I had for my winter evening walk_
No one at all with whom to talk,
But i had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And i thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

We have blood on our hands Man!!
So much blood on our hands!!

Altruism, Mediocrity, Materialism and Superficiality
Our evolution,
Diving straight into a dark Abyss

Spiritual beings,
Born from sands Of OUR MOTHER EARTH we are
Who forget our roots, our definition.

Where is our intergrity?
Where is our respect?
Instead we turn around and RAPE her,
RAPE the one who has birthed us,
RAPE our Mother and wonder why
"Why the misery and pain God?"

We are numb in our tenements, the thick soot
Of prophesy makes a witch-hunt of the heart,
Shell shocked by absurdity, while a Caligula tweets
That the empire is fully restored in his name;
We have only learned the sorrow of repentance.

The children of No Kingdom are seduced,
Their spirits hang in the citadel of limbo;
The elders are shattered by the state of siege,
As the edicts to the whispering fear
Make hysterical headlines of the idiotic.

"were seen..wild beasts having claws like a Tyger" Shore Party of Abel Tasman, 1642

And so I came, to where the last had stalked,
in valleys dogged, through decades ending here;
by men skin cloaked, fearing that which walked
and soaked the blood rich ground they grew to fear.

A wild, and dark striped beast of dread repute,
supposed and deposed killer of all sheep;
was rendered here, to be forever mute
the final gunshot, ringing in the deep.

Churchill

Heaps of scrap piled high
Crumbling down
in the corners
Of everyone

All hands holding on
to single threads
He saw it clearly
And wove a tapestry

For duty
For lack of anyone
Despite his own battles
Distant dark shores

With words to endure
He said it would be okay
So it would be
So it was

The hurricane
not left to chance
By some butterfly
A prayer, a dance

I've walked upon the concrete trails
leaving not one footprint on it's gray
beneath thick floating high contrails.
I vist there but I don't stay.

These same trails lead to the suburbs
and homes laid out in tidy grids
with window boxes growing herbs
their lawns up filled with playing kids.

Then concrete sidewalks yield to shoulders
where grass grows green beside the roads;
traffic still growls like rolling boulders
carrying both freight and human loads.

Why the rush?
Why the hassle?
Why the frown?
The discontent

What are you after?
Where are you going?
Is it to a place
You don't want to be?

Is it for money?
Is it success?
Or is it some sort of
Sacrifice?

What are you after?
Where are you going?
And why do you look
So unhappy?

Being positive
Truly regenerative
Fine restorative

Quest of a shooting star

The sun has just set
but set me ablaze

from the distant horizon
it wanted me to erase
a light of spark
that I could have been
now I age

but folks
let me remain on the stage
as I have yet to age
says a dying sage

the shooting star is then fired
into nothingness
a message it conveys
sooner than later
you will also follow me
why then the delay