Excerpt for The Weirdo With A Grudge by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Title Page

Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)

Copyright (©) 2019 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

Cover pictures by: Top, Jonathan Pineda.

Bottom, Cristiano Galbiati

All pictures found on

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.


Title Page


Infinity And The Timeless


Only A Farmer

The Last Salmon

The Nature Of Things


A Peek At The Peak (Of Oil)

The Tree

The Turtle's Shell

The Weirdo With A Grudge


Voices From The Heart

Walking Life's Road

What We Settle For

Why the Pain

Windwalker's Magic Talking Stick

Wind Chaser

This Is Earth

To The End Of The Universe


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.

Infinity And The Timeless - Tell Us Your Deepest Secrets


"Tell us all your deepest secrets,

your most personal thoughts,"

they said, "just as if you could keep them from us,

tell us freely,

unburden yourself, let go,

trust us: we will free you forever.

No longer will your thoughts trouble you in the night.

No longer will visions cause you pain.

You will sleep the sleep of the blessed,

that's why we are here - to help you."


but I said nothing.  I looked around.


I was as a human child dressed all in white

lying on a bed that smelled of jasmine

and coloured light streamed through translucent walls:

it had to be some paradise

I thought, or thought I thought -

for nothing seemed to hold firm, not in my mind

and not to my senses.

I was hungry, then I was content- and I saw the ocean

just outside - the room pitched slightly - it was a ship

but there were stars beneath me - a star ship. 

I could see into and across the timeless.


They came again - I hadn't noticed their leaving -

there were four of them, three smiling

and one frowning deeply.

I focused on the frowning one's face,

looked deeply into purple pools of eyes and deep into his mind:

he would have averted his eyes from mine, this I sensed,

but he could not.  Nor could he leave.  Not now.

I'd captivated him; I held him. 

Then in my child's language I said to him:

"Tell me all your deepest secrets;

your most personal thoughts

just as if I could not know them, or read them:

tell me.  I'm here to help you."


He unburdened himself to me. 

And I told him my own story.

Together, hand in hand, we walked away

back into the timeless as we both remembered it

and as we walked no longer was it the void we'd dreaded. 

"Of infinity were you fashioned and to infinity shall you return

                ever-innocent in your ever-childness."






Surrounding the darkness

of ever-coming sleep


always poised

beyond silence

contemplates creation and


springs from inner wells

psyche overcomes

her love overflows

ego temporarily subdued

waits for the morning

life is

a daytime wave

a nighttime particle


Only A Farmer

Today, I do not speak of joy, but of hope.

I do not speak of evidence of things not seen

nor projected good times following a harvest.

I do not describe in glowing detail

my beautiful, ripe fields of wheat come fall;

nor my bulging granaries and golden profits...

I speak of what is:

I am only a farmer.

I speak of the toil demanded by the land:

observance of seasons and changes in weather;

of spreading manure over frozen fields in winter;

of plowing, discing, harrowing and seeding,

working around the clock in spring,

in wind-swept dusty fields

and through endless cold nights.

I am only a farmer.

I speak only of hope -

that enough rain will fall between hot sunny days;

that a crop will sprout,

turning fields from brown to green

in the short summer;

that no blight or pest will destroy young crops;

that frost will stay his hands

until the harvest is complete.

I am only a farmer.

I do not speak of the harvest,

but of commitment to a way of life

and seemingly endless labour.

I can clear the fields, prepare the soil, plant,

but bringing forth the crop from the earth,

that is not given to me,

I am only a farmer.

The Last Salmon

A sadistic predator,

awaits by the riverside

as fish struggle upstream,

hoping one will take

the bait of death,

fighting back,

providing the "sport",

pulling, trembling,

trying to free itself,

with its last breath.

Another mans a trawler,

reeling in nets covering

the ocean floor:

as the struggling bodies are

hauled aboard, all he sees

is the balance at the bank.

Some fish escape the gauntlet

to swim up the ancient streams

twisting, winding, leaping

over jagged rocks

and cascading waterfalls

to reach the remembered place

and beneath pebbles on the river bed

leave their dwindling legacy.

When the last salmon spawns

in some dying stream

not far from a coast

empty of seals and eagles,

will man have learned then

--if too late--

not to take more

than what nature can give?

The 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"


Praise Capitalism!

A toaster is built!

Ah! Made in Mexico, profit!

It lightly browns gummy white bread.

It kills what nutritious value

the bread may have accidentally contained

but who cares? We can hear that delightful

crunching sound in our mouth, feel

that commercial goodness fill our guts

when suddenly, expectedly, one of its coils dies.

