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Excerpt for The Great Fear by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


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, Viktors Kozers

Bottom, Aleksey Shevchenko


All pictures found on FreeImages.com


Space Picture: ESA/Hubble


I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.

Contents


Foreword

Ancient Clothes

Does Love Still Work?

Freedom From Need

On Pure Energy

Perfection Unacknowledged

An Orgasm

Precocious Passion Passed

Essence Of Love

Of Distant Worlds My Heart Would Speak

Purpose

Questing Spirit

Summer Wind

Reaching The Light

The Castaway

The Last Salmon

The Military

Why The Pain?

What We Settle For

Worn-Out Coat

The Great Fear

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.

Ancient Clothes


A fire has raged through the village;

left nothing in its wake:

I find myself on the road, dazed,

naked and ashamed, thinking:

the Church will certainly condemn me

for I am naked!

Desperately I search for something

to cover my nakedness, but nothing.

Of the ancient clothes I had so proudly worn

none had survived the flames.


Then I looked around and saw

the Church too had crumbled to the ground,

so boldly I strode through the devastation

and others followed suit:

they shed their old, ragged, dirty clothes.


And thus freed, we came to realize

we were no longer ashamed of our bodies

for they were the only real clothes

we were meant to wear in love of life.


And thus freed, we came to understand

that clothing had been forced on us

to hide imputed sin by frustrated gods

who resented our innocence;

who hated our love of life

who cursed us and doomed us to die

in the beginning.


Hah! How fondly they had hoped

we would never remember those days -

but we are remembering;

we are awakening.

Does Love Still Work?


Waves drift

upon the shore;

their music touches my spirit,

expressing

an essence of

"love."


I feel I want to cast

"love"

throughout this world

to counteract the pain;

to ease the sadness

caused by so much error;

so much terror.


But I wonder if

"love"

can work any more

in this environment?

Can "love" heal

a world this far gone

beyond the edge of sanity?


I think not. I think

"love"

is no longer

the sweet virtue it once was.

I think it is but a prostitute

of porno mags

and TV ads.

I think it has sold

too many houses;

too many condoms,

too many movies,

and too many tires -

yes, that's it:

“love”

is too tired,

never likely to wake up

upon this world.

Freedom From Need


He needs to feel his arms wrapped around her;

to feel the warmth of her body in the embrace.

He needs to be convinced of her acceptance

of his physical attention

to deaden the insecurities;

to make his life complete--

yet it never is...

and he blames her for his emptiness of soul

and his need grows with time.


A wise man spoke to him one day:

"The greatest of all gifts

any two people can give to one-another

is freedom from need:

from possessing;

from holding;

from yearning;

for the touching and the embrace

at the end of the day,

stands on its own, allowing love's freedom

to create the eternal bond which replaces all need,

which cancels all fear!"

On Pure Energy


Are living things pure energy?

The answer seemingly obvious

is not.

All things originate from pure energy

yet all things transmute energy:

Is this energy still 'pure'?


Conceptually difficult to realize

for you and I are things also

and although they called it

“made in the image of God”

now we are but 'things'

and comprehend not at all

the transition underwent

as “the fall.”


See a flower: is it pure energy?

No. It is a child of Earth

and of the seed

from which it sprung.

all a part of the cycle of 'pro-creation.'


Energy creates the physical

and determines the mind realms:

all of it is still pure energy;

all of it fueled from Source

but now remains the 'thing'

which stands as a contradiction.


Life seems an imponderable

as we walk the shores of reality.

In her mists are hidden secrets,

events, yet un-lived, yet untold,

for we are matter, we are mind:

how to fathom the depths

of pure energy?

How to see that

which the Word has yet to speak?

Perfection Unacknowledged


Picture of perfection, as in a dream...

Who are you waiting for... or what?

What are you dreaming of?


Are you even aware

of the gentle beauty of your face;

the caressing softness of your silken skin?


But let me see what made me turn...

No, not your irresistible flesh,

but a glimpse at the backroads of your mind;

a moment standing at the crossroads of your heart,

seeing the you who lingers, wondering,

between waxing and waning realities --

the you who exudes perfection

yet chooses not to acknowledge this,

thus leaving a piece

of your perfect picture

missing.

An Orgasm


Why are sexual energies

so strong on this planet?

In the passion of the moment

a voice chuckled:

“Sexual energies are strong

because a human (usually)

happens from an orgasm.

(Test tubers and AI types

un-naturally do not count!)


And you still wonder why

you have problems?

What do you expect from

a misguided squirt?

You are orgasms gone wrong!


If more women learned

to not take so seriously

what a man pokes in fun

you could eliminate several

(quite obvious)

problems on this world.

Can you think of one?”

