Excerpt for The Question, The Quest by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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: Janusz Gawron

Picture found on

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.



The Question, The Quest

Flight Of Stares

A Place Of Beauty (Revisited)

Follow The Mermaids

A Very Sad Tale In Rhyme

As Long As Rivers Flow

Ask And Ye Shall Have


Divine Master

Elk Mountain

Finding Happiness


Exotic Dancer


Gentle Angel

Heart Of Gold


Look Upon...

In Silver Drops


Is Life Just An Illusion?

It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago


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.

The Question, The Quest

We search for deeper experiences,

no longer satisfied to just be;

transcending our own animal acceptance,

we splinter reality: what do we create?

We set “The Question” in motion.

From our fevered quest,

an overflow of new thoughts emerges;

on perfections and imperfections we dwell

balanced precariously as on a pinnacle of rock

centered within a shoreless stormy sea.

Assailed by a mind unbound

as wild gods we search the unmanifest,

drawing meaning from holographic images.

So much confusion, pain, sorrow,

The Question has unleashed within -

but why should that be so?

That question is easily answered:

our primary search pattern or quest

is bound up in intangibles of faith and hope and love

and to understand this we must know

the taste of our own experience

stored within a treasure trove of feelings.

A mountain goat will stand still for hours,

upon some precarious ledge,

waiting, observing, thinking

while its world lies at its feet;

of canyons and crags and pathless ways.

Flight Of Stares

A long line of stares,

gazes intent and probing.

She wonders:

Is a woman’s life

enduring endless stares?

Are we like endless flights of stairs;

and do we all have the same design?

Or do some have a supporting framework

with balusters and rails;

are some patterns spiral,

with no light structure serving as a guard;

or zigzag, with landings

to pass from one level to another;

or are some just in a straight line;

and are these the really lucky men

who find us accommodating

like a steady escalator?

And, she wondered some more,

what about me? Do I possess

my own escalator?

A Place Of Beauty (Revisited)

Create an island

where waterfalls of joy,

tumble into blue pools

and call that 'peace;'

where indigo nights

pierced with fiery stars

intensify the velvet beauty

of dark jungle leaves

entwined around a tabernacle:

a snowy mountain top:

call that 'home.'

In the sudden awareness

of deep sleep

creative thoughts flow


Re-create the moment

that passed by unheard;

that was lost yesterday

behind the blare of a commercial.

From your dream,

find focus,

discover passion

and dare create

a new reality:

call that 'tomorrow.'

Follow The Mermaids

The land dries up like an autumn leaf

as freeways string their endless traffic

beyond a fading gray horizon

where once proud, shining mountains

wear a shroud of everlasting smog.

In rivers parched for water

fishermen trouble shallow currents

to snag helpless, passing, dying fish

cast from waterless spawning channels

as boats churn up what’s left

of the liquid mud upon the shores.

Wherever red eyes turn to stare,

the blight of urban sprawl extends:

no green field or rolling meadow

but high-rises, condos, malls and factories

raise their spectral faces from the maze

through thickening afternoon haze...

Once upon a time in the past

things did come to such a state

and hope, from desperation, heard

the mermaids calling from afar:

many were those who heard their song,

few were those who listened,

fewer still those who dared follow.

It takes a brave soul to venture forth

boldly upon the unknown,

following mermaids through the waves

to jagged, forbidding rocks jutting

just outside the edge of time

but what became of those who stayed?

They are but unknown statistics

of Atlantis crumbling into an ancient sea,

of Mesopotamia drowning below raging waters,

of Crete bleeding under its frescoed ruins,

of old Egypt sleeping under restless sands

where the Sphinx no longer speaks

and the mermaids’ song is but a whisper.

A Very Sad Tale In Rhyme


I was walking through a very nice wood

which is what I proclaimed as loud as I could

when they all objected as I knew they would

and to stop listening I pulled up my hood.


There came a pink train with a car or ten

at what time you ask, well I don't know when

and you should know this did not happen then

but only after all the pigs got locked in their pen.


The pink train huffed and puffed at a pretty pace

and of its passage it left not one trace

save that on my left shoe was a broken lace

which wither I pulled I could not unlace.


A puffing came the train rounding a hill

the noise from its whistle came out rather shrill

while round about the land stood solemn and still

and the ticket-master introduced himself as Bill.


Out came a thousand tickets in great fanfare

as the ticket-master punched and said, 'beware!

I can spot a fake ticket, or even a silly pair'

and scowling he said, 'fool me if you dare'


Now came the station as pretty as you please

and round-about the land was a bowl of green peas

so inviting it seemed, as for to give great ease

when a great buzzing came, as from a million bees


A man in a black hat stepped boldly forward

and said, if you please, my name is Edward

had you paid attention, at the start you'd have heard

this is my train, I travel with my bird.


