Excerpt for Chaotic Thoughts by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Title Page

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: Belovodchenko Anton

Web Page:

Space Pictures: ESA/Hubble

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.


Title Page


Chaotic Thoughts

As Birds of Passage art Thou

Chasing Ideas

Change: A Conversation

Can We Change

Big Words

Measure Of Marriage

Meditation (II)


Where Are You

Attacking Or Questioning?

Wrongly Accused

What Do I Know?

What Is A Work Of Art?


The Couch

Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

Sidewalks Of Life


Primordial Passion

Obtaining Character

Mind Search


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.

Chaotic Thoughts

Observe thundering waves

crash upon a rocky shore,

Hear the winds howl, tossing foam,

pushing brown sands to frozen waves.

Huddle against a smooth-worn rock

and feel the trembling of the Earth

with your tired, aching body.

Should I end my life now,

you ponder within:

leave this darkened place?

What use am I to this world that does not hear

words I pour from a broken heart?

Should I end my life-long dream

of planting seeds of wisdom

using the written word to touch

hearts open to receive

a million answers to their one question?

Should I give up the struggle now;

quench the fire that burns in my soul?

I look up to see a white gull

skimming the towering waves,

up and down, sailing the currents,

peacefully, gracefully, playfully

as one with the wild winds, unafraid!

Why couldn't I playfully navigate

for another day at least, just one more day

the chaotic madness of man's system

and live to write just one more line?

As Birds of Passage art Thou


At the foot of the giant tree

an egg shell lies upon the ground

faded blue, cracked and forlorn.

Look up and see the nest --

empty: the birds have flown away.


Will they return in Spring

and in flowering thickets sing?

Perhaps, and perhaps not.

Why stand there staring, waiting?

Why worship the shell upon the ground?

The nest high up in the tree?

That will not make the birds return.

The shell will rot away into the soil;

the winds blow the nest down.


Forget the birds, follow the heart.

You are not shell nor nest

to crumble and fall in Winter storms.

Like birds of Summer you are,

passing o'er these alien shores

on flimsy sets of borrowed wings. 

Leave the nest and leave the tree;

the shell that once held you safe,

the comfort that once was --

Fly away free,

    fly away fast,

        fly away far!

Chasing Ideas

Many people tell me

I'm some kind of poet--

a friend even (as a joke?)

calls me the Mcdonald's

of poetry! I can't really tell

if the title's quite earned,

“billions served”? - hmmm!

but I know this much:

I spend a lot of time

scanning the corners of my mind,

sweeping through the cobwebs,

the bad memories

and half-forgotten dreams,

(sirens from ambulances

and fire trucks get mixed in)

and sometimes a girl comes out

and smiles,

though I'm not sure its at me,

or an old teacher waves goodbye...

As I search around

for interesting tidbits to recall--

it's a lot like I'm rummaging

in grandma's old attic,

among things of by-gone days

I scarce know what they mean--

and when I get an impression

some shy idea has been cornered

behind an old trunk, I grab it

and holding it in both hands,

I run downstairs to my room

as fast as I can,

and shove the creature in a disk...

The next thing I know

I've got another poem written

for someone to say, "Wow, that's great!"

and that's basically it:

I call it, chasing ideas...

Change: A Conversation

Listen, have you heard?

Winds of change are blowing earthward

Really? The weather man did say

the winds would change direction

and bring clouds and rain:

I should have my umbrella ready

and my rubber boots. I wonder if

the tires on my car need...

No! What I mean is that you will be

profoundly moved in spirit.

You may even discover a state of mind

where you can communicate soundlessly

with all living things.

Yeah? That reminds me I've got to

make a stop at the bank machine,

pay some bills and do some shopping

before the storm gets worse.

You don't seem to quite grasp

what I'm trying to say here.

I'm talking about change coming in your life

so you may become spiritually enlightened,

learning to live within love and truth.

Sure, I understand. I've spent a lot of money

on making changes in the past,

wasting a lot of time: All I ended up doing

was a lot of things I don't like,

please, don't talk to me about change:

I've done all I am going to do!

Can We Change

At the breach of dawn

as the subtle light plays games

with high forest landscapes

I find myself among tall trees

walking I'm not sure where

pondering the sights

soon to open to me

as I proceed on up to alpine meadows.

But the path I walk

is broken and rutted,

the work of ATV's and 'quads'

and further, I know

the clear cuts will come into view

and there also

the land is an inferno

of off-roaders' pleasures.

I wonder:

Will we ever wake up?

See how our motorized pleasures

are destroying the very fabric of earth life -

the land; forests; foreshores -

the very air we breathe?

Eating away the soul of nature?

