End of Hunger Love Song (slam)

A boy I knew when I was a kid was so skinny we called him “handrail”.

His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and no one ever saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays with his flop-over and his raw potato in an oily paper sack
where he’d savor every little bite as if the executioner waited with his ax.

I want to write an end of hunger love song where all the high note’s are composed of delicious meats to coat the hungry dreams and low notes are made of half eaten happy-meals, but not emptiness, and with endless verses carved from full tummies of sleep!

I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shattering truth down like dried bones and clinched fist, a silent breaking, minds masked in private pain, man’s own howling and craving and loss, his bane. So please take note of the end of hunger love song and elevate it’s joy to an immeasurable tallness, lift starvation beyond the tapering gaze, our bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle with.

In the end of hunger love song, hope will gather around to witness the pluck of death from the distended tummy. This song’ll be for the world, not just our eyeless span, but for all of man, a song made from the meat of escape, unlike starvation’s scrape with its dry stone from corner to corner, a pipe organ to dangle its howling from. It’ll be the most beautiful tongue for famine’s desire. Every creature will sing along, because it’s just easier to sing when the stomach’s not drowning out the choir! The song’ll be called, “End of Hunger Love Song” where the climb will recite all the world’s famished names and the chorus will hand out new clothes and shoes. There’ll be bridges of joy and a most nourished refrain and instead of tears and frowns, the coda will be covered with a tenderly falling rain. Yes! The most beautiful sea green rain ever seen!

Every word’ll be nourishment, every note’ll be satisfaction guaranteed! It won’t be metal, or the blues, and it won’t be country, because this song won’t recognize man-made boundaries, it’ll fill all the pantries with food and water, it’ll traverse the world’s homeless streets and fill all living boxes with warm treats and everyone will know it by heart and sing it inside, it’ll be the number one song until time takes a ride.

We’ll recite the end of hunger love song and sing it out loud and watch it prevail so the future won’t have need for any hungry boys named “handrail”.

ECO Localizer (the lens of local action)

ROOT OF

"For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs." __1 Timothy 6:10 It is MONEY, not the LOVE of it that is the issue, the true problem. Love, in and of itself, is never a problem, WANT and NEED, or better yet- the WANT and the conundrum of its very REQUIREMENT for our survival IS the problem, it's creation and our blind use of it is logically the ROOT. In other words, let's leave LOVE out of it altogether and deal with the facts instead. If money were not made by us as a requirement for our survival, we'd find ourselves in a much better position to argue of its need and our want of it. MRP Peace and Love © 2015 Mark Richard Prime

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........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........ •HEAD-LINES• •RIP• ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)--- There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God… ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)--- Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God… ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)--- I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...

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sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

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CONFESSION ZERO

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