The whole damn thing must now be thrown away

in some overflowing heap called a land fill

oozing with toasters, dirty diapers and

other such non-recyclable human waste.

Thus we are forced to buy a new one

and the game goes on

until we too,

are toast!

A Peek At The Peak (Of Oil)

The questions before us,

that is, the global community board,

are straightforward, gentlemen:

When will oil reserves peak?

(They already have.)

How much time do we have until then?

(None, obviously.)

What alternatives have we in place

to bring us a new way of life?

(That would be none also.)

What secure source

of alternative energy do we have?

(And none also.)

Ah but the great train of progress

and mindless business

will careen along and go off the track

and we can blame, let's see:

corporatists, capitalists, communists

and let's not forget the socialists;

throw in some aliens... the spotted owl -

global warming, (or is that warning?)

planetary changes, the Mayans:

if there's blame to attach,

the individual is safe, totally safe

to die happy in the dark.

It's not lack of energy - it's

dollar store-drive-through mentality -

for we are no longer people

sharing a small planet in alien space:

we've been promoted to the wonderful

Wall Street Disney Hollywood World status

of consumers. We're Consumers

and our credit cards speak thunderously

of the great power entrusted to us all,

that we may consume everything.

There's a problem with that:

Earth isn't a shopping mall.

It's a finite world, an ecological marvel -

the only one in an entire solar system

and it's been eaten up - consumed -

all but crumbs to war over.

Where else to build

more Wal-Marts and Home Depots?

Now what?

Solar, wind, hydrogen, ethanol?

By comparison to that raw power

of a Middle-Eastern tiger in the tank,

pretty mild alternatives, these.

There's a solution hanging about

near-by in the fringes of our suspicion:

a complete change of individual lifestyle,

not of future,

not of tomorrow,

but of this very moment.

That could prevent collapse.

But not to worry, it won't happen

for the conclusion

from that famous sermon on the

World Class Mound of Garbage

as uttered by a laughing Milton Friedman ghost

says, (and I quote):

Blessed are the brain dead idiots

for they shall die at the wheel of their SUV

and be spared the horrors of tomorrow.

The Tree

The tree,

symbol of vitality,

symbol of life;

anchored in pasts

and possible futures

where I walked and walk,

not always alone--I hear

its voice echo softly

through the mind--I feel

its life energy healing

my soul deadened

by the city's chaos:


I stand recharging

under its green protection

and I say, not proudly

"thank you, tree

and I hope you'll still be

here, giving life

when I, or another child

needs you again."

The Turtle's Shell

Crashing monster boulders

may crack a turtle's hard shell,

but a constant daily onslaught

of bothersome sticks and 'pebbles'

doesn't appear to leave a dent.

Question: what happens though

if the turtle is overwhelmed

with the small stuff?

If she can't crawl out from under it?

Planet Earth is like that turtle:

no great “earth changes”

are about to bring all to an end.

All the little things done each day

don't seem to make much of a dent

in the hard shell of the planet -

but what of a “bog down” -

a complete social collapse?

What if, as a species we give in -

follow our fears, our hatred, our greed

and sink ourselves helpless?

Enter the final phase of destruction:

the enabling of the last holocaust

with weapons of mass destruction poised

over the last oil reserves;

vast armies crawling over mountains

to loot, pillage, rape and murder;

cities burning until the smoke

covers even the light of the sun

from pole to pole..

And who, when it is all over

shall record the events; the final story

of man's aborted stay upon this world?

Who shall care even, or want to know

what happened that a so-called intelligent life

never heard the call for understanding

or heeded the simple challenge of compassion?

And the final eulogy for Man will still be

“From dust were ye made

and to dust hast thou returned.”

The Weirdo With A Grudge

And then said the Lord:

Thou art cast out of Eden.

Into the world thou goest

To subdue it, and to multiply.

Multiply thou must - to

make sure I'll help you

(and said the woman:

with the help of the Lord

I have brought forth a son!)

This first: a sure winner that one.

Thou shalt call him Cain

and he shall have my protection.

I will hound him, push him,

mock him, refuse his offering;

I will stir his pride into hate and anger.

He will be the first murderer:

he will kill his brother, a fine start.

Many more of his like he will father

and the earth shall be ripped, torn

opened and bled 'til the day

she dies. In the depths of space

how I will laugh!

Who is this "Lord God" -

this weirdo with a grudge

against nature, against the earth?

Why did he create his clones

and his clowns

with a penchant for hate and murder?

