

It won't be those safely installed

in their underground bunkers and caves

who will rise to plunder another day -

for these will go stark raving mad,

deranged in their darkened thoughts

tread-milling their darkest moments

in their darkened pits below the earth.


After the end,

In the beginning

it will be the homeless

who will inherit the earth.


To each according to his need

from each according to his ability.


Offer Of Night


You won’t come out with me after midnight?


Is night time more evil than daytime?

A cloudy day more evil than a sunny day?

Only in the mind is it so,

for the mind is conditioned to accept

that darkness harbors primordial evil.


Would you see the flight of the owl

over the dull gray snows?

The labour of the beaver

under the cycles of the moon?

Would you go swimming the river

only feeling the whispering waters

over your nude skin?


Why walk only one side of the path?

Come out into the blackened meadow

to hear the song of the stars!

Come see angels spread waves of coloured light

in the far northern regions!

Come track a shooting star

and make a wish with me:

Let me see you through your perfume...

One Liners


Fishermen line the shore,

rods extended over the waters

in hope of torturing an innocent fish.

But all is not always fun

as lines get snagged

in deadheads and debris

deep below the murky flow.


Anger grows and tackle dwindles

as fish refuse to take the bait

and the beauty that is nature's

is lost in pre-neanderthal thought.


One wiz says to me: You're a poet?

Well stick around and watch:

you'll find lots of 'one liners'

lining up along this bar.

String 'em all together

and no problem writing poetry

on this God-forsaken sand bank.


And so here goes, for a start:

I saw a man fly fishing in the morning

his long slim rod bending low.

Wondering how he'd done,

I casually peeked into his open bag:

alas, no luck was he having,

for all he'd caught was fish!

I suggested a window in the sun

and a fly swatter for a weapon

but all I got was a dirty look:

I guess he was going by the book.

Path Of Evolution?


Before man cursed himself to labour

his short life upon this earth;

before he delineated lands with names,

borders, guns and barbed wire,

he roamed the valleys and plains

in primitive enjoyment of his now,

his life: the image of the land.


With so little system developed

to restrict freedom of his ways,

he did not spend an entire life

paying for a house he could never own,

nor did he kill or die protecting

something that was never his.


He followed the seasons and accepted

the bounties of the land with thanks:

at least we hope that was the way

the ancestors walked the Earth and I ask:

hasn't something been lost or forgotten

along the path of human evolution?


What world have we made

where everything, even love –

yes, especially love –

now comes with a price tag?


We believe we abolished slavery

yet cannot see

being attached to a “surfing” gadget

has become the most insidious form

of all-time slavery.


What will it take for man

to take his life back from those

who stole it with a carrot on a stick

followed by a whip?

“Perfection Unacknowledged”


Picture of perfection, as in a dream...

Who are you waiting for... or what?

What are you dreaming of?


Are you even aware

of the gentle beauty of your face;

the caressing softness of your silken skin?


But let me see what made me turn...

No, not your irresistible flesh,

but a glimpse at the backroads of your mind;

a moment standing at the crossroads of your heart,

seeing the you who lingers, wondering,

between waxing and waning realities --

the you who exudes perfection

yet chooses not to acknowledge this,

thus leaving a piece

of your perfect picture




The City


I thought I'd write

something powerful,


about the city:

I thought I'd write

about big stores and malls,

giant buildings,

parkades, skywalks, elevators

one-way streets and sidewalks,

colorful people walking,

children in tow, laughing.


I was all ready to write

when someone laughed,

an ugly, cynical laugh:


Well, no... maybe I'll wait.

I'll go down to skid row


then visit the city jail;

take in a court case or two

and next week

I'll write about the city.

The Image I Shall Carry


A tree growing on a rocky cliff,

a branch moving in the wind,

a leaf fluttering gently to the ground,

a squirrel hiding it’s winter supply,

a caterpillar weaving it’s cocoon

to later emerge a beautiful butterfly...


A bird song welcoming the sun,

oxygen, a gift from the trees,

pure water, the life blood of Mother nature:

all these things work in harmony

to make this earth a living being.


When we finally realize and admit

we are also a part of all that is:

not above nor greater than;

will we change the way we live?

Will we know we don’t inherit the land,

we borrow it from the future?


I gather my paints, I take my canvas,

and on the bank of a river, among nature,

I begin to paint the beauty that surrounds me

why? Well, it seems to me

that if man does destroy this lovely world,

I will still have my picture,

and I will remember.



