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Excerpt for Moon Landing Hoax Or Real by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


Moon Landing Hoax or Real


Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)


Copyright (©) 2018 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing


Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada


Cover picture by: https://www.nasa.gov/


Space Picture: ESA/Hubble


I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.

Contents

Foreword

Moon Landing: Hoax or Real?

My Way (A Poem for the Majority)

On The Brink

It's Christmas

Is Reality Real

Karma

Ploughshares

Rejuvenation

Freedom of Nature

River, O River!

Fools Rush In...

The City Hurts People, Mom

Tall Or Small?

The Games

The Muad'dib

The Negativity Factor

We are the Motor Men

Who Cares?

Creating Diseases

Exposing the Trickster

Reverence

Boys Will Be Boys

Nature With A Beer

The Gift

Stress

The True Shaman

Two Worlds

Uncommon Wisdom?

Silver Ships In Dreams Of Earth

Rich Text

The Village Idiot Box

The Prophet's Story - As Told By Earth And Sky

The Stranger

The Noise Of Lies (Or The Lies Of Noise)

The Nature Of Things

The Traveler And The Staff

Why I Support Man's Belief Systems

What is the Universe?

Concepts

Foreword


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.




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?

My Way (A Poem for the Majority)


Have I become comfortable

with my hopelessness? Yes!


No more hopes and no more dreams

to trouble my waking moments;

no more crazy thoughts

crisscrossing my numbed brain

in the middle of the night:

no right and no wrong,

just existence, day after day,

predictability in every way;

that’s how I want it.


I don’t care about the rich

I don’t care about the poor,

I don’t care who says this or that

or what changes they make to the law:

I’m OK, you’re OK,

what more would anyone want?


This isn’t me, I try to cry out -

but the collective lethargy

chokes my uncertain voice

and I reach for the surfer tool

and I grab a pop from the fridge:

it seems my feet rise to the coffee table

quite on their own... I let them,

they know what comfort is.

Who was I kidding before?

That I was some kind of hero?

No – only in my own mind.

On The Brink


The world we know was always able

to sustain nature's simple needs,

but not designed to fully explain

the life journey of the human soul:

now a new force has been unleashed

suddenly, relentlessly moving man

forward to the new dawn

beyond the edge of time.


Many are those who fearfully resist

this unexpected change;

who will fall to certain death

never having walked upon,

perhaps never even having glimpsed,

that ghostly distant shore

hidden beyond the misty veil.


Awakened with a rush of life

by the light of a new morning,

they see the edge of a canyon,

a chasm too wide to cross:

afraid to jump into the unknown

they huddle fearfully

on the brink looking down at death.


How I long to tell them not to fear,

to leap! to jump! across this canyon

however deep or wide it may appear

for things are not what they seem

in these times of changing thoughts;

that the life energy will carry them

across the fading greying mists

to a mountain leading above the clouds,

to a paradise I've seen and touched.

It's Christmas


It's Christmas(hype! hype! hype!)

time to express our need

to show off expensive love

by spending all that money

January will starkly remind us

we didn't have!

Seasonal love is gauged

by countless material things

made in break-down Taiwan

and Cheap China

contributing to disappointment

and landfill clog:

can't even recycle

Christmas love.


I have come to understand

I don't need Christmas

to say I care,

for all of time is at my command

to do random acts of kindness;

to give love and thoughtfulness

to souls in need of direction,

of spiritual awakening,

of gentle comforting.

Greater than any store-bought gift

is this unselfish giving of love

from the depth of a human heart

which has no need of Christmas

wrapped in gaudy commercials

disguising cheap, short-lived thrills.

Is Reality Real


Is life essentially a matter of faith?

Anyone can believe anything

and it is so, or it is not.

For example: death.

Is death the end of one's life?

Observation says yes, it is.

And yet, millions claim it is not,

that "life" goes on forever.

Is "death" then simply a change of state?

Transforming, moving,

from one form to another?


We think that at the quanta level

life goes on and on...

but not so: sub atomic particles

appear and disappear,

blinking on and off:

Are they born, then die so quickly?

this engages the question of "reality."

What is real? What is illusion?

If there is no ending, everything must be "real"

in that it continues...

but since it does not continue as is;

since it must "change state" to carry on

is it still the same life?

And this begs the next question:

of what is this life continuum made?

Thought?