Precocious Passion Passed

(A Lament)


A colorless autumn field;

dried grass moving in the wind

waiting for the fire;

all that remains

of love once sown here.


We called this place our heaven:

a song-filled haven

where we hid

our sinful pleasures.


In the passion of Summer

it surely was,

but now smoke rises

as a different fire burns.


I watch

a hungry fire consume that past

until nothing remains

but blackened, barren ground

exposed to rain and wind.


I cry in silence,

knowing my tears can never bring back

summer’s sweetness

nor be enough to saturate the soil

and yet the floodgates open

and tears flow like rain

upon a thirsty soil.

Essence Of Love

(Empathy)


What is it we call “evil”?

That which some call “wrong”

but which is enjoyed by others?

That which some abhor

but others find necessary?


God is Love, some say,

yet a law of God demands death:

death by stoning no less

for a woman who gave birth

out of wedlock

and abandoned to her fate

by the man she loved!


To some, this is barbaric;

to some, this is a necessity;

to some, this is vindication.

How should we see this?

Horrible? Normal? Honourable?

It depends on one’s point of view.


How can we know what’s right;

what’s wrong?

Simple: through a sense of empathy;

we feel what we inflict on others:

within months; perhaps within days,

gratuitous violence would disappear.

Something to ponder.

Of Distant Worlds My Heart Would Speak

Of time, I cannot even speak

for truthfully, it is a meaningless measure

from then until now, how would we account it?

Of space, what can I say

of the parsecs we fled across, then re-crossed

ever searching for the ones we lost?

But of tears, though uncounted, uncountable

of those, yes, I could weave a tale indeed

for the ice of your comets is made of those.

The great sundering, how did it all begin?

What dark shadow, what unholy terror

suddenly swept throughout the outer worlds?

How innocent we were then; how unprepared

for such things to emerge from friendly space!

They came, first a vanguard, Others, friends,

so we thought for we knew of nothing else.

Into the minds of the weaker ones they entered

and there sowed fear, deceit, lies; covetousness.

We saw ourselves then, no longer beautiful.

We learned to hate, oh, so well, so utterly

but Them we did not hate, not then, not yet:

we feared and worshipped for we sensed their power.

Then came the Masters, and we served these from fear

for they were ever clothed in living flame.

We gave them our lands and they took our children

and so many were those we never saw again.

We swore allegiance to them; they taught us war

and skilled we became at shaping weaponry;

at bearing arms; and at killing? Masters in our own right.

In our fevered minds we saw shining, spinning worlds

and all we could think was, Go! Conquer them, enslave,

for the Lords want them as jewels for their crowns

and if we do not, they will wear our bones instead.

We did as we were bid, we flew the ships, we fought the wars;

we conquered, slaughtered, made ourselves rulers

on worlds that once had been our nighttime stars.

But their hunger nothing could sate

and their oppression became too heavy to bear.

We begged release, claimed we had served long

and served well, that we had earned our rest.

We asked to be returned to our world: how they laughed

to see us beaten, gloating over our despair upon learning

our world had been destroyed to make the weapons.

We turned our faces from these terrible Masters then

and walked away to our certain doom

for we knew they would never stop demanding more

of what we once so willingly gave without exception.

We knew they would come after us and if we did not fight

we would become as those we had enslaved in pits and mines.

Then we heard the voices of the lost ones

coming as it were from the forgotten outer worlds;

the voices of our children, the voices of our mates and mothers

a universal cry of woe we could not turn away from.

Instead, in rage we turned upon the Masters as one

and the fires of our struggles lit up space as Northern Lights

at times illuminates this planet's nighttime skies.

Came our final inevitable defeat and we fled, hiding in the darkness,

in the dreadful emptiness of unknown space and there, singly,

we sang a song. A song filled with so much woe and suffering

when it echoed among the frozen wastes,

these bled diamond tears into the void.

Not so much a place or space; not so much a time;

but a great loss yet to be made right.

And so we search, even today, even here,

and one by one we find the lost ones, we find you;

though no longer do you cry for you were seduced

by space, by time, and to you remains little, if any,

remembrance of distant worlds. Just empty words;

your thoughts, earth-bound, the graffiti of life.

Purpose


I'm sorry to be so blunt,

how long have you lived?


I've been here a long time

but I haven't lived yet.


I don't follow you there,

care to explain it to me?


I'm waiting for God to die

so I can fix this world.

Questing Spirit


Rising with the morning sun

my questing spirit soars,

hungry and keen sighted

as an eagle circling the dawn.


Here I enter a light dream,

walking weightless on soft moss

edging a greening meadow

and a gentle wind propels my spirit

to seek a new path of wisdom.


Here I taste of rejuvenation

to prolong my body's journey,

exchanging pain and sorrow

for joy outside of words..