Said a green parrot who just loved to be heard,

'he travels with his bird, he travels with his bird,

not always the same bird, you see I'm the third

and of green feathers you can see I'm gird.'


The pretty station stood at the bottom of the vale

which if you know your history is much like a dale

and there lay the train neither hearty nor hale

So we come to the end of this very sad tale.


This story of course has a very good moral

much as some seas have islands of coral

and if this could talk the moral would be oral

and as for the writer, what but a crown of laurel?

As Long As Rivers Flow

As long as rivers flow,

stones will continue to tumble,

wear away their outer coats

revealing the endless stories

of their watery journeys

across the earth's mantle.

Somewhere, always,

they blend into a shore,

reveling in a mosaic of colours

a library of stories yet to be read.

It is here, always here,

the man of vision walks

pondering the passages of times;

It is here, always here,

that he carefully reads the script,

the saga of Earth's changes.

It is here, always here,

that barefoot and gentle

he sees the very best of his dreams

unfold freely in crystal waters...

Ask And Ye Shall Have

I decided

as a child of God

an heir

(that's right!)

to all that is good

that it was time

I asked for the

u l t i m a t e gift

I want love.

Not 'loves'

there are so many

I 'd get confused

remain thirsty.


primordial unblemished

complete 'Absolute'

it must be quite obvious

that only God

(the Creator)...

you know,

the One who made you

the One you hate

to hear about?...

can give that love

I seek so brazenly

(how else?)

I went to Him

and asked for love:

what do you think?

that He was angry with me,

foolish human,

sinner dying hunk of flesh

that he held his nose

and rolled his eyes

and laughed

at my temerity,

and threw a thunderbolt?

or pretending to sleep

ignored my plea?

No, he didn't.


Let's all be willing today

to take off our shoes

and walk barefooted

in the morning dew!

Let's learn to enjoy

the tickling of earth's skin

beneath our tired feet

kissing the earth gently,

leaving no permanent mark

from our reverent passing

and new life may spring

even in a human footprint!

Let's even dare to run nude

under undulating branches,

enjoying a morning shower,

laughing with the birds

as leaves gently caress

our tingling skin!

Let's learn to respect

our earth as a lover

and we will always return

from this experience with life,

cleansed, refreshed and wiser!

Let's ask ourselves, today,

why we are so fearful

of enjoying a life

so freely given?

Divine Master

If, as some so boldly claim

we are divine masters,

there is but one way I can see

to experience this unusual idea.

That would mean:

live a kind, gentle and loving way;

be willing to see beyond

the childish ways of society;

beyond the fear and selfishness.

What does a divine master do,

but bring fire to a cold hearth;

set a light within pervasive darkness?

Teach anyone willing to hear

that whatever they may have done,

wherever they may have been,

to brighten the darkened corners;

to view enemies as neighbours

and neighbours, with love!

The task at hand is pretty simple:

heightening spiritual awareness

to new levels of understanding.

There is but one tool that can do this,

but one key that fits this door

and I call it... compassion.

Elk Mountain

In the first splash

of dawn-coloured hills,

the enchantment begins.

Through my portal of desire

I enter the forest,

beyond my senses.

The path I follow,

trod by angels' feet,

brushed lightly by angels' wings,

filled with angels' laughter!

Beauty accompanies my heart;

love buoys my spirit;

joy cries to be recognized.

Dappled hues brighten

a peach-toned sunrise;

morning mists dissipate

in laughter and dew drops sparkling

a diamond on every little finger!

Here is the full glory announcing

a new mountain summer day.

Finding Happiness

It is a warm and sunny day,

a hiking in the hills kind of day:

as I give in to my pleasure and climb over a fallen log

I have this thought: Why am I not down in the city

mowing my lawn and hacking dandelions?

Do I not want my yard to look impeccable?

Do I not want to impress others?

I notice my clothing: the latest fashions

in climbing gear? Not!

What will the yuppy crowd think of me?

I realize I left without my dose of morning “news”

- don't I care what happened in the dark of the night?

As I ponder this, I hear the trees whisper:

“Life is not about making lots of money,

or being pumped full of fear by “bad news,”

or wearing the latest fashion joke,

or having the nicest looking yard in town.

Look at nature and how things just are.

The man-made toys you buy will not make you happy

not even for a short while! They create fear:

the dread fear of losing them, or seeing them

become as obsolete as those who chase them.