Why then blame an enemy,

a snake, no less, a talking snake?

Eve listened to the snake

for little did she know

the Lord God was a ventriloquist.

Silly girl, foolish man

how easily you were fooled

by the weirdo with a grudge

how willingly you served him

and continue to serve him,

multiplying and subduing,

pillaging and murdering,

your feet and hands forever

soaked in the blood of your own

children. "And thank you Lord!"

Oh I could tell you

who your Lord God is, I could,

but would you listen?

Of course not.

you've sucked on the lie so long

you're OD'ing on your old myth:

Nothing can save you now

since you won't save yourselves.


I dream of the coming day

when the Human species will no longer feel the need

to use or abuse our friends, the trees.

There are alternatives to killing

to develop that which we call homes,

and to record that which we call thoughts.

I do not mean more technology of same:

replacing wood and pulp with plastics or metals,

but something really, really new!

Have you ever dreamed of a living house?

A living, growing entity within which you may rest

or raise children in peace and dignity?

Have you ever thought of touching minds

able to share your joy in a sudden moment?

Wished to be silently heard in a time of sorrow?

Perhaps you have, perhaps you never dared --

for how could a house become a living friend?

How could a house care for you and your children?

But I have it in good authority - don't take my word for it

that such things are common in other places.

Well, OK, so I don't mean other places on this world!

So many things we have, so many we do, today,

were once considered crazy, if not demented:

But for the dreamers, where would these things be?

Voices From The Heart

These are voices from the heart,

the sounds of life given and nurtured;

the vibrations, which support my being

in space and time, the music

which accompanies my body

causing the seed to grow,

strong, wise and loving in all of life

until the day I return again to her womb

to be reborn and to repeat

the endless cycle of life engendered

within my mother: the earth

and thus I honour her in her labours

by listening and loving:

I hear the call of a great horned owl

on the high branch of an old spruce;

the soft patter of snow-shoe hares

circling a haystack in harsh moonlight;

the crackling of the northern lights

flashing fiery waves of coloured lights;

the song of frogs on the edge of a pond

on a clear spring night reflecting stars.

The gentle ripple of wavelets

bouncing against a half-submerged log;

the laughter of coyotes in distant fields

mocking the bark of the farmer’s dog.

Yes, these are the voices

that forever echoes in my mind

that forever remind

of my passage on planet Earth.

Walking Life's Road

I dreaded the idea

of walking life's road alone,

but I had no choice, so I thought

and set forth, wondering

what she might offer,

or take from me.

Just in case,

I packed a solid load of memories

to nibble on along the way.

Then I felt something as the wind

whisper, not unkindly:

"I've taken many such a road:

the trick is to let go

the relentless, restless, hands of time.

Lighten up – let go the past:

it cannot bring “back”

what it never had!

Oh, and something else

you may find of use when aloneness

pokes her gnarled finger at your heart:

you’re never alone!

But if you forget, never mind:

I’ll ruffle your hair by and by.”

What We Settle For

It's there - for all to see were they not blind:

it doesn't work - but no one can see it; not even you,

not until it collapses in your lap:

when the hopes and dreams

shatter as glass when a rock is thrown

and children run laughing

while another screams inside a dark house.

Isn't it amazing what we settle for?

What we convince ourselves of?

There is the tried and true and failed -

Oh yes, failed, utterly failed -

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

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

and even if we notice (too late)

the cement is cracked and crumbling

no one is pouring fresh stuff down here.

Let's see, what are the options

for the budding human's dreams?

There's church - some kind of religion

so you can get hooked on God - the Great One

who's more silent than the grave;

family - parents and siblings and fights

followed by separation and divorce

and relocation to another school.

There's government - you register to pay

everyday of your life and beyond;

school - education - to make you fit in

and teach you to walk with eyes wide shut.

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

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

There's repetition: your own family --

"The Home Environment"

(translate please) -- certainly, read:

the confining straights of marriage

and kids and responsibilities no one ever taught --

you fly by the seat of your pants

and you remain afloat - maybe -

or you lose and fall and lose again.

And at that point there's jail --

you had your good times

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

so they scoop you off the sidewalk,

in cuffs you watch your shiny stolen car

burn inside the basement of a house

and an ambulance screams away.

Stop, you say, stop already --

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

and sadly I have to agree, it is not:

most accept the middle road, the common ground.

They warm the pews, fill the voting booths,

sit at desks half asleep and they commute,

commute, commute, commute -

like the beat of a train's steel wheels

on a badly laid track --

I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go

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

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

somehow mixed with forgotten dreams

remembered once or twice at a party.