Karma


There's a lot of talk about karma

floating around the loose caboose world

of much noowagey con mind games

and I'm not exactly jumping on the band wagon

with those who insist they're here

to payback or to be paid back...


Karma implies that in a past life

or in an array of past lives

I've done terrible things to all kinds of people,

or they did terrible things to me

and of course all this terrible stuff

has to be balanced eventually.

Am I poor? Sickly? Oppressed? Underpaid?

Am I lacking in intelligence? Or opportunity?

Am I rolling in dough, surrounded by starving crowds?

Blame it all on karma, or thank your karma:

You're living in payback time.


There's a clear legal problem

with such a simplistic view of life:

If I commit a crime on this world, in this life,

usually I get my day in court;

at least, I know what I am in prison for.

But what about that karma thing?

If I did something to someone 10,000 years ago,

shouldn't I have some certain way to know

it really was me who did it, and not some slime

who passed himself as me to escape punishment?


I'll put it this way: The universe (some call it God)

certainly seems to maintain a point of balance in energy:

'For every action there is an immediate and opposite reaction'

Aha! says I! That's not at all like karma, is it!

If the opposite is immediate,

I must conclude there's no such thing as 'karma' -

No sudden windfall; no terrible punishment

waiting for me, life after life

until I become aware of the so-called law of karma:

you know the karma that

ran over your dogma?

Ploughshares


Watch the ploughshare gleam in April's sun

then penetrate earth's skin to slice and expose

living things, sightless, voiceless, powerless,

nourished inside the mother's womb:

Is this not another kind of war?


Beat your swords into ploughshares!

Admonish ancient prophets,

their words found among mildewed pages

recording an endless number of wars

ravaging lands and peoples


They reasoned

a plough would be more beneficial

than the sword which cuts the flesh,

lays bare the bone,

causes rivers of red blood to flow

back to the earth which gave it life.


Should we not, this day, question

such one-sided, desperate wisdom

acquired from a people cast adrift

upon inhospitable worlds in strife?


What is a plough but a reshaped sword,

its purpose, but to cut open earth's dermis,

lay bare the life flowing beneath

and from this accelerated death

grow life suitable to man's desire?


For farmer, trucker, trader or banker,

this is no time or place for empathy.

The shiny sword runs across earth mother's skin,

and though she may bleed, though she may die,

it's all a matter of economics: a cash crop.


What of the end of the matter, the end

we've learned to accept, helpless to reason:

are we not parasites killing our host?


More eat, more live, more spread, more die:

in retrospect, ploughshares or swords,

the difference is still to be found

only amidst mildewed thinking.

Rejuvenation


Lightning strikes a tinder dry wood,

flames shoot up, engorging

the dusty, sleeping forest,

burning, scorching, destroying

every living thing in their path.


Though it seems a total waste,

though it seems cruel,

such cleansing is needed

where trees and plants have run out

of living space, the old

crowding out the young

in the competition for light.


Nature's unwritten law states

that if a type of life stops evolving,

overpopulating its living space,

a disaster will sweep over the land,

destroying many living things

letting the land breathe again,

rejuvenating itself:

"Would that man learned something

just from watching nature's travail."


"Nature's laws are not written;

only enforced!"

Freedom of Nature


I envision a pastel blue sky,

a light breeze blowing warm air,

gently stimulating, softy massaging;

I imagine others like myself,

walking nude as in expressions of Eden

in such a beautiful world:

free and shameless.


While this beautiful vision

seems right to me,

the majority has other ideas

of propriety and moral codes of conduct.

Would not men turn into sex animals

and rape our women?

say the paranoid and neurotic.

Will not people defecate wherever they walk?

inquire the decorous and foolish.

What would protect us from the elements?

ask the fearful and the apprehensive.


I believe if people went nude

(on suitably warm and dry days)

becoming gently aware of their connectedness

to the energy of all things,

within the fragility of our human bodies;

walking softly on beaches, meadows or sidewalks,

laughing in innocence and freedom,

it would be but a short time

before the idea of wearing clothes

just to cover one's physical nakedness

would seem quite outlandish.


I wonder when people

will choose to grow up and face life

as it was always meant to be experienced:

in a natural expression of who we are

perfect in motion,

unguarded in freedom,

perfect in choice

with a smile of love

for all things, including ourselves?

River, O River!