Like lingering snow in Spring desire for things melts away

leaving you wallowing in the mud of self-pity:

now you need something else to satisfy

on the endless treadmill of buy and lose

Where is happiness really found?”


The unreality

of man-made environments

leaves us stale and pale!

Too many pretend cures

prevent nature

from taking its healing course

in its ever changing winds;

its magnetic wings

that once did make us strong.

Have we stopped evolving?

Are we just revolving?

Must some stray comet

hearing the earth's cry

collide with her

to cleanse her body of humanity?

Such an ordeal

could make some wiser;

the rest who rely so heavily

on their human inventions

and interventions

will simply fade away

in the comet's dusty trails.

Exotic Dancer

Crimson and blue she glimmers upon her stage;

moving gracefully,

undressing slowly

as men sigh at the sight of her,

so beautifully made, so temptingly shaped.

She must not think of this place as a hell

as a life of emptiness

to cling to for sustenance and survival

in the stench of stale beer and reek of smoke

as the only memories she takes

to her next gig: No!

She knows within her Goddess heart

she is a well from which men drink

to quench their thirst...

a safe, allowing place to feed

the hunger in their hearts...

With her nude beauty she satisfies

if only for that moment

the greatest yearning a man can feel;

the burning to see love, naked to the eyes:

a beautiful woman in her natural state,

expressing herself without shame

or burden of guilt: Yes!

This is what she must remember to keep her going...

what gives her the deepest pleasure;

what makes her hold on to the respect due her

for her selfless gift of love...

and this is the way I choose to see her,

my goddess upon her throne!


Filling dreams without time,

love's eternal presence

out of a world gone mad

I watched you and learned

(I think you were pleased).

I followed you into a stream:

you bent down to touch the fish

with healing hands

and where your hands moved

the water sparkled, diamond-like

as in edenic days, so long gone;

from your breath spring burst forth

a magic moment in shades of green!

You beckoned tenderly to me:

eagerly, expectantly, I followed you

to the river's edge and together

we danced on swirling waters!

I thought to laugh then, with abandon:

in the joy of this sacred moment,

happy, unencumbered, forever young

tiptoeing on eddies, with only you

and the world I knew faded

it seemed forever

...but when I came closer

and saw your gentle, knowing face:

tears filled your eyes.

Gentle Angel

Gentle angel

ancient being of children's dreams,

comforter of the afflicted

cradling the dying in tenderness:

you follow our meandering paths

throughout our fitful lives;

listening to our ignorance,

washing our endless cursings

in a sea of tears.

Though you turn your head in sorrow

you cannot ward the blows

our insults throw at you,

for you are the cosmic empath

the one who for companion,

chose love

before it all began.

Heart Of Gold

Did you ever hear the song

"Searching for a heart of gold"?

I may have found one,

on the street of this town.

There lives a woman,

a philosophical woman

whose heart is as pure

as a mountain stream;

her thoughts as fresh

as an Autumn storm.

She sees the world differently

and I will always remember

her simple words:

"Everyone has a gift

to offer a hungry world,

a seed to plant in another heart.

Do so,

and before long,

this world will be transformed:

if you would see love,

sow love,

for whatever you sow

that shall you certainly reap."


One sunny day Dad said "Lets go hiking."

I made 'the' face:

"Don't you like hiking son?"

frowned his authority my way.

"Oh yes" I replied quickly,

(my dad was a military man!)

but aside I thought:

"Hiking's just fine

it's all that damn walking

that spoils it all!

So if you can find a way

we can get to the top

without all the trouble

of the in-between walk,

to eat a bit of dried up bread,

and drink a cup of warm water,

I'll go hiking with you

and make you proud!"

I never said it aloud;

I walked the 16 miles;

didn't complain about the blisters

the mosquitoes or the flies!

Don't ask me if it was worth it!

Twenty years later though we don't walk,

dear dad and I still talk.

Look Upon...

Is your heart troubled

by ancient thoughts, angry, confused, dark?

Is your heart cold

to the pain that surrounds you, discordant, disconnected,

as if not of your own heart?

Do you still look upon your world

as something other than yourself, separate?

Does your mind

desire to strike out in anger, in violence, in me-eaness

giving back hurt for hurt?

A long time ago, you learned that way

man's old way,

claiming, taking, fashioning, raping, never creating:

the way of endless death...

It seems right, when no other is known

but now, you're at the crossroads:

your love for me brought you here

and now, you must understand, choose:

accept -- or reject.

Look into my eyes

if your heart is troubled, unable to decide:


I show you the very first way

as the worlds were made from what seems not,

from love, and nothing else

for we had nothing else to work with then

and we still refuse to work with anything else:

Look into my eyes

and absorb my wisdom, my love, my life

join me in my cosmic dance: come

cry with me, laugh with me, die with me

and live

child made for joy!