And hope, what happened to hope?

Well, it's still there, somewhere --

in the shoe closet, in the doghouse

the baby's crib or the barbecue.

Sometimes it's in the hot tub

and sometimes in a boat or swimming pool.

Or a promotion for him.

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

All just enough to stave off the divorce,

barely enough.

Dreams and hopes become memories

written on a note lying limp

between the fingers of the deceased

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

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

"And the people shall bow and say, 'Amen' together

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

and they shall continue... continue... continue...

and whatever they may have learned here

shall be wiped from their memory."

That is the real story.

Why The Pain?

Why does the blackberry

tear at the skin

of the small hand reaching

for nature's food

in hope of simple sustenance?

Why does the sweet smelling

rose of mid summer

prick the soft finger

touching its stem,

leaving drops of blood

in its scarlet wake?

Why does the goldfinch

always watch the skies

for the predator hawk,

the swift sharp shinned

swooping with death

in its short rounded wings?

Why does the black vulture

endlessly circle the blue skies,

surveying the open fields

for the dead and the dying

even in the blush of spring?

Why does the human race

bid for first place in death

constantly planning hate

prepared for war in fear

exploited by power for pleasure?

Why does the gentle empath

walk with pain in her heart,

her soul heavy with sorrow

even as the breath of the divine

carries her aloft?

Windwalker's Magic Talking Stick

I am WindWalker's magic talking stick...

'and what have you to say?' asks one.

This, and this only, oh questioner,

but be aware my word is always truth.

To the unbelieving,

I speak of man-made things;

of birth, money, sickness and death;

of weather and houses and termites

for that is all that matters...

To the skeptic

I speak of mockery and scorn;

of things that could never be;

of fools who cannot face 'reality,'

for that is the nature of the beast...

To the religious

I speak of judgment and condemnation,

of sin and of righteousness never attained

of rituals and rites and right belief

for that is all that can be heard...

To the lover

I speak of warm embraces without end,

of soft, warm breasts and kisses of honey

and illusions of lasting commitments

within family and friends yet to be

for that is all the heart can feel...

To the philosopher

I speak of ideas gone by, worn out,

of thoughts which spin endless webs

to obliterate the yearnings of the heart

for that is what words are for...

To the seeker

I speak the wonders of the Universe

and I open it like a book of endless pages

where miracles are the order of the day:

the hundred and one ways the Creator

chooses to order but one aspect of life

for that is what a seeker seeks...

I am WindWalker's magic talking stick:

would you like to hear a story?

Wind Chaser

The wind was always a rival to defeat,

so I ran the path set forth,

training for the marathon of life

to cross the finish line

on some distant horizon,

and I imagined turning back

to see a tired wind

come in second.

But in trying so hard to finish first,

I never could pause long enough,

to appreciate the simple things

that had no need to run in any race.

One day

a gust of wind

gently passing by

whispered softly in my ear:

“Learn to run with me, not against me.

Don't worry about who finishes first!

If you must run along my paths,

let me be your companion, not

your competitor!

Allow the pleasure to flow within

life's own gentle pace.”

This Is Earth

This is earth

mother earth we call her

giving us sunshine and water

when we let her

that's less and less often...

This is earth

where so many

have sought endlessly

for the land

of milk and honey

found salt marshes and the stinger


This is earth

our cradle

"rock-a-bye baby!"

valley of sorrow and death

where heaven and hell

walk comfortably hand in hand.

This is earth

where the living die

and the dead live

where 12 million children

die without food -that's

32,876.71 child per day

give or take...

This is earth

where the leaders

create deficits

from our greed

to steal the food

of those who die

to pay them back, why  -

 - for dying? --

"This is earth" cries the prophet

to the crescent-mooned sky

among the stars his voice echoes

"Do not come here -

do not come near -

their ignorance so contagious

throbs in mortal agony

capturing all

that passes by!"

To The End Of The Universe

There is a bus

going to the end of the Universe,

I hear they're holding a conference there

on some small planet.

The agenda is about violence,

how to stop the killings, the wars

and the corruption in high places

that ignites and condones

violence in all its forms.

I hear they are seeking representatives

from all the worlds

still mired in violence;

first hand input

from perpetrator and victim -

of course, Earth is invited.

They wish to make it known

that the best tools against violence

are (as is so often forgotten)

compassion and cooperation.

I'm heading for the bus stop

this morning;

I figure I could be a delegate.

Will I be waiting alone?

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