| a blossom has no signature nor a snowflake not even the giant oak nor the newborn child only man's papers and works of art | the moment we create music the moment we create colour and shape the moment we create anything we could begin a voyage to vanity and greed |
| while listening to music of the masters feeling refreshed and uplifted one cannot help but wonder what mankind would do without these “mad” men | when I entered the house lights flooded the room but the being living there looked somber and lost for he had not found his inner light |
| I wandered from the St. Lawrence to the Fraser from east to west coast, witnessed pines, lakes and mountains, cascades, maple and bush beaver, moose and Canada geese but nowhere did I see man creating all this | the infant cries because he does not receive the young man steals because he does not have the man kills because he was never given |
| what a beautiful kaleidoscope of colour it would make if all the eyes met that read this | the only bore to live with is oneself |
| it is better to walk a Way than to run away | when children are full of awe and wonder we send them to school after graduation they are dull and empty the infant |
| laugh o sun, cry o rain cry o sun, laugh o rain but only your union will create a rainbow | where is that line is there a line when is that line where night ends and day begins |
| if it takes one thousand years for one inch of stalagmite to grow how then can we see the master's vision? | rain, how honest you are you make me wet when I walk in you |
| before we blushed when we lied now we blush while speaking the truth | the branches shivered when birds left them to fly south |
| all we do with joy reflects joy a happy being stays dry in the rain even when he is wet | if we look at our lakes and oceans flowers and forests waterfalls or snowcapped mountains with financial gain in mind we have seen nothing at all |
| those who lose contact with the heart could become bitter and hard | we take the matches from the infant after the house is burnt down |
| we can be so holy we can be so passive that we will go out and kill to prove our ideals | ruins stared at me while weeds waved in the wind suddenly a flower came forth out of the ruins, out of the weeds out of the wind |
| “step aside,” said the worm to the leaf “no, I won't,” said the leaf &ldqou;then I'll eat you,” said the worm but on the leaf was a frog and the worm was eaten | a worm crawled out of a coffin it went to the lake fat and healthy a fish came by and chose it for its meal we ate that fish for dinner |
| the healer of minds gave his patient the wrong pills those to calm his own nerves | I attended an uninvited kinetic art show when herds of impala and zebra ran by |
| we see many ads about what to do or take for a headache but never how to prevent one I wonder why | many leaves came down the stream with the current — except one it struggled and fluttered against twigs and rocks but when the big wave came to swallow it a butterfly flew away |
| the a b c of our alphabet is our downfall Arrogance Boredom Conceit | the wildebeest was killed only to use its tail for a flyswatter |
| many years ago we read, talked and dreamed about enlightenment; we still do | a future astronaut emerged when the caterpillar looked up from the edge of a leaf |
| a shy bongo came out of the woods to kill its rival | I heard a future shriek of gazelle and zebra while looking at the leopard cub |
| the thorn-tree’s thorns hurt the lion’s paw but feed the giraffe | the night frost proved his talents when he left a whole gallery of artworks behind on the windows |
| jewels with tails and fins came by when I looked under the surface of tropic waters | myriad snowflakes created a symphony while they danced down towards Earth |
| the only bore to live with is oneself | the moment we have fear of life we are dying |
| can you hear the concert played by the wings of butterflies? | he held a gem in his hand and offered it she said, “I don’t care for glass.” |
| nature's honesty annoys man therefore she has to go like the man who speaks the truth must go | no matter how long you hang onto your branch, brown leaf soon you will have to make way for the spring bud |