Cold, rainy, grey

Cloudy: dark and heavy

with hope:


I can feel the water

filling the hungry earth

beneath my bare feet


I can hear the River

rising between the rocks

in its parched bed


Soon she will cycle again

carrying her treasures

to the sea,

past all the obstacles

littering her way


she'll sweep them as always

contemptuously out of her way:


She can't understand evil:

the new power blocking

her appointed path of life:

the power of delusion: the greed

killing her flow, her life.


For eons, she has done her work

happy to serve,

providing the arms

which nurture and hold

for the salmon or

the lowly sturgeon,

the early man,

the wildlife on her banks:


She carries her treasures

wood, sand and algae


she guides the fish

to the salt sea she nurtures

with her flow.


But at her mouth,

steel giants have risen

to rob her of life

and kill her children:


They search and probe

they take away her treasures


Along her banks,

an anti-life has sprung,

a loveless, garish, angry growth

injecting its effluents

inside her veins


She feels the cold poison

of substances unknown to her,


She watches her children die

floating away forever gone

upon her waves,


her skin is cut by noisy beasts,

her children flee the surface

to die into her murky depths


If one were to listen

he'd hear

her whispered complaint

to her Creator:


Her questions mingled with her

age-old song

of grinding sands


If one were to pay attention,

he'd hear the answer

in the beating of the rain:


"Life was taken from the man

and the river fed her children

once more--in peace"


Amen!

Fools Rush In...


"Fools rush in...

(I did)

to find life's ultimate

meaning -- end

pushed past all

warning signs:


"Do Not Enter Here"


...where angels fear to tread"


I stumbled in:


In awe,

in consternation,

in absolute dread,


I saw a blinding light;

heard a heart-rending cry

and now

in my exposed ignorance


all that remains

of earthly comforts

are


silent tears in the wind.

The City Hurts People, Mom


Mom? Why do we live here? In the city?

Why can't we live somewhere, anywhere, else?

The city hurts people, mom.


Children say the darndest things,

ask the toughest questions.

Why? because they're not tough questions at all,

not to them. They need input. Real information.

and what can I say? Can I speak the truth here?

Can I untangle my responses quickly enough

to come up with some real truth?

That won't be a lie, something even I

am not too poor to buy?


What's wrong with here? is what comes out.

Defensive, even to my own child,

that has to say something about me, yes.

You don't like our apartment? Your friends at school?

More defensiveness, now an attack. On my own child,

What am I hiding under the bed?


It doesn't feel right, mom. There are places

(he watches nature shows a lot)

where there are rivers, where grass grows

and animals live in holes in the rocks.

There are places with long, wide shores

along blue-green seas and the waves thunder

but it's not like, noise, it's like, music, mom. And

if you stand on a rock you can see out forever.

I like those places. Here it's just people,

and endless ugly buildings that hold in the smog.

It's noisy and smelly. The wind is cold, dirty.

the sun is all wrong and the insects are ugly too.

When I think about it I'm scared.

The people here are dead mom. They just don't know it.


I'm getting frustrated–angry? What junk is that?

But I know what he's saying, I've seen it too.

I've seen it growing, and felt it inside myself also.

The deadening to the ugliness, the smell, the noise

but mostly to the deadpan meaninglessness of this place.

When I was forced to leave home

(go ahead, guess why!)

I ran off and the only place that would take me

–without question–was the city.

in the city the Devil gave me a son–not a man.


I hear you, my son. Holding him tightly and he squirms:

rejection? Fear? Uncertainty? Quickly:

I have a job here now. It pays our rent, buys our food,

your school supplies and the cable.

It's all I can do now, Simon. It's all I know how to do.

Opening my hands, letting my arms fall in my lap,

watching his reaction.


Pulling away from me, looking deep in my eyes

and I see an old man, some kind of ancient wisdom

behind the gray eyes. He knows.

That's not true mom. We can leave–anytime.

All it takes from you is the courage to break free,

and for me, it's just a matter of holding on

just a bit longer

to my childhood innocence. When we get there

I'll be the man. You won't be alone anymore.


I guess I'm not the adult any longer

in this relationship. Maybe yes, I can relax.

Let go. Hear the sea birds call over the ocean.

Maybe, sometimes, the Devil can make a mistake.

Tall Or Small?

O child of woman

Crouch small

Under the waterfall

The mountain towers above

The womb of Earth is love

(or)

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

(but)

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 Games


We love our games

we participate, and we watch

and spend much money

for such entertainment.


Yet, in the end,

what do we receive from all this?

How many remember

gold medal winners from years back?