The Young Girl Who Asked Why


You were looking at the starry firmament

one night so long ago

and saw a star move

and what was that thing you did?

you asked: why? didn't you

and predictably did not get an answer

so what was that other thing you did?

you formulated a theory.


It took some time

for someone to discover and ponder

your little theory

test it

and prove you right

and does it matter

after two hundred years

that he takes the credit?


Of course not

it does not matter at all

because you have learned

and know

the young girl of long ago

who asked 'why?'

is almost the same person

who subsequently

proved she guessed correctly.


Train Of Love


The river has stilled her mighty voice,

the fields have donned their winter coat,

rolling hills are lost in fine white powder

tossed about by an untamed wind.


I hear a lonesome whistle from afar:

it's time to find that special train

to take me back into the sunset

where Jalean waits, she says, always.


Snow falls in cold white icicles,

driven by winter's bitter breath;

the lonesome whistle blows nearer:

it's time to leave this land of death!


I long for the warmth of her love,

her gentle voice to awaken my heart:

she'll sing a morning song of spring

and my winter blues will disappear

brushed away by her long silken hair.



Transitional Moment


A glow remains on the land

now that the sun has set,

but in my heart it is not an afterglow

but a presagement, a deep feeling

that calls for some meditation.


I had grown quite comfortable,

happy even, in the bright light

this long day had poured upon me

in the sun's brightness and warmth

giving beauty and life all around.


I never gave thought to such a time

when the light would abruptly fail;

when the sun would suddenly drop

below the rim of the world

and everything around me, change.


I find I have to readjust everything,

for I know this is a transitional moment;

and I feel this world is entering a dark time;

a time when past glory and successes

will be replaced by a shadowy uncertainty.

This gloom will be followed by darkness

and in the darkness new things will form:

perhaps even strange and twisted things

conceived from the lies and the lusts

which light beings were seduced into

while the light still shone.


I know I must adapt to these changes,

accept some, reject and fight others:

and so must all who reside on this world

as intelligent, sentient and self-aware beings

or all will disappear from the land

to be replaced by demonic phantasms

spawned from the manifold evil done

when we could still see one-another,

when the light still shone on our faces.


How Rich Is Rich Enough


I walk down by the sea

and watch the morning sun rise

over a placid pink mirror of water

before the first breeze of the day.

I sense the powerful interplay

of fire and water upon my eyes:

it's pleasant enough to contemplate

these arch-rivals creating

such a beautiful canvas

on this summer morning.


If indeed we live in a world

whose soul is duality

does that not create

a "biological imperative"

whereby opposites must continually

assert their opposition?


Does "duality" -

the juxtaposition of opposites -

endlessly create inequality?

Or should it naturally

create equality of opposites?

Or does it make a difference

to the outcome?


What would happen, I wonder,

should these two ever meet and touch?

Ah, but that's it, isn't it:

they cannot touch, will not, ever -

and that explains the problems of earth;

of man: of rich and poor and injustice.

For the rich insist on touching the poor,

robbing them of life with every touch;

with exploitation and oppression.


And the poor likewise believe

that only upon touching the rich

can they alleviate their own burden -

so we have revolutions, we have wars.

Is this violence a necessary aspect

of creation's concept of duality?

Is there a better way?

The Simple Man


Birds call forth the rising sun,

rejoice at the dawning of day

and without any ulterior motives.

So does the simple man

lying in tall grass, eyes closed

wondering about all of creation,

feeling as one with all things.


But just beyond his idyllic view

the city’s polluted reality

also comes alive in the morning:

he weeps silently in his hunger,

wondering why man makes all things

more complicated than they need to be,

forever running through a pointless maze

yet seemingly getting nowhere.


Considered worthless and shiftless,

he doesn't play by the rules,

riding his bicycle down and up streets

collecting bottles and cans thrown away

by people who have no time to care:

he doesn't fit society's mould;

does not understand the clutter,

the noisy, harmful ways.


Sadly he rides on

though with hope he looks upon the city

from the top of a denuded hill

for in his sleep he has seen a vision:

the dance of life that rejects none

and he walks the way of love,

the only way he knows,

in understanding and acceptance.

The Road Of Experience


Hey, if you lay down rubber

on the road of experience

keep in mind you pay for the tires!

No friend,

no lover,

no leader,

no parent,

can buy you new tires

or fill the gas tank for you.


