Chaotic Thoughts Read online

what if I let him kill me

  without fear or threat of retaliation?

  I feel the bullet rip through my flesh.

  I dream:

  My body lies on the pavement

  a subject of much scrutiny and concern

  by various members of the legal fraternity

  (I never raised that much interest

  in all my living days!)

  The gunman is arrested and taken away.

  I dream:

  As he sleeps in his cell awaiting trial

  the gunman dreams his own dream

  and thinks beyond base survival instincts

  to love, and what would that be like!

  He is touched by the sacredness of life

  and awakens from his life-long sleepwalk.

  I conclude:

  A passing that brings such a gift

  is not a death but a celebration.

  For he is now free to walk a new path:

  fear no longer rules his thoughts;

  the urge to kill no longer haunting

  the shadowy corners of his life.

  Was it a fair trade?

  Fighting Fire With Fire

  How long must we believe

  that justice can really be served

  by striking back, fist for fist...?

  Do we really need to defend ourselves

  against anything at all?

  Isn't there a universal law that says:

  he who inflicts pain on the innocent

  must receive the same in return?

  So what then should we do

  when faced with uncontrolled anger,

  with irrational hatred

  that threatens our very life?

  Fighting fire with fire

  only causes anger and hate

  to mould the world as its always been...

  Isn't it time we began to change,

  to return love for hate

  compassion for anger

  turning violence into gentleness

  hostility into friendship,

  filling all relationships with love

  so all may see others as friends?

  Finding Paradise

  There is a place in every city

  where one can get away

  from the clutter, the madness;

  a place where the air

  smells cleaner somehow;

  where birds sing songs of joy;

  squirrels chatter; coyotes roam

  and the sun shines

  through sparkling dew-covered webs;

  or stained-glass windows;

  where one hears whispers

  of the breeze through leaves;

  or chants of monks or voices of angels;

  where one finds peace, tranquillity,

  and forgets the world's problems

  if only for a few moments.

  Each city hides such a mystery:

  I know this; I have found one where I live;

  a place to get away

  when the system's stranglehold

  would choke my life;

  a place where I touch earth or heaven

  and from whence, renewed

  I can face the city's painful cries

  without losing my spirit.

  To some, it is called a park,

  and to some, it's sitting on the dock

  and to some, it's a candle-lit vault

  in an incense filled ancient church

  but it is always the same place...

  Free Of Problems

  Can we ever reach a point

  where unexpected vicissitudes

  no longer hound our days?

  The ominous storm is brewing closer

  and I stand alone

  at the edge of time, or so it seems:

  but is there salvation in time alone?

  Can we ever be free in hope

  of something sweet in the future?

  Can I escape the rain

  by wishing it away for another day?

  Dark clouds erase an azure sky;

  gale winds bow reeds and whip tree tops;

  pounding rains ride upon the winds;

  heavy showers pelt the ground:

  there is no cover here for my body.

  Cold and wet I come to realize

  this is the truth of now:

  whether the sun shone an hour ago,

  whether it will shine an hour from now,

  this moment is all I have:

  like it or not

  this 'present' is the key to life's door.

  Freedom

  I speak now of freedom;

  the 'freedom' to be with whomever you choose,

  to some is sacrilegious;

  they claim that THEY are better than that,

  and show their signed piece of paper, politicians

  proudly shove their partner of the moment forward,

  express the expected platitudes

  about "the wonderful little woman

  without whom I wouldn't be here"

  and "Oh, I'm so proud of him!"

  thus stating that because

  they are living in social approval,

  all's well with the world and someday, hopefully,

  a government with some guts

  will round up all those non-conforming

  perverts and kill them, they say

  so their children can grow up

  without having to look upon that horror...

  Of course, they don't let their children

  look under their mattresses at the "Playboys,"

  and they try not to talk too much of past

  failed marriages...

  and people casually picked up

  in the hotel bar when at those conventions,

  are never mentioned,

  because they see themselves

  as the ones that do no wrong.