How were their lives changed

because this one won that race?

Because one man beat another

in a boxing match?


We love games:

a moment of unreal in the too real.

We are actors and spectators

in a game we cannot control

and cannot, ever, win;

we create our own little games

just to forget, for one moment

how helpless we are

in the hands of fate.


We are masters

at creating illusions

to mask the greater illusion

we call life,

so afraid are we

that the life we lead

is but a path

that leads to death.

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,

never

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.


Beware

lest you be found wanting!


Therefore,

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 Negativity Factor


When people you would trust

for their age and life experience

come to you, meaning well, and say:

"Look son, you know you just can't

rely on written words to live by--

a steady job is what you need..."


and when they add:

"Be careful of the things you write

or whom you associate with,

for life is change and good times

may vanish overnight

in one wrong move!"


and when you hear all this friendly negativity

to make you doubt your own wisdom,

your intuition and inspiration;

to make you lose faith in your spirit guides

and turn your back

on all your precious hopes and dreams

to go pump gas or wash dishes;

remind yourself lovingly, gently,

that double negatives

create the positive: no accident of fate;

such is the way life moves forward

within the realm of spirit creation.

Embrace this negativity, take it within;

become a full-fledged creator

within a web of balanced vibrations.


Fear not! Indeed, rejoice!

We are the Motor Men


We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats' feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar”

(from “The Hollow Men by T S Elliot)

--------------------------------------------------

We are the motor men

We are the boom-box men

Driving to nowhere

Headpiece filled with dissonant racket. Alas!

Our raunchy voices

Are loud and meaningless

As crackles from a burning truck

Or the screech of worn tires

From our stinking streets.

We’ve found no reason to be

but to demonstrate man’s depravity

His deepest desires

To destroy nature’s peace

To curse the silence

Bringing it crashing to its knees.

We are the motor men

We are the boom-box men

Driving to nowhere

Though existing, never living:

We are the zombies of the age.

We are the ghost riders

Had we the capacity, we would be proud.

Barred from heaven, and

Hell will not recognize us.

-------------------------------------------

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.”

(Conclusion of “The Hollow Men”)

Who Cares?

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


How much pain,

How much suffering

How many deaths

will we continue to accept

(in the name of corporate greed)

before we develop the courage

before we realize our power

before we say “Enough!”

and change the course

of our history?

What’s too horrible to contemplate?

The alternative.


And what would that be?

How about sharing

all of earth's resources?

How about acceptance:

me of you,

you of me?

How about respect and honor

for one-another?

Is there some great ancient law

that forbids us from loving one another?


