White Biocentrism

I walk the wind over sea and sand, stalk stars one-by-one, seed hints to whispering land, impress dreams on lunar faces, caress ocean depth and mountain peak--leaving dew traces of a divine Truth known throughout all ages but only now hearing its name: Cosmotheism, life in stages climbing beyond tim...

Barefoot and hand-in-hand two dare the night walking under the hawk-like stare of reflective light of a wide-eyed moon; soon this woman and man will have a White son-- another one to live with, love and teach of peer star-sign and wind-speech, mirror mystery of clear water, tree gossip, simple thing...

Those few--the critical few--that take real time to pause eye-sealed and whittle-hear life as is, snowflake clear-- the Awakened Ones, know why trees climb for unreachable sky and sailor streams flow as far as they're snail-able to go; how beneath the owl-wide gaze of a cloud-wreathed moon, some pro...

The pact between Nature and man was never broken nor in fact can it ever be. Like whispering streams dreaming through land to sea, we may be dammed by sleep or memory debris but core beliefs can always be awoken. Both seeker and sought bleed roaming thought feeding and fed by loam living and dead in...

My soul and I hold hands, carefree stroll a familiar dirt road; we hear squirrels scritch-scratch an oak, see a toad plop into a leaf-logged stream, sniff peppermint stems, nibble evergreen needles, whistle whatever as we lose socks and shoes, lean on a 'shroom-stubbled stump for a don't-let-go hug ...

You're welcome. I conjured that up a couple weeks ago, based on a place nearby. I like writing
the "nature" poems even more than ones mocking kosher kooks and their multicultureless mutations

Lonely walking night often siren sings not to yawning eyes or blind ears but other things from chalk-faced listener leaf to moon-wrinkled creek, star-glossed whisperings softly flit light-knit wings, float like wind-tamed shadows coaxing nameless remote to blush nest-nuzzled beak or shale-caked chee...

Heinz Wolfgang Schnaufer was a young ace of the German Luftwaffe, fighting for Nation and Race. The British RAF nicknamed him "Night Ghost" out of fear and respect, how out of nowhere he eerily appeared to shoot down 126 spooked Lancasters in his Messerschmitt, the heavy bombers exploding after thei...

Dead thoughts drain as red rain rivers in simmering like slivers kindling in skin sieve-delivering fluid mind energy, sips of sun that eclipse time decay to lightning bolt display one molten age-old Urge, fire-eye Force seeking deeper Path and higher Purpose, a Life-course yearning in place yet burn...

The Awakened Ones float like ghosts over mind-graves, conscious of the divine--no longer blind slaves tied to a petrified body dead above ground deaf to our three-speak thought, deeper than sound we reap Whole truth so few root-souls seek-- purity of Race, purpose and place, core-source, seed-reason...