Showing posts from October 31, 2010

I've Forgotten Why Laughter's Free

This is National Novel Writing and Alzheimer's Disease Awareness Month
The land is not for sale. We do not own the water. We cannot have the air, the green leaves are on the house. If everything falls away, we’ll not obtain a refund, we’ll not seek a reckoning, save the one that’s for ourselves. And when we do arrive, our great noise comes along with us and shakes the heart and limbs, rattles the foundation left to us as a gift.

Let us remember, laughter’s our elixir, do not pilfer our joy. Forget about the inflexible word, instead, delight in our connection, it’s the only real thing we know. The ego needs to be lowered like the rope and pail in a well, wash away our sense of ownership lifted by our own hand. The only thing we possess is leased, save for free will. Let us remember, laughter seeks us out as we search for laughter. We are meant to love. Love, in our brightest and darkest days, laughter, the bright blue sky, our blood, the stain upon the streets. Let us remember, lau…

The Prayer of One Language

November is COPD Awareness month
My breath is of the one seed. What I have gleaned in my days, along my path and reach I’ve held dear, above the battle and scarlet storm, before the arrogant slaughter of even one?

With dis-ease running rampant along the highway, upon the soil with its talons of greed, I must implore that we consider our severed state, heed the termination imprinted on our face. I oppose the massacre of truth and stand at the ready with the withering grass and vanishing trees that smile underfoot and laugh overhead, my breath dances as my heart sings for thee, crooning for your love and your joy to raise their lips up in solitary prayer, this wish; an end to warring with our dis-ease.

Oh! Let our lips concur! Let our mouths form love! Under stars and upon the ground, let our speckled language carry the brilliant truth! From shore to shore… let it be believed...

© 2010 by mark prime

New DVD for COPD Boosts Oxygen Saturation

COPD International

Silent Killer

November is Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month Amid the hordes of seekers with their worn out faces and torn down spaces, I look for us to smile like the moon, howling down on the rest, gangs of madmen and whores frowning a desperation like executioners making love to lethal injections, death’s liquid pill boiling in the needle, staring down upon me, staring down.

Tell me, God, why the sour expression? Have my prayers made an impression? The pleas in which I seek affection are the only prayers I know. Those that seek destruction,
scrape the fetid edge nearer the wrist, are winter’s blade offering up the dead. It stretches over me like an angler’s net, like a curtain coming down about me, falling down around me, falling down.

Here among the seekers, with their careworn faces and rundown places, lays a hopeful voice, praying that words avoid bombs. Am I too late? Have I lost the sunrise to the noise?
Have my lips been broken by the fist inside your love? Have your lips been broken by the …

Blackfoot Dreams

November is Native American Heritage Month How a Piegan Warrior found the first Horses

The lake dream moved through Blackfoot like a spear tipped in truth, the wind rattled his tongue as the water stood up to greet him.

The animals came down to the green edge; deer, coyote, buffalo and elk, to drink with eagerness, Blackfoot observing from his mask of sand.

He recalled in his dream, a cleft of voices, four times to catch the beasts or never see them more.

Elk dogs, these wondrous creatures, valiant and beautiful, knew he was there for them, for their youngest, his rope around them was expected, as if known to them by their own dreams.


Packs thrown onto their backs to be carriers of man’s weight; elk dogs, delivered in a dream, strong backs, enough to lift him.

The lake dream will come again, only this time, it will not be horses that enter to lift man up, but human flesh and bone that return his spear… and his hope.

© 2010 by mark prime
First People AmerTribes - Quanah Park…

The Lion King Roars for Shannon Tavarez

The Broadway theater where "The Lion King" is playing dimmed its lights Tuesday night in honor of a fallen lion cub: An 11-year-old actress from the show who lost her battle with leukemia. (Read More)

The lion now roars, bellows his sorrow like a parent burying a child. Joy’s basin fills with a crimson grief as laughter breaks down the levees we built ahead of the storm. Her laughter, her unbridled youth, bends now in the light we seek and in the love we create. The Lion King hums, beasts honor her life with a knowledge all their own, a song of remembrance. Let us begin to sing and permit man to dream, let him bow toward hope and shepherd in a new breath upon the face of love.

© 2010 by mark prime
Shannon Tavarez, Broadway 'Lion King' Star, Dies Of Cancer At 11

Church and State… of Mind

Oh! Let your faith be yours to hold like a gentle hand freely given. Allow no thief to enter your personal temple and steal your thinking. Tolerate it’s breath, permit it’s sway in you and hold at bay any hypocrisy that stems from your tongue.

Freedom is a right for all mankind, faith is a right for your own certitude, not a wedge to place between worlds or as barrier to an individual’s truth.

Let us make good on our promise. Let us strive to allow all truth to blossom, all views to ascend their individuality while no man’s beliefs are extinguished. It is what is known as freedom, it is universal in its appeal, it is love’s bond with humankind and it’s personal and preserved only by the whole.

© 2010 by mark prime

Our Dis-ease

November is National Homeless Youth Awareness Month (IamKatia)
Even the cover of nightfall cannot hide them from our eyes. The drone and wail of midday traffic with its metal revolving frame and dull hued face cannot tuck itself far enough under to disappear in.

A home; a cardboard box of hope, exposed in the tiny flashes of night. Ashen and eager, they set fire to the night. Sing for any coil of warmth to cuddle with. They are most ready
to have our arms opened to them upon the streets of their future snow. Charity is never work, it is a gift, a hand open, ready to sing its song of love and have a seat at the table of man. We are them, they are we like the sun is no less the sun from the other side. They are there, we are there, humming beneath lampposts and under garbage bins. We want to listen, to hear an ocean of love.

© 2010 by mark prime

National Homeless Youth Awareness Month

Day of the Innocents (a massacre)

But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. __Khalil Gibran

End the Harvest before the graves are dug. Pick and shovel and flesh moving under our feet, calling out that we remember their scrape. Recall with a boldness that blanches not, but memorizes a willingness to douse the flame forever.

Samhain kneels upon the soil, turning over a newness of frost and flesh to be chosen as visitors of the dark space, the solemn place, where children reach out for mother, singing the lullaby of two cloths woven together like smiles.

Oh! Let the harvest close. Let its steel teeth clack a closing moan. Bring no child forth. Bring no man forth. Bring no woman forth. Instead, bring infanticide next to mother and father, remove the air from their death for Beltaine will arrive naked and dripping with her pliant flesh.

The sons of Abraham have…

The Wind (the 31st VIOLENT VERSE of October, 2010)

The wind, the wind, the wind; a bugle for the hours of our darkness puffing the moon to radiant madness like bloodshed leaking upon the soil.

We detect the method in our folly, but douse truth like a candle flame. We rigidly seek out bereavement to the tempest’s howling shame.

The wind, the wind, the wind weeping a blanket for such coldness, a mantle for our threadbare shoulders, its agony holding in our disgrace.

Costumes litter our doorways year round; masks of suffering to cover the mourning in our eyes, as phantoms to fold over our speech.

The wind, the wind, the wind; the sign language of exactness blowing from hand to fist, from our breath to bereavement.

© 2010 by mark prime
Center for Nonviolent Solutions