No matter how tired you become,

no matter how depressed,

how lonely, how sad

at boring scenery along the way;

how confused or unsure

if the road gets muddy or snaky,

only you can get the load to the dock

‘cause there’s only you in the drive’s seat.


Remember, the same is true of others

who drive along this route with you,

so if they honk their horn, listen

and if they insist on passing,

try to refrain from giving the finger!

The River, The Stones, The Birds


On the silent shores of a river

she walks in quiet solitude,

trying to forget the night

embedding her heart and mind.

Icy waters swirl around her ankles,

inviting her to plunge in,

relinquishing life, setting her free.


Something new touches her heart

and she looks at her feet:

small stones gleam in the sunlight;

she looks to the sky:

eagles soar on majestic wings

far above the mountain tops;

she listens to the world around her:

solitary sandpipers running on gravel

give their high-pitched thrill.


With this beauty to accompany her,

she realizes the path she must take,

and relinquishes her pain and sorrow

to float away as flotsam

into an ever-cleansing sea

far away where she can never follow.

Drawing strength from the river,

wisdom from the stones,

freedom from the birds

and life from nature's bounty...

she courageously begins a new life.


I Am The One


The Bible was written by man

(it had to be)

not by some god up there

somewhere in deep space -

because if all those commandments

exemplify the best a god can do

it's no wonder we're stuck

with such impossible problems!


This space alien God

who won't be seen and won't be known

and can't be shown

is not waiting to grant my every prayer

and it's pretty clear he's dead against

granting my every desire.


So what is left for one to do?

Against all I've ever been taught,

I have to say of me,

“I am the One.”

Yes, I am the one, the only one

with the power to change my life

when it needs changing;

to find the passion within my heart

to fulfill my own desires.


I have the power

to change my own thought pattern;

deciding how I see the world;

or choose to interact with you.

No longer a sinner,

no longer in need of saving,

I am just one who shares this space

with you.

Believe what you will

as long as you believe in you

the miracles cannot be far behind.

The True Shaman


People walk the path the System lays out for them,

never question the turn this way, the bend that way...

For that’s the road, they say, the One and Only,

and who can change its path?


But the true Shaman comes upon this scene

and laughs at those who cling to such silly notions:

so where the road bends to the left, he winks

and makes it turn to the right instead – why?

“All is relative” he says laughing!


Fun it may be for the Shaman,

but not for the System nor the common folk

who, utterly confused, mill about this place

where the road changed direction without permission.

So, finding the Shaman still laughing,

they quickly end his life...


But who will remember, a generation hence?

Or give it two: the crowds happily tread

the now old bend to the right

and it was always so says the “ancient” lore

and it’s the only way, says the religion of the day

and it’s the “Safeway”; the “Wal-mart” way -

the “Coca Cola” way... the Subway, the One and Only –

the unchangeable; the Divine Way...


For the System has built a church and a shopping mall

just around the bend; to the “right” of course.

And now, another Shaman must come by,

see the benighted crowds follow their true road

to success, glory and death as it was meant to be

and “see” it turning to the left – and so shall the old end

and so it shall begin again.

There Is The Desert


There is a desert: some have seen it

though none ever lived to tell of it;

a parched and pale brown-red tawny beast

its black spear-points as turned up ears:

the many-shadowed sides of ridged dunes

and that oasis, a chromatic glimmering,

in its unreachable immediate distance,

its icy-blue waters and green waving fronds

cries of bottomless, unfulfilled desires.


The desert stretches out in horizontal infinity,

ever thirsty, ever hungry, ever overtaking.

Shape-shifting its emptiness in illusions

it attracts its unsuspecting prey:

its believers, its worshippers,

riding the mirage-making death-breath of doom

under a pitiless sun in ever-widening vulture circles

lasting a thousand years and more.


These riding ghosts of ages past

stare sightless from shadow-black eyes,

their faces tattooed in lines of years,

as the desert sculpts their emaciated bodies

draped in flowing black shrouds

that only the desert can still see.


In a hollow place, and secretly

the desert ate their failing flesh

and drank their steaming blood

long before history was born:

it feasted and licked every grain of sand

of the sweet vanishing moisture

it felt on its scarred and parched face.


This desert will never know

the hunger, the thirst, of another:

not because that's nature's way

(not to feel, not to know, not to care)

but because of it's own perverse nature.