Surely

if we get the guidelines right

the details will take care of themselves!


~~~~~~~~~~~

Some are guilty -

all are responsible.”

(Abraham Joshua Heschel)

Creating Diseases


What do we know of pharmaceutical companies?

We know their business is making money.

We know they test their drugs on people.

We know they dispose of out-dated stocks

donating them to Third World medical clinics

and we know they get tax breaks for such generosity.


What do we suspect of them but cannot prove?

We suspect they create drugs that spread diseases

for which they carry the patented cure.

We suspect these diseases target certain groups:

Black Africans, children, gays and lesbians.

We suspect they possess the means now

to create a plague that can annihilate humanity

but can't use it for two very good reasons:

one - they may not survive their own plague

two - they haven't found a way to profit from that.


Yes we know a great deal, and suspect more

and the question remains: what to do about it?

(The question is relevant only for those who care.)

We know the great social, religious and economic wars

have all been fought. And all have been lost.

Each one was fought to rid Earth of evil -

and evil simply found another way to manifest itself

within each vaunted victory.


But there is a very simple answer to the question.

And the answer is there is nothing to do about this

or any other great evil wrought on this world.

It's no longer about doing, it's about being.

It's about knowing without giving in to fear.

It's about seeing yet not turning to hate and violence.

Exposing the Trickster


I always thought of you

as the intelligent one

but now all I see in you:

someone laughing at the moon.

you think I’m socially inept;

so you saw your chance

misdirect, to gain a personal advantage;

you thought I wouldn't see,

exposing the trickster.

With your high class friends

you think you have it made,

living a rich man's life

on a poor man’s wages,

and soon you may well be

but a fish out of water.

You think you’re Mr. Cool

that you’re this nice guy

and everybody’s fooled

but I see through your charade

and the mask you wear:

I now know who you really are.

I may not be the smartest guy

in the family room,

but I know my own demons.

I have taken responsibility,

and chased them from my life.

I wonder if maybe one day

you may want to do the same

but too late in the game?

Reverence


From the dried skeleton

of a hardwood tree

he lovingly carves

a life-like sculpture.


In humble thankfulness

for this natural bounty

he plants a new seed:

his own gift to the land,

a simple exchange of life.


Such reverence for life

presages man's re-discovery

of unity in a living world,

re-kindles human hope

soaring beyond thought

of mere survival.

Boys Will Be Boys


Boys will be boys

so the saying goes:

they'll have their fun

their pleasure,

in full measure:


they'll have their games,

proving their manliness;

their balls, bats, stick and clubs,

they'll grunt, moan, swear

at the TV, rolling their bellies,

crushing empty beer cans.


Sometimes I listen to the boys

talking about their games,

bragging of their scores,

expressing dead-end fantasies:

--I would laugh out loud--

at so pathetic

breathless gobs of flesh

but it isn't that funny:


little girls

must put away their dolls,

their make-believe

to learn nature's survival skills

to prepare for their role--

nurturing, life-giving, loving,

mother-hood;

plus work, care, responsibility

in the world of boys

while they kill her world

with more violent, destructive

"grown-up" toys.

They play in larger yards

spend more money on thrills

thinking--if they think at all--

such is their due

according to the rules,


No need to ask why

boys never grow up

look around and see

how the system operates,

guaranteeing the boys

their leisure; their pleasure

though the world's gone mad.


Woman:

Atlas holding up the world

did less than her:

she's still the slave,

(despite the speeches and books)

to cook and clean and mend;

to nurture, love and care,

to support and to give

to suffer, silently hoping

for a little passing praise

instead of endless blame:


"the wife" "the broad" "the bitch"

"she wants more money for the house,

I want to buy Joe's snowmobile,

I need a new set of clubs: you think

she cares? She wants the kids

all dressed up for school

like it was her money!

You stopping for a pint after, Joe?

It's game five tonight!"


The pubs, the clubs,

the games, the courts:

everywhere the boys play;

while the girls, now women,

tend the ancient fires:

first, the boy's business to run,

then the boy's kids to feed,

the home to clean and tidy up,


Finally,

keeping the bed sheets warm,

his last cheap playground:

"What the hell do you mean,

you're tired?

I know, all is not this bleak,

some women do get to enjoy

their own games too

but remember this, always:

exceptions prove the rule.

Nature With A Beer


There are people - I won’t mention names

who really enjoy going out in nature -

they pack their six packs of beer

and their off-road bikes

and they really know how to live it up -

how to be a part of all that is:

Have a couple of beers,

get on the bikes

and roar off, throwing sand and mud

and destroying all natural habitat at hand

that nature has failed to safeguard

with unsurmountable obstacles.

Then it’s back to the pick-up truck

for another couple of beers,

a look at a skin magazine

and listening to the boom box

and off we go again: Oh what fun it is to ride!


Yes it’s obviously the good life -

for some, that is.

No one ever asks nature if it’s OK

to despoil her this way -

but then, no one ever asked her either

when a war is planned... and waged anywhere.