Alas as the leaves change colour;

as the sun comes through the mist

the fun lovers already return

to despoil another day

and I realize

man is having way too much fun.

No time to reason responsibility

or the consequences of the change

being inflicted upon this world.

Thus the show will go on, must go on -

predicated as it is on profit

for those who rule and ruin:

Yes it will go on

until nothing is left.

Big Words

Abstemious, bicephalous, convolvulaceous,

digitigrade, erotomania, flavescent, glossolalia,

hebdomad, isomorph, jonquil, kyphosis

logomachy, malversation, nihilism, onomastics,

paronomasia, quidnunc, rudimentary,

semiabstract, traditionalism, unidirectional,

vaporization, whirligig, xenodiagnosis,

yataghan, zoophagous.

That's a list of some big, BIG BIG WORDS.

I can't spell these words,

I can't use these words,

I don't know why they have them,

I don't know what they mean,

I'll never understand these words

I've lived all these years without 'em

got along fine with the little guys

and yet... and yet...I can't help myself:



(d'ya get my drift?)

(the Laughing Poet looks)

in his dictionary!)

Measure Of Marriage

Home of the free? Yeah right!

Try shacking up together,

a man, a woman to make life easier,

ease boredom, share costs,

put a dent in loneliness:

what happens next?

the State marries you,

common law, they call it,

did you have a choice in this?


Control, that's what it is.

There's more:

churches are working hard

getting you common law sinners

properly hitched,

and one must admit,

they're having remarkable success,

considering the lawyers getting rich

through divorce proceedings.

Ah, the System,

what a wonderfully twisted world,

what a wonderful scam!

what a wonderful lie!

There's no way on God's green Earth

they'll let you live a life of love

they can' write up in triplicate

and put through a fax machine.


Cause if they can fax ya,

they can tax ya!

Meditation (II)

Meditation: a word from the misty past

an idea lost to most

now returning?

 -why? -

A long time ago

people walked hand in hand with the gods

(they were themselves gods!)

their language was rich and true:

meaning what it said

saying what it meant

no one heard things not intended then

there was no cause for conflict

The language of the gods died with time

in a place called "Babel"

(understand that place is "earth)

and we were left with utter confusion

from our confusion came darkness;

from darkness grew

hate, fear, wars, disease, death!

We have lived with that since

its been such a long, long time

we've come to think it's normal.

Meditation: a return to the timeless, limitless

communication of the gods,

a return

to life again

an attunement

to the energy of life

to oneness with the Creator

to peace... love... completeness.


In a rush of compressed time

created to fit within this eager moment

as the moon slowly wanes

disappearing behind haloed clouds

I find myself standing

upon a much younger earth

and with young eyes I scan

mountains I will climb and cross

in another time.

My fiery young heart

beats fiercely within

with a forever springing hope

that she will be waiting there

when I come down the other side

of the mountain.

And I still believe as I did then

that beyond this towering granite wall

lies the land of rainbow-colored dreams

“and they lived happily ever after”

is written on the sign at the border.

In the same compressed moment of time

I also pause to remove

my tear-soaked glasses from my eyes

to stare at the waning moon again

in the stillness of the night:

I try to remember that my youthful dream

was fully realized

and my life's drama did unfold as foretold

each in it's own precious time and space

to bring me here once more

older, wiser, and still full of hope

having seen both sides of the mountain

in the moonlight

Where Are You

Where are you

coming from? the world

not understanding - being

still... still unaware

of changes - asks

straight-faced but with

lines of tiredness - wear and tear

showing, but

still proud though stooping

from eons of ignorance:

what you say

doesn't make sense!

What you think

defies our norm

and can never be

'cause it's never been!

What you write

is even worse,

'cause others may read

and reading, may believe

and believing, get messed up!

Don't you realize your ideas

can unbalance the world?

What gives you the right

to believe you are free?

Attacking Or Questioning?

A free society has many expectations -

a conversation isn't free here -

witness the fact of speaking openly

of things that don’t work; of life on Earth

of the problems in need of resolving

(or else).

Says a listener to my rant,

"Wow, you're attacking everybody:

governments, God, belief systems, laws -

you’re a cynic - too cantankerous to listen to!"

and off he goes

presumably to hear some pleasant thoughts

expounded by some politician or preacher

(or weather man or disk jockey or anybody)

about a world of love and peace

a world at war where we’re winning

sunshine everyday of the year

and singing and music indistinguishable

from interminable commercials

or the certainty of a lottery win -

or failing that, there’s certainly a game show

or a ball game, hockey game, golf game

or any kind of game - even dart throwing

to watch on TV or listen to over the radio.