In Silver Drops

In silver drops

falls the Autumn rain

pattering delicately happy

on slowly swaying branches

and faintly rustling leaves...


in the peaceful verdant prairie

a mighty weeping willow tree

sways and rocks silently

at the warming touch

of a gentle breeze

In silver drops

falls the Autumn rain

each tiny ephemeral diamond

hangs daintily from leaf and bud

each tiny evanescent crystal globe

reflects the million smiling faces

in velvety grayness of drooping skies

and silky greenness of a resting land

Attracted by the mild and misty hush

a slender naiad leaves her river home

glides to a topmost branch and sits

contentedly combing her gossamer hair

singing a song of love softly

as the Autumn rain falls

in silver drops.


I gaze upon a restless sea

and wonder sadly,

as I seek to rediscover

the poet within,

"Why can I feel whales

in graceful dances moving

to a driving joy

of powerful inspiration,

when for me

such exists no longer?"


I long to open my spirit,

to gaze out once more

through windows of inspiration!

With my entire life

I would express

ancient poetic sounds,

bringing forth in life

tears, sighs and laughter,

setting free

the poet within,


the people without!

Is Life Just An Illusion?

What makes some say

life is but an illusion?

Why do some insist

a pile of garbage

is as beautiful or meaningful

as a tree waving in the breeze

or a peach sunrise between peaks?

And why should I think

that such beliefs

imply someone is wiser than I?

The voice in the breeze whispers:

they are not wise at all,

just lacking passion

or beaten down by life's vicissitudes.

They make themselves believe

that none of it matters at all,

that it is all the same in the end,

to justify a small and lonely existence

on a world they cannot understand.

May they come to appreciate

the beauty that you see here,

and may they come to realize

they have the same mirror

in their own heart.

It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago

A black sky reluctantly reflects faded lights:

it could be harbinger of an icy Prairie drizzle

or maybe a blizzard of snow, who’s to say

all he knows for certain is

it’s all the colder because this is the city

and it’s only been a month since he left the country

when the leaves were turning red and yellow

and through denuded hedgerows one could see

the combines hungrily searching for late harvests.


Without plan he walks along a poorly lit street,

unsure, thinking perhaps he shouldn’t be there at all

thinking also that not being there would mean

not hearing, or seeing; not observing

and remaining ignorant of a way of life

billions experience, endure and he knows nothing of.


He passes a bar, a drunk staggers past him,

he dances out of his swaying path

to be rewarded with a round of curses,

Get used to it he thinks to himself under an uncertain light,

‘it’s the city, don’t let it intimidate,

and forget the ‘always ready to offer help’

for although they need it, they don’t want it

for they are afraid, and their fear has turned to anger:

a black, involuntary anger cultured in blind hatred.


He passes an apartment, a man is yelling at a door,

pacing the wet cement walk on the ground floor. 

A woman shouts obscenities and a child wails.

Lewd swearing accompanies verbal threats;

a door slams and the man backs away,

turning slowly back toward the bar—his second home

and in that moment he becomes a leaning shadow

beside a creosoted power pole—the unseen watcher

hands clenched tightly, heart full of tears

watching the drunk going to keep faith with his bottle.


He walks on into sprawling suburbs of row houses

that all look the same silhouetted in the dark,

stunted trees and shrubs creating ambiguous shadows

on dried-grassed lawns waiting to hide under snow.

A dog barks behind a fence, a cat hisses and snarls,

and on the far side of the river a whistle blows

a shift change at the brewery.


Further along the broken sidewalk

and frost heaved pavements of un-kept streets

a row of slum-lord housing outfaces him,

dark phantoms protecting their sleeping ghosts

for another night—if no one comes by, if no one shoots.

A light smell of garbage endures the cold,

mixed with spilled gasoline fumes from a wreck

without front wheels or doors—a sad old Buick

that has already told a story no one remembers

until now—for he listens and it tells him

of the drugged up teens in the back seat

and the engendered child—now dead.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger walked a city’s cold-shouldered streets

and sought to see into the heart of the people,

but found only fear and rejection.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger turned from the city’s unfriendly streets,

looking for other places where the people lived

but everywhere he went he found the people

busy building another part of the city,

buying and selling shares in corporate misery.


It was at that time and long, long ago

that the stranger left the city with a sad sigh,

returning to the country where he died quietly

just before the people came with another section of the city

to establish themselves in depravity

and when they burned down the farmhouse

they also burned his diary and his notes.

they also burned his diary and his notes.

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