Poetry, Reflections, Visions

“Convergence…” (From the Book of Other)

I offer this post to Sha’Tara, in explanation, as an example of, the kinds of entries I might discover in the Book of Other.  I found it in my draft folder here, where there are currently some 22 unpublished posts.  It was “dated” June of last year, a useful bit of information made possible by the medium itself…

But, like so many such entries, I don’t “remember” writing it, though I clearly recognize it as “mine.”  The word choice, metaphors, the rhythym itself, all sound like “me,” but the memory of writing it is gone.  The tone, itself – light-hearted and whimsical – sounds like a different “me” entirely, which it most likely was.  I was clearly reaching out across the timelines, attempting to communicate with my Others, and I was describing the same Center Space as in my previous post.  The Crossroads is another frequent metaphor for describing the place, one favored by a different version of self…

And it is encounters like this that explain why the “powers that be” chose to label me schizophrenic in the first place. Lol!  And perhaps they were not wrong, after all…


Standing at the crossroads


not expecting or anticipating…

but waiting nonetheless.

And here they come, like happy children

skipping down the paths toward me…


thoughts and feelings gathering here…

to be incorporated into the family tree.

They come in waves, and crowded rushes

and some arrive individually…

all related…

and connected to the Whole that is Me.

Are they merely thoughts and feelings?

Transitory and epheme?

Or something more compelling?


Comprising parts of me…?

The cells of my body

speaking to me…

of individuality…

of interconnectivity and healing…

Much work left to do here,

before we are free to leave.

Gathering the missing pieces


of things not yet in play…

Converging in this place of peace…

Emerging in every breath I take.

And so I speak, and pay no heed

to whether or not

anyone else is even listening.

Poetry, Reflections

“Murky Vision…”

I open my eyes wide

but I cannot see

through the miasma surrounding me.

It is dark here today –

corrupt and polluted –

so that only hazy outlines stand out from the gloom…

Like silt stirred up from watery depths

to obscure what lies beneath

while sun reflects off surface waves quite brilliantly…

For One who seeks a clearer path

there is none now to see

for murky is the way of chaos

and vision fails spectacularly…

Poetry, Reflections


I stand alone, within a crowd


Calming breaths, burrowing roots

still my restless self.

Every ounce of fortitude

every spark of will

every bit of discipline

required to rein Me in…

Now a statue, not stone, but flesh

my focus turns without.

To see the world pass me by

unmoved by my existence.

In every face, despair

In every voice, fear

In every life that passes

a story of distress.

For chaos rules the world today

and wicked winds of change.

Perhaps, if I can hold my ground,

my life would feel more sane…

But even here, unmoving,

reality seeks its claim…

Lightning strikes me from above,

attacks quite unanticipated.

Raging cyclones chip away

at balance, strength, and certainty.

And flocks of birds fly overhead,

to defecate quite purposely…

Yet here I stand, immobolized,

completely unprovoking…

So how am I to name this space?

What judgment comes to mind?

How can I explain this?

Or justify my time?

Is standing still the least destructive

for me and those nearby?

Or should I slip into the flow

let chaos be my guide?

Hanging on or letting go,

the difference is extreme.

So, caught between the consequences

Immobile I remain.


Poetry, Reflections, Visions

Tangled threads…

Sitting at the Loom of Fate,

weaving a destiny I choose to create,

I notice…

Old threads are coming loose, fraying,

unravelling the past I built.

I reach over, hoping to minimize the loss

but the holes are already forming

the damage done by time, man or moth.

Or all of the above…

So I refocus on today, and what’s ahead,

the pattern sweet and true,

only to discover knots in both the red thread and the blue.

Sighing deeply, frustration raging,

I calm my spirit, and focus my mind.

“I can fix this,” I tell myself,

“just take it one thread at a time.”

And so begins the process of detangling tiny threads,

ever so gently teasing the knots apart,

so as not to weaken them.

But my eyes grow tired with the task,

and my hands begin to cramp…

I wonder if I can weave them in,

without ruining the final product.

“That would be cheating,” I tell myself,

“and lazy, too…

“Is that how you want the future to remember you?”

So I sit back to take a break

and another thought occurs…

“What happens if I just walk away?

“Right now, without delay?

“Will anyone notice?  Does anyone care,

“if I never finish weaving my own fate?”

With the past unravelling,

and the future unwoven,

now might be the perfect time to quit.

Let obscurity claim my name,

and simply clean my slate.

And I will never have existed,

apart from All-That-Is;

I will not have lived or died

or suffered, endured, triumphed or lost.


once the remnants have dissolved.


So tempting is that thought…

I turn back to my tangled threads

as I contemplate the cost…

Poetry, Reflections

“The Pillar…”

A pillar stands before me –

plain, white stone.

Unremarkable in every way,

except for the attention it has drawn.

No markings, no decorations,

not holding anything up;

just standing there, alone,

upon an unremarkable bluff.

I can see the top, easily enough.

I can wrap my arms around it.

But when I try to move it,

the pillar does not budge.

I count this as significant,

the only thing it does –

standing like a pillar

upon a lonely bluff…



Two opposing forces meet,

matching strengths and wits,

“rubbing each other the wrong way”,

as they struggle to convince.

Caught up in a conflict

that neither side can win;

carrying on incessantly

because neither side will “give.”

And what is to be gained from this constant state of friction?

But a “rounding of the edges” (a muting of conviction)…

And a spark to light the conflagration

that will consume this competition!

Poetry, Reflections


Tossed to the roadside

left to die…

Like garbage from another time.

Pushed aside, out of sight

out of mind…

Irrelevant am I…

So who am I?

Who am I you left to die?

Who am I you pushed aside?

Who am I?

You decide…

Am I pride, dignity, or hope?

Trust or faith?

Reason, responsibility, humility perhaps?

Conscience, purpose, or justice?

For all of these are now abandoned,

drained of their power to motivate

and empower…

What then is left?

So… who am I, left here to die?

Whose relevancy has been pushed aside?

You decide…

Am I humanity,

and the planet on which we reside?

Or am I greed,

and the system on which it relies?

You decide…

Knowing no answer is an answer this time…

For abandonment is an action,

passive or aggressive,

the results will be the tide

that wipes away our history…

Tossed to the roadside

left to die

the garbage from another time…