If that isn’t enough,

there’s always bad news gossip –

happening to everybody else.

Ah well, I thought to myself:

so I question the wherefore’s and the why’s

because so much that’s taken for granted

just doesn't add up using my arithmetic.

Why should this be considered

an attack upon the cherished Status Quo?

Could it be so-called normalcy remains so

only as long as it isn't challenged?

Could it be it would not stand up

to the scrutiny of common sense?

Could it be that this precious Status Quo

is but the eternal monster

created and fed with fear and apathy?

Wrongly Accused

Wrongly accused of a crime,

you stand in shame and rage:

anger eats at your heart;

instinctively, you seek to lash out

in justified self-righteousness.

But the lesson's intent

is to transmute those thoughts;

to fill the spinning emptiness–

the vortex of this terrible rage–

and find peace in acceptance.

The perpetrator is out there, somewhere,

he remains free to walk the streets

and only you know he is guilty.

You are his only way out of punishment

and for reasons without reason:

are you a scapegoat...or a savior?

If in this awareness you sit quietly,

not speaking with bottled rage,

but calm and serene of heart,

the engulfing wrath may well pass

through the long, lonely nights ahead.

So shall your accusers pass

through this new-found life:

mere shadows in the light of your day,

and the one whose chains you bear

may become a loving friend,

a life’s companion,

in light of your understanding.

What Do I Know?

Out of darkness, she comes as light;

out of chaos, she emerges as peace;

out of confusion, she orders and sets;

in barren places, she plants the seeds;

parched lands, she waters with tears.

Once she ruled upon this orb

loved, worshipped, understood;

once, children ran naked from her arms;

innocent, joyful, carefree;

Once nature flourished in her care -

Once - all was as it should be,

but that was a long time ago:

now she waits for me to reason this out,

to grasp life's energy, the concept of love:

but what do I know of love

transcending all things, uniting all things?

Still, I ponder this mystery,

while in a timeless world, she waits.

What Is A Work Of Art?

How can we know if a work of art

is really a work of art?

A simple measure can be applied,

a simple test: how did it come about?

Did the artist work strictly

from the power of inspiration

unmindful of popularity

or financial success?

That is art.

Were the thoughts focused instead

on certain financial remuneration

or popular adulation

after the work would be completed?

That is business.

Certainly the global super-market

will not allow anyone to survive

without money, in whatever form,

so one cannot fault the artist

for having to survive is such a world!

But what to call a gifted one

who sells his wares but for the profit?

Who paints, writes or plays

to produce a marketable product?

Can such a one still be called an artist?

The nature of art is to remain free

even when auctioned into slavery:

but those who sell themselves

are never free: they are slaves;

slaves of the marketplace;

slaves of the media;

slaves of fear and slaves of greed.


For those of age, here's a question to ponder:

can two people love each other unconditionally

when tragically caught in the web of marriage?

I threw this question to the winds of fate

in hope I would get an answer in my time of need

but as I turned to leave, I heard a voice

coming from deep within the ancient trees

where wisdom dwells in infinity:

“What is marriage but a contract of co-dependency

doomed by impossible expectations?

When two love each other as one,

any addition or deletion to their unity in bliss

will but bring ruin to all their plans:

Have you not observed this yourself?”

“If in fear of losing, you bind,

are you not admitting you've already lost it all?

What is marriage, but a life sentence unenforceable?

A prison whose walls and bars are expectations?

A fenced courtyard where love and life stagnate

until the dried up remnants of your youthful love

blow away in the bitter winds of divorce?”

“Love cannot be bound: listen

to the voice of the spirit soaring among the stars

speaking softly to the heart of your other,

reminding yourself that love is beginning and end

and needs no artificial glue...

is this not true?”

The Couch

Someone got lonely,

always sitting alone,

so He or She invented the couch;

to provide Her and Him with

a more comfortable place

to spent an intimate moment

but they got bored doing that

and invented the boob tube:

complete with bombarding ads

filled with endless lies,

so the next step was inevitable:

the remote control,

and that, as all can see

provided irrefutable proof

for the theory of evolution--

(or de-volution)

for late twentieth century

saw the birth of a new species:

the utterly useless,

the sexless,

the mindless,

the...Couch Potato!

Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

Heaven is mashed potatoes,

creation is alphabet soup!

cried the laughing poet

driving down main street

in an old sports coupe.

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

or so we're told, and who's to say?

No difference at all, we're all the same

an unchanging world and really tame.

No need to 'practice' love in heaven

for that only works in black and white,

and isn't that so? Have you tried loving

what you cannot differentiate?

False prophets of this age

'There are many more than many'

say all is 'one'- there is no difference

Oh, sure: but one what? One mess?