Nature, like woman, is there to be raped

and nature, unlike woman, says nothing.

Nature doesn’t ask for justice

from those who destroy her:

not because she is stupid

and not because she is afraid

but because her time frame isn’t that of humans:

there’s payback in the future, never fear

and although she is not vindictive

she has her cycles, her “periods”

and then she becomes quite bitchy.


Earth changes?

humans, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The Gift


Do we recognize the Gift?

Winter's snow falling gently

upon bowing evergreens;

the sun's soft warming light

when life would seem too cold to bear;

the bright moon's eerie ways

guiding us down midnight paths?


Do we recognize the Gift?

From some unfathomable depth,

perhaps from within ourselves,

from nature's womb and cradle,

life courses, races through our blood,

fills our senses to the brim:

a Gift to be of value must be accepted,

understood, experienced.


The life we live, the times we have,

are they of our making...

Or is it a Gift to be recognized?

We have played with life

as if it was some toy;

as if it could be broken, discarded

and another would be found...

Does our knowledge of life

not tell us otherwise?

Are we but a memory in the making?

A mist passing through time and space?


"This gift of life man takes for granted,

Who is the Owner and final judge

of use or misuse?"

Stress


Stress:

the tearing apart

of soul and body;

killer of joy;

destroyer of beauty;

maker of enemies;

spoiler of the good.


Stress:

that lack of perspective

in unbalanced minds;

that heartbeat

of man's social systems:

ego's creative centre


Stress:

that built-in energy thief

who's flow of energy

gives feelings of power

to self-pity, despair

and dreams of violent

emissions.


Stress:

the high cost of living

in death of a body

and destruction of a planet!

The path of doom

of a collective unconscious

devoid of enlightenment:


Stress:

that irresistible pull;

that momentous desire

to choke the living shit

out of some asshole

who desperately needs it!


When the stress of life

consumes me

I just burn up.”

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.

Two Worlds


I've seen teen-aged louts

drag their feet

contemptuously

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

and

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

live!

Uncommon Wisdom?


Forget writing poetry;

they say:

accept our 101 ways

of making t-shirts in a factory!"

That pretty well spells common wisdom.

But... say there were no factories

manufacturing 'goods' (and bads?)

few of us need;

say there were

no enforcement of guilt and shame

(it's called advertising and peer pressure)

upon those who don't drive the latest cars;

purchase the hottest gadgetry;

wear the latest fashion joke...

what would there be?


It's now imagination time:


Imagine

no smog-making factories;

no paved-over miles of vital soil;

no monster trucks ripping up the hills;

no towering high-rises housing fear

and planners of expendability.


Imagine

lush green forests,

sparkling lakes and crystal streams

reflecting a pristine wilderness;

birds perched in swaying branches

singing the rebirth of Earth?

Some may think

this is not possible,

or necessary,

yet

dreams possess

the seed of reality:

and such seeds create choices.

Which will we choose

for tomorrow's child?

Silver Ships In Dreams Of Earth


Looking outside my window

just before sun rise,

I see a silver ship approaching,

hovering just above my window.

Suddenly I am on the ship,

escorted to a room

where several humanoid creatures

communicate questions:


I gather they want to know

if the people of earth are worth saving;

or if they should just let them

destroy their world and themselves.


I pause for a moment and think,

what if people saw “real” space ships

hovering above their cities in the morning?

Would they panic?

Would they think they were being attacked?

Yes, likely that is what they'd think

for that is how they are taught to believe.


I spoke:

Well I think the people of earth

would never trust any alien life;

would never understand why

anyone from another planet, world or galaxy

would want to help them:

most of them believe their planet is

“just fine” - thank you very much!


They then asked me

if I wanted to see their world -

just to give me an idea of what

“a world just fine” really looks like;

how people from “a just fine world”

interact with one-another -

for mutual benefit.

- Should I take them up on their offer?

- Would I want to come back if I did?

Rich Text


They say I’m a budding poet -

OK, I admit

Some buds take a bit longer

To open and bloom -


But just because

I’m only at the beginning,

Don’t think I’m stupid:

For example,

I figured out the simplicity

Of getting extra bucks

for my wonderful words:


From now on,

I’m saving all my work

In rich text format -

No calling me “cheap” now.

The Village Idiot Box


O Cable TV - God of this New Age,

Art thou here to teach me?

Art thou here to amuse me?

Methinks thou art here

mayhap but to rot mine poor brains.


Thou bringest forth the daily news,

nay, the hourly news, forsooth!

The minutely news to boot!

Dost thou care I should be informed

of dire happenings in yonder distant lands?

Seekest thou not rather to confuse

and maketh me worry

this, that or t'other shouldst befall

that I may rush to the nearest mall

and load my reluctant ass

with baskets of sundry wares

I'd never thought of buying

but for these new cares?


O Cable TV, thou son of darkness,

wherefrom cometh thou

to despoil my soul of light?

To rob mine brain of comely thoughts?


O, who shalt deliver me

from such a loathsome monster?

