Showing posts from October 3, 2010

Our Journey Back Home (9th Violent Verse 2010)

Violence is real. It is undulating near in search of love. It plans on stealing affection away, from child and mother, from father and brother. It hasn’t words to use or smiles to forge upon dull mugs, but wrinkles and rage to christen upon the veins of darkness; quick and painless, a rush of fists, a murder of rapid-fire crow cawing within.

Fingers know not what to say, mouths point back at wings and something stirs, rises and falls; cancer or perished love. It's made its way here, twisting laughter and breathing inside the down-turned mouths, hurried to save itself- easy target, just waiting to fall.

And all of a sudden the truth's unfastened like a cloud letting go its tether. Hearts beating like hope, fluttering stars, gloom pierced, loved with charity, grass and blooms, the buried dark, the whole.

Drink to the hue of truth, stumble down the burgeon of love, affection, longing, the vision in sight of the finish, wheeling stars, hearts free in the storm.

© 2010 by mark prim…

We Forget (8th Violent Verse of 2010)

Impermanence floats nearest to our breathing certainty.

The man moved his feet amid the clamor, looking for a place to lay his head. He was spat upon, like a warrior coming home, fitting in, following orders, wrapped in cloth the weight of trees, pine, oak, poplar and red mahogany.

(Gold Pieta corners, swing-bar handles, stained satin arms, adjustable bed, lugs and tips to match, other colors available upon request.)

Within our hurry we forget the tree yet we’re set to sink at last beneath its roots, below the white crepe and full roll, the middle with our head on a shirr pillow, never again to sense the looming decline.

Good is only temporary, evil is permanent. Violence is faith without belief, hope without hands, love without feet.

© 2010 by mark prime

Joe Heller - Cartoons
Peace, Nonviolence, Conflict Resolution
The Myth of Psyche

The Presence of Man (7th Violent Verse of October 2010)

"Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them."  (More...)

Actually there are more ways than one to reach the heart.

One, we’ve made a catchphrase, the stomach. But this is the least of them. The starved still love, still need, still desire affection, a hand unfolded for them to take, an open smile to veil their throbbing like an umbrella on the beach that holds the searing sun at bay.

There are our hands that hold our ache, that grope at serious doubt, that let loose our caged hate like silos of grain. Hands that knowingly embrace friends, that high-five and remember routines formed at youth, our bond with one another, hands reaching for the most in man, his kinship.

Our shoulders and elbows bump on…

Love by Rote (the 6th Violent Verse)

Where is the song, the verse to teach us truth, joy that is beautiful? Not the song that brings man to drop bombs and move others nearer their closing breath and leads us to murder, to cruelty, as if we hadn’t memorized our love, hadn’t perceived the sound of truth, witnessed the rage within us all.

Where is the song... sung without self, without our stroke, the howling refrain without interpretation?

We need remove our costume, take off the discordant uniform of flags, remove the banners we wear like smiles, panic pulled over our heads like a sweater, blind to what approaches below the fabric, beneath the fog of hatred worn in damp cellars packed with loathing. We need walk nearer the furtive truth, our oneness that looks with precision toward another.

We don’t love that other song, the opus of destruction, lethal and hollow, a watery echo we can’t afford to sing, not for another minute.

© 2010 by mark prime

Anti-Violence Act Sends Hope to Women Around the World

How Dare We (5th Violent Verse of October, 2010)

How dare cruelty throttle laughter? Women withered inside the surrender beneath an oracle of klieg lights, beneath instruments of an unrequited rage with the stamp of coldness calling down.

How dare brutality hammer away at joy? Pitiful artists, blood for watercolor, suffering as the brushes stroke that marches across affection like death bearing shapeless and shivering claws.

How dare we do nothing but rewind, turn back our film to view such horror masquerading as grave confusion, a bitter love to be honored by man.

How dare such loathing not be seen for what it is, our most severe sickness wearing the disguise of truth, lies wrapped in fists and tongues pointing back at man, without words.

© 2010 by mark prime

The Oak of Our Breath (the 4th Violent Verse)

"Life is not measured by the number of Breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away."
Our veil’s been touched, our frown's a stage to lift up, expressions etched in fury. Joy to gloom to failure we’re dying, trading air for dust, belief torn to shreds for compost, limbs bleached with dirty bombs dropped down into caverns of love, flattened to make room for peace beneath the willow, the hickory and the oak of our breath.
We know of joy, of goodness. We’ve heard stories of love, love without fists shredding laughter, truth served with water alongside seeds beneath the sun. But now we know of life curved, fallen into the dusty crypt that twists our spines into shapes that break our bond with another, fists falling furiously upon the meek, bent in disregard, scowling of goodness between two worlds on the beam of man.
Our feet are gaining weight, bearing without joy, hands gripped in fury, fingers paled with dread, veins pounding to see light at the end of ou…

Nothing New (3rd Violent Verse of 2010)

I've nothing new to add to this, our story.
I've nothing crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
I've just me, myself to lend, this skin,
my shell to wrap with a goodness,
not mine, but of me.

I’m moving under the beam of sun,
the joy raised up to the light,
a servant walking lightly,
careful of the burden in my gait,
in the silent request of my affections.

I've nothing new.
Nothing that’s crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
Without the knowledge of that which truly matters,
how could I?

© 2010 by mark prime