It's a bowl of mashed potatoes.

There's a contradiction in the theme:

ego it seems lives on in higher realms.

As proof - angels no less

once found it lying near the throne of God.

So they picked it up and thought it better

than harp and halo and flowing gown.

Why? How should I know? Were they bored

in their mashed potatoes heaven?

Ego gave them their coveted difference:

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

they had fun playing with their alphabet soup

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

And the moral of this little tale

is quite simple, and more than obvious:

if you learn to spell and eat your soup

the world is on your spoon.

Sidewalks Of Life

A man walks the city streets in ragged clothes,

wearing an old face moved along by tired feet:

my first reaction? Judge him a worthless bum:

it is, after all, what society saw fit to impart

in the years when mind could believe anything.

The years have left their mark in he and I;

no longer does society possess our souls:

too many haughty frowns and welfare cheques

can do that to some not on the board;

to the pawns who died saving their king.

Our path crosses: I feel his love of life

and as quietly does compassion enter my heart

for I realize he too would love to feed a hungry world;

penniless as I, ragged clothes and worn out body


I do not turn away when he stops by me:

even though the sound of his foreign tongue

seems incoherent and even harsh:

I listen and try to understand the words

but all I can do is feel his passion: it is enough

to fire the stories pouring from his heart.

Great friends we can become

allowing we are not that different after all,

having this one thing in common:

a passion to share our love through stories

garnered from cold and wet sidewalks of life.

Who knows but that some are already predisposed

to listen? To consider it worth their time

to read words kept from the rains

carefully wrapped in old plastic shopping bags?


To welcome me today:

a cold, empty, gray shore

and even colder waves

crawling hungrily over the sand...

A smog-filtered sun rising

hesitantly above denuded trees

casting uncertain light

through dissipating shadows of night.

Tears fill my eyes.


Why must I think of those thousands

condemned to death today

because so few understand

the rhythm of life;

so few accept the call of compassion

that would change everything?

That could even stop death?

That would stop the spread of war?

And I really wonder:

Do we need military forces and weaponry

To protect our way of life?

By what law do we deny others

the right to their own way of life?

How great can such a law be,

when children die of hunger

and the homeless fall in the streets?

What if we took all that we spend

defending or protecting ourselves

to alleviate poverty; to feed the hungry:

whom would we have to fear then?

Ah, but so impossible, isn't it.

I feel a fathomless sorrow

for wasted lives and pointless deaths

as greed spreads hungrily over this world,

dragging death in its wake:

if we refuse to see, who then

shall teach us of empathy and compassion?

Primordial Passion

Tara and I met one day

on the golden shore

of an uncharted island:

it could have been on earth.

I sailed in from the sky

on silent silver wings;

Tara emerged to greet me

from the tossing blue sea:

I stepped away

from my silver suit

and lay upon the singing sands.

Tara unveiled her body

from the seaweed cover

mermaids often hide in:

We gave ourselves a day

such as would make

the Devil himself, blush!

It matters not

for to us that day

it was what is called love:

she wanted the child.

Obtaining Character

Life is seldom 'steady as she goes'

but we stumble, sometimes in woes:

we all do things regrettable

and remember, Oh how we remember

the things we wish we'd never done!

But when we choose to know those things;

when we kneel and call them by their name

and we gently pick them up,

and carry them with us

as children dressed in miserable rags

as a reminder that life moves onward,

like children, they will change,

the pain they caused

won't matter in the end.

Their legacy must be, can only be

the obtaining of deeper character

because we loved enough

to carry and hold the un-loveable

about the one we refer to as self.

Mind Search


life's full of them

they arise, no warning.

Time for the great search,

of mind, that is,

and how to do that?

Let's see,

a walk by the sea

away from the city's endless cacophony:

sounds good, I mean healthy, really

but sound is sound

and those thundering waves,

rushing up the rocky shore crashing

then sucking their drool after:

very distracting.

I sit long, pondering

on cold, wet log

deposited here, half buried

during a winter's storm,

and I watch those green waves roll in,

crash and rumble,

swish back, foam following.

It's just more noise, I think

but there seems to be a Voice

in this timeless tumult,

a specific set of words, a message?

Perhaps, yes,

and having accepted such possibility

I can hear it now.

“You can't get away to someplace

or somewhere special

to do mind searching.

Nor is there a special time:

it all takes place inside the mind,

inside you,

and it all takes place

all of the time. Are you listening?

As long as outside influences distract you,

you will never know your mind,

never discover the real you,

the one born to become

not just to be or to exist.”

It does not matter now what they say,

I know, like it or not,

that mind queries

are part of every moment

and every moment becomes a treasure.

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