Category Archives: Creative Writing

The Journey

AnSurBir didn’t bother listening to the rest of the trans-byte from Squad Circle Zeta. The talk from his pod was relentless – even during his Bei Dai time: “Caution, Sur – history and survival is at stake!” Snorting blaze breaths of green anxiousness, he thought, “Was he not the elder eight times removed from the Great Crawl? Calming himself, his blow slits flared; his skin changing texture to receive the coating filaments that would nourish his organs, he became lost in the sounds notching the time of departure. The great engine flared to fire; the ship shuddered ever so gently; Bei Dai slowly engulfed him. His last thought was how would those upon that green/blue world greet them?


Copyright (c) 2017 Roads, Paths, & Trails. All Rights Reserved


Wishful Thinking

Give him some days to gaze upon the week; a few hours to while-away his minutes. In time, he will realize the years of silence born out of his existence of being alone was futile. And out of the mist of nocturnal daydreaming, he will finally grasp the timeless maze of love.

A Meadow’s Heart

From which eye sight will your wonders unfold? To bring you the world in tinted dreams. Clear and bright it will be placed in your path. But for the clouds that fog your heart, your mind would be divine.

Easily bloom the flowers; colors glorious, sighing in the breeze. Warmth humming in your touch, ears singing songs; the grace of the day shifts thoughts to times you must speak of how heaven senses life and love.

Shudder when earth’s rain soothes your skin’s passion; yet fires the soul of youthful dancing – prodding you to blossom full-spirit as one with another; giving rise to our time-worn search of love crying for a life-to-life so dear.

Arise oh sweet day with your siren’s song; bring forth the jewels of harmony, rush the morning moods like a newborn babe that gurgles innocently of the life that promises pain. Rest thy crown upon the breast of peace; know yourself, yet be kind.


Copyright (C) “Rainbows and Waterfall Men” – Roads, Paths, & Trails. All Rights Reserved

Star stuff and God dust

When you wish upon a star, are you praying to god or God? Is it from the heart or your mind that you hope for an answer? Are they one and the same in time?

We come from star stuff say some wise folk. Others preach from dust we come and dust we go. Many wonder at the nature of life; so short does it shine – gathering within it time sublime while blind minds feast with no rhyme. Is there fire in the soul for both sights to please?

Out there, out there – in deep time somewhere – dare we dream of the journey of our beginning? Does that mean we start at the end; how should we compare? Will we know the peace of life that spills from within us? Shall we just bask in the dust sprinkles golden with truths many say we must.

When you wish upon a star, are you being real or trying to feel?  Is it from dreams hidden in your You;  sparking itself alive like mind-fire true. Glory! Star Stuff and God Dust – pray tell – it that you looking back from heaven upon yourself?  Or is it your heart telling you mind to get over itself and adjust.


“When your heart speaks, take good notes”  ——Unknown


Excerpt from “Rainbow Stories and Waterfall Men” – a collection of poems and prose.


Copyright(c) January, 2017. Roads, Paths and Trails. All Rights Reserved

Looking out the window in the mirror

It was not something one sees every day. It was not a pretty site: his back was bent into sharp angles and his neck was marred with knots, ridges and scarring like leeches eating him alive. Contorted arms hung like scarecrow limbs. But what frightened him were the “black hole” eyes starting at him like pinpoints of pain. As he slowly looked down, he felt his knees wobble – legs rocked and leaned away from his control; he was – he was, inspired to think: what the hell? Why was this bright sunny day, blue-sky beautiful; with those puffy breaths of white clouds lazily hanging, drifting on the wind, showing him a hell-in-his-soul picture that was not real? What was his mind seeing if not God’s gift of a perfect day?

He rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away the foul image and thought as he sat down.  How many times had he stared out this window from his daddy’s favorite chair? It always nestled him in deep with its memories wrapped around him; comforting – familiar -filled with Daddy-Frye’s strength and sure-certainty that things would be alright with world. Why this morning had be been given such a horrid vision?  Who was saying what to him? He had to stand back up.  Had to get back up now! He leaned in close to the window ; touched it, rubbed the glass making sure it was solid, really there. Then he thought that maybe if he went outside and looked back through the window he would see his real world again.  As he shuffled and began to turn, he looked around and wondered why there was no door?


An excerpt from “Rainbow Stories and Waterfall Men” – a collection of poems and prose.