Yet in its mindless shame it hides

skeletal evidence of long-ago feasts

under smooth-topped crescent dunes.

and heaves pointless dry tearless sobs

under a mocking pearl-shaped moon.

Living Without Love


Is love an over-rated concept?

Does love make that much difference

in the flow of life?

How do we define love?

Is it a feel-good kind of thing?

Is it a feeling or an emotion?

Is it an attraction for another –

a sexually transmitted dis-ease?


What do we really know of love?

Not much, I’d venture.

We know much

of what it’s supposed to be;

supposed to do.

We know things like

“God is love.”

“My parents love me.”

“My family loves me.”

“My friends love me.”

“I love my new car.”

“I’m in love with a wonderful person

and I’m getting married.”

(because you’re in love? one should ask –

are you nuts? Look at the statistics!

Why don’t you marry your car?

No one’s ever divorced a car

and cars don’t have babies.)


Dumb, right? But is this any less dumb

then what passes for love?


Love, it is said, makes all things beautiful.

Hmm, can’t one be beautiful without love?

How many people, things,

do we see each day

that are perfect and beautiful

yet we are not “in love” with them?


Love: an over-rated idea.

We need to stretch our minds,

find something with more meaning

if we would make a difference.

Two Friends


Two friends meet often

at one’s place or the other

to work or share ideas

and always, unspoken

their thoughts touch

on the physical aspect

of each other and they wonder.


For a very long time

nothing ever happens

until one day

following a new energy pattern

one of them speaks of this

lovingly, gently, and


the other –


Lightning flashes!

a message of understanding

passes swiftly through each heart

and gently, gently

each removes the other’s clothes

and they make love

discovering another hidden truth

about friendship and about love.

Two Worlds


I've seen teen-aged louts

drag their feet


along their aimless way.


Overpriced runners

laces dragging

upon a despised walkway:


Gaudy colored attires,

oversized "shorts"

preferably dirty,

housing flabby dead weights

a chore just to watch.


Unkept hair

cut as if by accident

shaggy manes, multicolored;

cropped pates

housing unused brain cells:


I've overheard the louts talking,

cursing, swearing,

foul and ignorant words,

filling the streets

alleys and

shopping malls


Over their heads,

a leaden sky,

no longer blue;

filled with the poison

of their thoughts


rogue technology;

a world in which

things cannot live


I see another world:


Children staring into

a crystal sea

an azure sky


running lightly

over soft mossy paths

bare feet soundless,

their voices, their laughter

a song of love.

to the one who provides

to the one who gives.


Their smooth, healthy skins,

nurtured by a loving earth

become a song of thanksgiving.


I look into that world

I see no sign

that man has control there;


I only see

a touch of love;

a humanity in harmony

with its world.


I feel that world

sense no fear

no death

no disease

no conflict

no end of peace.

a world in which things




Some people certainly, and deeply, resent

what they see as flippancy on my part

in the comments I make freely about their god

and well, I'd like to sympathize with this

and try to understand their expressed pain,

for if one listens to the words, it's said

their god is being mocked and hurt.


Oh, but I have a complaint or two myself

about this shallow line of reasoning,

not the least of which, naturally

is their god's claim to be Almighty!

In this case, methinks, my puny words

certainly can never hurt his feelings,

nor threaten his place of supremacy.


But that's not where the problem lies.

Here, let me explain what I mean:

religious people choose to put themselves

in spiritual straight jackets; tight ones too.

Their greatest fear is that another

not so encompassed by divine judgment

may be freely enjoying the fruits of life

which they no longer can or may.


How they squirm and fret and complain then

at such hardship visited unjustly upon them:

they'd love to indulge in all those sweet 'sins,'

but their angry god will have none of it

and so, they take it out on me!


Just remember this, O people of the gods:

I choose not to accept religious rules;

I choose my destiny, do not force me to repent

from things I've worked so hard to learn;

from things I know that better serve

my own sense of divinity.


Have your ready-made home in heaven,

and blessed be, one and all:

'Tis but a better Earth I wish to help make.


Machu Picchu


"Some things

that should never have been forgotten,

were lost.

History became legend,

legend became myth..."

(Lord of the Ring - Tolkien)


We walk in many places,

transported as by magic

into a dark and hidden past

by sites built by ancient ones -

Machu Picchu, Peru;

Baalbek, Lebanon;

The Pyramids of Giza, Egypt;

Stonehenge, England -


Many, many more mysteries

cry to be de-mystified;

and the voices of the ancient ones

sing in the oaks, call from the skies

and sigh in the winds

yet how few stop to listen.


