It's All About Your Future Read online

About Your Future

  Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

  (in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)

  Copyright (©) 2017 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

  Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

  Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

  Cover pictures by: Top, Alfred Borchard

  Bottom, Barun Patro

  All pictures found on FreeImages.com

  Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

  I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.

  Contents

  Foreword

  A Man—A Survivor

  A Path Maker

  A Very Sad Tale In Rhyme

  Against The Wind

  Embarrassed

  Lady Marion, Lady Joy

  Box Store Vision

  White

  Who Are The Dead?

  My Beloved

  No Tears

  Oneness

  Outlook On Life

  Reaching The Light

  Did I Get That Right?

  The Gift

  Embrace All (Don’t Be Shy!)

  Dreams

  The Immune System

  Against Time

  Body

  Elk Mountain

  I Dream Of Tara

  It's All About Your Future

  Ixioca-Li

  In My Search

  Losing Sight

  Asters

  Sand To Sand

  The Potter's Hands

  Release!

  It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago

  Losing

  Melody

  Tears In The Rain

  The Tree

  Toaster

  To Vote Or Not To Vote

  Troubles Of Mind

  A Living Entity

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

  Winds Of Eternity

  Living In

  The Sea

  Time

  Waging War On Society

  Wild River

  Will That Be Dust Or Ashes?

  Woman Of The Sea

  Wisdom Speak

  Prayer Of The Innocent

  Worn-Out Coat

  You Took My Money, Where's My Cure, Doc?

  Tears In The Wind

  No More Secrets

  Speak To Me Or Do Not

  Future Child

  The Sacrifice

  Too Early Spring

  What Does God Mean?

  Who Cares?

  Before All Ends

  Two Storms

  Love

  Wistful

  Wind Dancer

  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.

  A Man—A Survivor

  A strange old man, a very ancient figure,

  that’s who he was, who he is.

  A man of many titles in as many times:

  poor Bill, mendicant, beggar and tramp.

  At times,

  panhandler, good-for-nothing loafer,

  deadbeat, vagrant, hobo, gypsy

  and in more recent times,

  a welfare bum.

  Sometimes this strange man

  comes back from the sea,

  sometimes from the wars or prison:

  no one comes to the quays to meet him

  and to hug him. Alone

  carrying a damp and dirty canvas bag

  he limps down some dark alley

  to find a familiar den,

  a smoke-filled tavern, an inn.

  For a few coins, a room under a stairway

  a garret with drafty shutters

  become his home ‘til the angels come

  or the demons, but who can ever tell?

  Sometimes he just gets tired of jostling

  for position and wealth—leaves one night

  never to come back. What for?

  His wife re-marries, but does he care?

  Who’s to know? Not even he

  wandering the drafty city streets

  with his new title and essential wealth.

  He’s a successful miner now,

  mining garbage for treasures

  carefully arranged in a rusty shopping cart

  (of missing front and bent wheel

  from an accidental encounter with a taxi)

  until deposited for safekeeping.

  They call him “homeless” now—the

  politically correct term

  for this strange old man who never did fit,

  who in his youth had a strong back

  to break up the coal, carry gear and pack a rifle

  walk through flooded paddies

  and burn babies in their mothers’ arms

  inside grass huts in a land so far away.

  He knew well enough then why he did this:

  for God and country and freedom

  they’d told him and he believed.

  He came back from the killing fields

  to log the dark green hills

  until the trees were gone.

  He cleaned out curbs and culverts

  for a pittance in part time jobs

  to bolster free enterprise and capitalism.

  “It’s all good” they said with a leer

  and what could he do but believe?

  He doesn’t remember much of that

  and really, what does it matter now?

  the rich got richer and died,

  the dead remain dead

  and he’s got his place

  behind four loosened cement bricks

  under a bank where he keeps his valuables,

  drinks, sleeps and feeds his nightmares

  of bullets and blood, of flames that roast flesh,

  of screams of pain and terror:

  endless screams—the voices of the dead.

  Until it’s time to work the streets again,

  push the rusty cart with the one bent wheel

  until the angels return again

  or the demons, and who’s to know?

  He’ll be there again tomorrow

  and the day after that

  and the day after the Great Day

  there he will be in his dirty tattered rags

  his long stringy hair blowing wildly

  in the cold, cold winds that haunt

  the endless noisy, dirty, drafty city streets

  and who knows what his title will be

  next time I pass him trying not to notice?

  I think I already know this, in my heart

  as I look around and ponder this place:

  he’ll be a survivor.

  A Path Maker

  A path maker,

  beats a track in deep snow,

  walking to, then fro,

  so older ones,

  those not so sure of foot,

  smaller of stature,

  or a woman with child in arm


  can get through without stumbling.

  In his dream, the path maker

  helps people along their own way;

  he extends a helping hand,

  a kind thought,

  offers an encouraging word

  to make a memory from a smile...

  I realize how each individual

  must walk his own path.

  This does not mean, however

  one cannot place a few markers

  along the trackless void.

  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?

  Against The Wind

  She was born to run against the wind;

  knowing naught of walking lightly

  in silken nightgown on a morning breeze.

  Mother said: girl, you make it happen

  no one else does it for you...

  and she became a believer.

  No stepping back from life's thrust,

  no time to create a peaceful, tranquil space

  where uplifting thoughts could flow

  to people her nights and fill her days.

  A child was born to