Who shalt come hither

and lead me once more

into the calm reading of a simple book?

The Prophet's Story - As Told By Earth And Sky


The prophet heard the coming of the times:

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

The prophet saw the rising of the tides:

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

The prophet tasted fully the changing of the times:

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

to those who insist on being prophets --

to those who always must give the right message

always in the worst possible time: when society hears

but finds it terribly inconvenient to listen.

The prophet for her trouble was nailed upon the tree

and her children sold into slavery.

"Should I have remained silent for the children's sake?"

She screamed in agony dying abandoned and alone

but for waiting vultures perched on two lesser trees.

The question has been answered already by society:

by a railing, mocking, gawking, thieving multitude

that stole her last possession and jeered:

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

The prophet has returned to her own world to grieve

and "The Prophet's Story" is now known far and wide

across immensities of space where other worlds spin;

where humans evolved beyond the plagues of darkness;

where they listened to their gifted ones and realized in time

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

A new body has been given her but she insists

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

it must continue to broadcast the scars of her passage

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

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

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

who unknowing and un-remembering must now die

beyond reach of any compassionate heart or mind.

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.

The Noise Of Lies (Or The Lies Of Noise)


Ever wonder why, wherever you go

in man's twisted world

you hear a radio blaring,

or a TV monitor is stuck in your face?


Why every vehicle is factory equipped

with same radio, or other noise maker

euphemistically called 'music' or 'news'?

Why every restaurant, even office

plays these annoying noises in your ears?


Well, perhaps to you they are still counted

as free entertainment -

why trouble yourself with ideas?

But I'll do the troubling for you -

these noises have a nefarious intent:

to prevent you from listening

to thoughts that may arise

from your own heart, your own mind.


The System needs your allegiance

day in, day out, and if it could

it would short-circuit your dream time also -

suffice it to remind you

it says your dreams are worthless -

So the thoughts you express

are those of Wal-Mart's and McDonald's,

of General Motors or Coca-Cola's...

You argue the merits of brands,

Sports teams and of music bands

then wonder why the world's in such a mess!


Where do you suppose hides the wisdom

to make a difference?

Or even to know a difference

needs to be made?

It was in those thoughts of yours

the radio blasted out of your head

many, many years ago.

Don't bother looking for them now

they are dead.

The Nature Of Things


Don't you just love those nature shows?

The ones where animals do all their wonderful things;

in the snows, the sands, the waters, the trees

and even in the air?

Wonderful and heart warming, fuzzy and scary, all at once.

(Of course it's all a set-up for the cameras

but don't we just love to be fooled for entertainment?)

And while we're peeping at the animals

(and even plants in time-lapse photography

to give an aura of happening)

we program ourselves to conveniently forget

we too, like it or not, are just as much part of...

"The Nature of Things."


Paradoxically we are much more a part of it

than any other life extant on Earth today.

So much a part of it, we can blow it up, poison it, burn it,

choke it with refuse. -- Kill it --

And for a few dollars more -

that's exactly what we are about to do.

Who'll stop us? Savannah lions? Sea lions? Dandelions?


By some exaggerated twist of mindless arrogance

The Earth human came to see himself

superior to the nature that supports him --

and yet, wonder boy that he is

never has he been able to take one breath,

one drink of water, one bite of food

that did not come from the very nature

he still believes he stands above and beyond.


No my friend, you are not special,

not some freak from space; not above:

you are human, you are Earth and you live or die by her.

Kill her, now you have the power.

Sell her as slave and prostitute into the hell you've created:

it's indeed your prerogative to do so - and your penchant.

But mark these words well - if you can still read -

You're not a predator, you're not a hero; you're not special:

you are a fool -- seven billion times a fool --

only in this are you special; only in this can you take pride.


Oh but some of you believe you have gods?

Space brothers eagerly waiting with open arms

to save your worthless hides?

They are out there, certainly -

but safely waiting, out of reach,

waiting until you've gone, to the very last one.

Then they'll wait another billion years or so

(Just to be sure)

and they'll come to take another look at planet Earth.


They'll bring children to run and laugh in the wind

and they'll bring their own tools this time:

compassion, love, caring, nurturing, understanding, peace

and ... the one tool most feared by the greedy of this last day:

simple cooperation.

"Then shall Earth blossom again, and without fear"

The Traveler And The Staff


You who would be a Traveler--

How well have you looked to your Staff?

How intimate your heart with its Genesis?

Do you know of its Provenance?

For to know the Beginning