Copyright (c) January, 2017. Roads, Paths and Trails. All Rights Reserved.

A Mountain of Imagination

I live among mountains shrouded at their peaks in willow-wisps clouds of translucent filaments drifting and swirling in the light of crisp sunny days. From my distance view, their rocks, boulders and hard-scrabble brown shrubs give them the allure of adventure to be lived; yet  harbor mysteries that hold the promise of unseen danger that will thrill and frighten one to the core.  Patches of green run like trails along ledges curving and dipping in patterns like quilts made of fabric salvaged from discarded pieces of life to live again.

My mountains stir my imagination beyond all reason. I long for them to rumble and shake, kicking up dust; tossing off deep-time; eons – epochs of debris to finally be trumpeted to life fulfilling their destiny and birth the horrors locked within them bringing chaos and mayhem to the world beyond all reason.

I imagine some deep-space, alternate universe life-forms left on our “Blue Marble” world quad-trillions of years ago to walk among us; to pierce the nighttime sky with blazed-red eyes that burn the very air we breathe; to set us afire – to drive us huddled, desperate, ragged and wild-eyed running headlong to God-knows-where; trying to escape the hell on our earth these creatures would unleash.

In their out-of-this-world hunger, we would be carbon-based units that come in flavors.

Why you ask should it be unbridled evil? Could not my mountains harbor truth, beauty – goodness seeded from some long-perished galactic race?  It could. Honestly, I would love my “mountains of imagination” to stir up that angelic dream; but that wouldn’t get our collective brain waves firing and flowing into a total mind shift. It would be too easy: new souls given to us on a golden platter.  We humans have proven over and over again that we need something more to hardwire all that truth, goodness and beauty into us so it would last more than a few lifetimes.  That’s why, and this is just one CBU’s opinion, shared trials and tribulations; dread and despair, hardships untold and fraught with fright knowing that as a species we could damn near go extinct – well, I think we would forever set aside petty differences and finally recognize our oneness.

That’s why my mountain of imagination delivers to me a trial of fire as the ideal ordeal.

Think about it: mountains have always shaped our tiny human lives in ways profound.  They have changed the weather making some places green with plenty; while other lands drown in dry sand or are frigid icy, snowy worlds. These “rock of ages” have forced us to travel around them – fear them. We worship mountains; contemplate our “humanist” in caves dug in their sides. And yes, mountains have driven us to conquer them to test our determination to survive against a foe raised from the very core of our world.

That’s why when my mountain of imagination takes hold, it goes dark, deep and delivers a deadly world of hostile hope. Only then, after we have purged our fear of ourselves – and vanquished those demon monsters risen from an “nth” dimension, will we truly be ready to reshape our world; and open our hearts and minds to the true destiny of mankind: the everlasting embrace of the truth, beauty and goodness that is our birthright.

Until then, I guess my mountain of imagination is just wishful thinking.

“There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same.”

— Chinese Proverb

Copyright(R) 2015. Roads, Paths & Trails. All Rights Reserved

Children of a Child

We both stumbled out of the gate; one filled with hate – the other a child of that fate. Color was the cause of that spate. The dye was casted that blazingly chilly day for children unborn, none would dream nor know how blindness made the life road they would take.

Love should conquer all; stand tall unbending to break one’s fall. It is a hope many have in their heart when it’s time to give one’s soul – but sometime that beginning is not so bold.

The light of us we say are our children; those sweet innocence of purity with the breath of the Gods – with a future to fill guiding them to the stars.  I think this is what the great man saw with much wisdom; the promise of the best of ourselves brought to the world. Though I think he forgot that we are imperfect; burnished with that sin we must all embrace like the winds that swirl.

Life surely teaches us goodness, grace and the angel’s road to take.  We bring that gift to our children; setting them on the journey they will make. Along the way their gold grows old, cold and they become lost souls.

Broken men searching for a mend; rushing into love seeking a godsend. But the piece of peace that soothes sleepless nights bring the children. Oh how we delight! Vow to get it right – to make this life of mine stronger of mind to brightly shine. But dare I say it: my goodness, my goodness – isn’t this the same story line? The same promise divine; passed along the paths of time.

There must be a happy ending to this dilemma; something that is worthy of life’s glory. Or are we forever destined to wring our hearts dry on our circle of one’s childhood story?

“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”

– Frederick Douglass, American Slave, Abolitionist, Statesman – 1818 – 1895

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