The System has imposed a ban,

a great silence over the past.

it covers the mind of man

as a veil covers a statue.


"Thou shalt not imagine

aliens once stepped here

for such do not exist,

not here, not now, not ever;


"Thou shalt worship only

the invisible gods

we order you to believe in,

for all else is lies."


Yet I wonder still:

from whom did those wonders -

many which today's technology

would be hard pressed to duplicate -


The Man From Bole


There was a little man from avenue Bole

who thought he could live on the dole

but all he accomplished as a whole

was dig himself deeper in the hole!



O, Sinful Nudity!


Here's something that puzzles me

about humans on planet earth:

They gleefully start wars

exploit, oppress and kill one another

(preferably their weak, poor or

their women and children -

for these pose no real threat

to the warrior's safety.)

But let a human walk the street

in the nude, let's say,

and society raises a fine uproar

at such horrible immorality!


Within moments the perpetrator

is in a paddy wagon or safely behind bars

to have his mind analyzed

by the world's greatest shrinks.

In some societies, he'll be condemned to death,

in others, never see freedom again.


We oppress, starve, kill, murder:

none of it is wrong if it is done right,

that is, it's government certified,

or the economy demands it,

or God, or Allah, call for it.

But we cannot walk around naked,

or have children out of wedlock

that's perverted and adulterous, you see,

and for that, one surely deserves to die.


So say those who lead us: to where?

To endless war and endless death

to protect their wonderful morals.


If you were from another world,

would you not think this quirk a bit strange?

The World Cries


Does the world cry

for lack of compassion?

Is the pain of the world

a cry for compassion?


Does the world seek

an end to suffering?

- or -

Is the world’s suffering

simply part of “what is”

and not relevant

to this question?


Does compassion

engender itself from sorrow?

- or -

can the world know compassion

without its ever-present pain?


Can one still know compassion

without the presence of suffering?

would it still be needed then?




They’re Always Here


No need to run to them or to seek for them

‘cause they’re always here for you – ever faithful.

You don’t see them, of course you don’t

Because all you see is them, there is nothing else

and you’re so used to them, to it all being the same

like the view from your tiny suite’s only window.


Of course they will eat you in the end you suspect

but they don’t mean to be either nasty, hateful or vile

‘cause if they were, you’d shy away from them

certainly you would, you’re no fool.  No, not you.

All you want is a good meal, company, some dancing

and dream some dark stranger will take you home.


They take your hand, your arm, whisper in your ear

the secret of life is just around the next corner

and you go with them, talking loudly, laughing

late at night, all you see is bright lights and good times

when they have you in their mind to pleasure you

time pretends to stop here in your funky underground.


The morning tells its own story in a blinding headache

but they’re here too, in the pills, the bottled water.

They’re already talking about tonight on the TV

and though your head is pounding and throbbing

you squint blood-shot eyes, try to hear their message.

Same as yesterday’s of course, but that’s as it should be.


Should I phone in sick? You wonder out loud

and the radio answers for you: come out and play today.

you put on the dress they tailored just for you, and the shoes

and as you sip their coffee you hear the street calling

their Siren song you learned long ago never to resist.

The door slams shut, you turn the key and promise yourself


Tomorrow definitely, yes, tomorrow will be different.”


My Kind Of God!


People speak volubly of God:

many claim to 'know' God;

some are authorities on God,

and some accept their God

as the final authority on everything.

Well, makes me wonder:

Would I want a God who knows everything?

Would I want to be utterly dependent

on such a being?


No. If I needed a God

I'd want one who can learn from me

even as I learn from her.

A humble God; a partner God;

a God who knows me as I know him;

a God who speaks personally to me,

not in symbols, not through institutions,

but in simple words:

words even I cannot mis-interpret.


I'd want a God who asks questions;

who listens quietly while I explain

why I think the way I do;

what motivates me - what frightens me

and what I deeply hope for -

what I am passionate about.

A God who would sit beside me on a stone

and contemplate a fast moving river

while thinking her own thoughts;

willing to share them with me;

willing to take a chance on being

totally misunderstood in turn.


I'd want a God much like me,

no better, no worse, but understanding.

Such a God, I in turn

could attempt to understand...

and forgive for past mistakes.


Thoughts Of You


Thoughts of you

drift through my mind

Continue reading this ebook at Smashwords.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-101 show above.)