Is to discover the Path into the Future.

There is but One Truth here, Virgin Walker

Some have called it Trust.

It lays painstakingly ingrained

In the twisted windings of this Wood.

It knows the First, that for good or ill--

It knows the Provider - read this in its Rings--

It knows the Shaper - for it has submitted--

It knows the Finder - for do you not hold it now?

And now sense its eagerness to know the Wielder

Whether upon the sloping deck of an outbound ship

tossed by the wildest of an ocean's storm;

Whether upon soft or harsh lands on an unknown world,

In the mazes of artificial cities where death holds sway

or wandering alone, frightened and free

in endless wildernesses under sun, moon and storm.

It aches to touch the Ever-Stone of high mountains

Or slip into the desert's Slithering Sands.

It longs for the grip upon its handle

whether strong or weak;

defending life when oppressed;

upholding the tired body at the end of the day;

propping up the sagging legs on the endless Journey.

Have you learned all of this now

O bright-eyed and foolish Virgin Walker?

And how could you?

For only upon the Return can anyone know.

Only the One who returns can ever understand.

Why I Support Man's Belief Systems


Ah, but I'm asked more than enough times

why I keep knocking man's belief systems,

those sanctified beliefs that to any observer

work so well, produce

so much of love and joy.

Religion - that embarrassment of beliefs in whatnot God:

what most amazes me: the unreserved love

adherents of one religion have for the others:

especially true of Christianity –

the heart-warming overflow of compassion

for those of competing faiths;

individuals giving everything they possess

upholding, serving, to help those who hate them...


For so I do observe.


Let's look at man's money system:

a paragon of virtue wherever it rules –

see how the poor are clothes and fed and housed

when the bankers and businessmen walk into town!

See how people are taken in, given employment

and their children given free day care

while mothers enjoy time at work,

a sweet daily break from the endless cares of home.


Yes of course, this too, I see every day.


And what should I say of man's governments?

Truly this is where justice rules,

just laws made;

representation fair for rich and poor alike.

Where anyone with a grievance finds selfless help

from those who dedicated public servants.

Let it not be said a selfish man ever dared

walk the hallowed halls of power.

here never clacked a greedy woman’s stiletto

for as one, all politicians have but one thing at heart:

to see the people happy, healthy and wealthy

all across the land.

And so it is observed. And so history records.


May man's belief systems continue to rule

bringing prosperity to one and all!

What is the Universe?


What is this universe?

We know it’s a place full of stuff,

but what kind of stuff?

We heard about the Creators,

those ancient ones, or Ancient One

who made this universe

from nothing, it is said. But really?

What kind of “nothing” would that be?


As below, so above, I’ve been told

and here’s a place just stuffed with stuff,

all kinds of stuff – marvellous stuff, smelly stuff,

scary stuff, twisted stuff, recyclable stuff

and stuff that just burns or evaporates

or gets stuffed in black holes...

to re-appear somewhere else as different stuff:

yes, stuff, lots of stuff made of stuff.

But how did all that stuff really get here?


Pretty simple, says my friend:

there’s a place (or places if you will)

out there, way beyond this universe –

full of people -- yeah, people, he says,

who like us, just love stuff.

So they make it, have it made, buy it;

they play with it, use it, consume it

and when they’re done with it

they dump it – of course, what else?


And where does all that garbage go,

that stuff they no longer need or want?

To their garbage dump, of course, where else?


Just like on Earth, only more impressive

(from a human perspective, that is)

than our garbage dumps, is theirs’

and just because we grew out of it,

(let’s just say we’re a kind of bacteria)

we think it’s a wonderful thing,

that garbage dump of the “creators”

‘Cause it’s our home after all --

so we give it a superlative name:

Universe! Of course – what else?

And speaking of black holes, he adds,

they’re just their equivalent of “Glad” garbage bags:

you see, when hot stuff hits the bottom

it melts open and everything sloshes out...


You need to be a bit more observant.

He said laughing and shaking his head

not as if he’d told me a universal joke

but as if I was a bit slow in “getting it.”


Now its my turn to laugh –

the amazing simplicity of it all!

Concepts


Where in blazes do we live?

Where do we reside?

Who knows, who can tell?


We live within constructs,

variously called “earth”

or the universe, or the cosmos,

but what is our address?


We can't know, can we,

for what would we use

to locate ourselves by?

We don't even know

where in the universe

this solar system is located.


Just thought I'd throw that out

for someone to ponder on.

Maybe it doesn't matter

and so most would rather think,

and when they die, so be it.

It's over and done with.


But is it? How do we know that?

We've had teachers rant on

about heaven and about hell

and woe to us if we didn't toe the line

but the line has become mighty thin

these last few years at least

and in some places,

could use mending.


Humanity: fleas upon the earth!

earth: a speck in the galaxy!

the Milky Way: one of billions -

Will we ever know who we are,

or how we came to be

(beyond mere belief, that is)?

We do not know what a universe is,

much less a cosmos.



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