  Government For The People

  Governments

  do expensive guesswork

  based solely

  on

  vague assumptions

  and

  unreliable data

  of dubious accuracy

  provided by

  persons of questionable

  intellectual capacity

  called appropriately

  the

  bureaucracy.

  We

  the people

  accustomed as we are

  to doing everything

  with so little

  for so long

  are now expected

  to do the impossible

  with nothing:

  i.e.,

  pay off a national debt

  we neither contracted for

  nor

  received anything from:

  baah! baah!

  We

  the sheep

  Grandfather’s Dream

  I feel Grandfather’s spirit

  in the wind that moves the branches,

  that flutters leaves of broad-leaved maple.

  I watch the sun rise over barren land,

  that was Grandfather’s farm,

  a farm he struggled to keep;

  by taking a job up north,

  by surviving with so little, for so long.

  Heavy equipment carve up the earth,

  fill the tranquil air with industrial noise,

  uproot the trees I once played in,

  destroy precious streams I once waded

  and washed my hands in.

  They build a “gated community”;

  a prison for the wealthy:

  was this what Grandfather envisioned

  when he bought this land long ago?

  Ruthless developers connive

  to leave the remaining family

  with empty pockets and broken hearts:

  was this the work of the universe

  unfolding as it should?

  I will remember the years

  I was connected
with the life

  that was this sacred place.

  I will remember the simple things

  that awakened me to greater knowing.

  I’ll drift away from here

  to dream a better, greater dream.

  Humans Not Of Earth

  Drillers of liquid black gold,

  miners of shiny diamonds or black coal;

  builders of glass penthouses above the clouds,

  collectors of crucified butterflies:

  Who are you who cannot feel?

  You pollute your water and your air;

  blow up big holes in the gentle soil;

  you kill this and that at will

  with a legal permit for show and tell:

  who are you whose touch is death?

  You destroy a living world

  as if you had a home to return to,

  not plundered; not abused, not diseased

  somewhere in the vast universe.

  Who are you to be so smug?

  When this Earth lies in rack and ruin;

  when you lie gasping for air and water;

  will your alien parents sweep down

  in shiny mother ships to rescue you?

  Who are you to be so blind?

  Aliens on this planet is who you are;

  children of pirates, thieves and murderers:

  you have not changed; you have not learned -

  this world no longer abides your presence:

  Pray the ships are not long coming!

  And pray your ancient worlds

  were not destroyed by others just like you

  when they passed by...

  I Want More

  Why do we want a job?

  Or need a job?

  What is the motivation in the quest;

  in staying with this labour?

  Some would say "lucky"of the one

  who finds and holds a job

  that gives both enjoyment and satisfaction;

  when positive energy flows out of the effort;

  when it seems society even benefits

  from such work.

  And luckier, indeed, if it pays well...

  But if success becomes the driving force;

  when the work pays greater dividends

  and possessions, prestige, power

  accumulate as a result,

  how quickly the motivation changes

  from one of "I would give more"

  to one of "I want more!"

  In our society, 'tis not the labour

  that's counted as valuable

  but the amount of money it returns:

  for success is counted in money earned,

  not in satisfaction received,

  much less in gratification given.

  Forgotten are the lessons of the past:

  that one's honor is tied directly

  to one's willingness to serve.

  If Only, If Only

  If we could

  see the sun shining

  beyond the pettiness of our "happy" days.

  If we could

  feel the tranquillity

  of a mountain day in Fall.

  If we could

  sense the cleansing

  of a passing storm in Winter.

  If we could

  experience peace

  near a blue-green mountain lake,

  would we not come to realize

  the presence of nature

  always within us

  despite the raucous claims

  of our man-made traps?

  If we could

  abandon our fears, our doubts,

  our reliance on

  anthropomorphic "gods"

  wrapped in assorted false laws.

  If we could

  cast off as outworn clothing

  our human pride