Here, I celebrate the passing

of man's ancient night

and an aurora of light

flowing with ecstasy

awakens the vision within.


Here, I experience fully

the dawning of a new world

so long inaccessible

within hidden dimensions.

Summer Wind


Summer wind,

sweet

summer breeze

on a blue day

a white

fluffy day

gentle breeze

playing a song

I love to hear:

a song

of waves

on oceans I've

never seen;

of exotic trees

of places I'll

never know;

of sweet-scented pines

in deep-set canyons

where mighty rivers

thunder white;

of snow melts

in the high sierras;

of birds soaring,

of geese and eagles,

of the albatross:

I eagerly hold out

my spirit's hand

to receive your gift

and I learn

about a world

where all is

orderly,

peaceful,

gentle:

where all is

free:

a world that was...

(but so long ago,

how can I know?)

a world that will be

again.


For I learned this

in my wanderings

summer wind:

that your lovely gift

your touching song

is incomplete

without a measure

of

hope!

Yes,

you are strong

you are true

full of riddles

of parables

of stories

you can bring

two lovers

standing on a seashore

closer together

you can herd

the clouds

as sheep

placing the rainfall

where you will

yet

you cannot answer

my question

the question

eternal

I appreciate your gift

summer wind

but

let me add it

to my hope

that you and I

may be complete

together.

Reaching The Light


Angry, pushing and shoving,

and someone loses it:

what should I do

when this happens to me?

Return eye for eye,

curse for curse?


How easy it is to say “yes!”

Negative thoughts run swift

under the dark of the moon;

when shadows replace love

deep in the night...

and how much night there is here.


Who shall shine the light

when there is no light to see by?

Who will calm the angry one?

Who will embrace the stranger who staggers

under the weight of old fears?

Under the whip of oppression?


Who, if not me?

If I love only those who love me,

of what use is that

when no one remembers the victim?

When those who have

forget those who do not?


These are my feelings

expressed in mere words.

And how useless are words

if my life does not demonstrate

in how I live it.

The Castaway


There's a road that winds on and on,

forever, it seems

and she's flying over that endless centre line,

like the road, on and on...

Where to, woman?

Where are you flying to?

but she no longer needs to think about it

because now, it no longer matters:

she has no need for a home,

no need for friends or family.

She is the castaway --


self-proclaimed rebel of the universe;

nothing can stand in her way now

as she flies ever faster

until suddenly there it is:

the end of the line;

the end of the road.


She knows the most beautiful sight:

fulfills all imagination: her dream --

nothingness, pure, unthought

beckons and without hesitation

she joins

It.

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 Military


The military, as depicted by

its glossy ads:

as a great profession to get into,

of perks, bonuses, promotions and perhaps

a diploma or two for later use

Ah, the good life beckons.


Can a license to commit mass murder

be called a noble profession?

why give soldiers medals

and call them heroes

after killing innocent people

in some foreign land?

After blasting the earth

and destroying the environment?


Heroes, indeed! Who did they kill for?

The multinational corporation's profits;

for money, for numbers... for nothing

and when they return home

will they find that life here

has substantially improved?

Heroes? No.

At best: fools; at worst: psychopaths.

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?

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.

Worn-Out Coat


Years of taking, years of greed unchecked

leave a rich man's coat threadbare,

with open seams and little warmth.

Faced with bitter winter winds,

vulnerable, fearful, apprehensive,

the rich man does not part easily

with outmoded ways and worn-out rags.

He hugs himself in tattered remains

of pride and prejudice.


He shivers in bitterness,

knows the inevitable is nigh:

the cold winds of his dying ways

end his money-powered life:

the worn-out coat disintegrates

as a new sun unleashes it's warmth.


Survivors of his downfall,

who struggled; who did it with so little;

those denied the warmth and comfort

of the old winter coat in its prime

are thankful now they were not taken in

by false claims of earthly wealth

for now, in peace and comfort

they walk the shining new earth:


The rich man’s grave sprouts flowers

which children pick for their mothers.

The Great Fear


I look into a mirror

see my reflection looking back;

I feel a strange desire

to break through the mirror.

Doing so I enter another room

where another mirror is located

on the opposite wall...


Briefly, I look back,

see splintered reflections

of 'Me' from the shards

of the broken mirror;

those are the many fears.


I am sum-total of experience

passed through the mirrors:

but the great fear always

stares at me from that mirror

which does not permit even a glance

at what lies beyond,

that is it: the great fear

staring back at me, 'daring' me.


If I am backward looking,

I see but cuts and bruises

from my last mirror encounter,

so I hesitate, I wait

until shoved into the next one.


If I am innocent,

I plunge into the next one,

then I am filled with fear

when I see the blood all over:

but if I am wise, I self-heal;

begin another journey

across that room, to the next mirror

never knowing what lies beyond.





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