Showing posts from November 7, 2010

Oh Shepherd

"It is quite common for some males in Australia (especially in the city of Melbourne), and New Zealand to sport a moustache during the month of November. The custom being known as Movember (Movember is a portmanteau of the words 'Moustache' and 'November'), and being a fundraising event for men's health issues. - - In the United States, it has recently become known as No-Shave November around college age kids to raise awareness to men's health issues, mainly testicular and prostate cancer. Read more...)

You have led us to this place. There is no rest now, no slumber for man while the chirp of night leaks down on him.

You entered under shadows, the dark of darkness weaving into apparitions. We may see a section of it, the sun wandering across us.

I recall the dis-ease tightening the soul, bent to fit into hours of insignificance.

When will you arrive home? Will your guests be staying long or will they step over graves like good soldie…

Our play is set to open...

November is the Holy Souls in Purgatory in the Roman Catholic Church Month. (Othello - Act 3, scene 3)

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:
But O, what damn├Ęd minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

O misery!
The darkness stays too long,
the suffering runs through,
the demise of grace
and the soul are shackled there.

We have to retake the night,
our grievance is emergent,
our feet, idle, our eyes,
closed too tightly to rattle speech.

The cycle courses from end to end
as we turn our faces eastward
and our armies march across the living,
over the mountains and the streams.

We carry our sins like a crystal chalice
brimming hate,
we’ve been enslaved by our own hand,
tenders of work, awareness and dreams.

The dawn stretches out,
dusk shrouds our grief,
our fences rise in barbed wire.
The days we hav…

Veteran Voyage

I received a Veteran's Day reminder from the first lady... Mark,
Veterans Day provides us with the chance to mark the debt of honor we owe to all those who have worn the uniform of the United States. We remember those who gave their lives beneath our flag, in service of our freedom.
And with so many still fighting, we owe special thanks to the courageous families of those who serve.
Because when our servicemen and women deploy overseas, their loved ones are left to undertake heroic battles of their own at home. The unique challenges they face in support of men and women in uniform allow us all to enjoy the freedoms of our democracy.
Every time I have a chance to meet with these families, I'm struck by their strength and their quiet dignity -- they are truly some of the most selfless, courageous people I've met.
And today is also a day to acknowledge the sacrifices these brave men and women make every day, and pray for the safe return of those they love.
I've felt their …

The Fatal Fruit

Crohn's & Ulcerative Colitis Awareness Month, National Pomegranate Month in the US

An ancient fruit, pomegranate is mentioned in Europe as early as the Iron-Age,
Greek Mythology in the Homeric hymns. Yet, it has still to reach mainstream prominence as a consumer fruit in commercial markets of North America and the Western Hemisphere.
Iran hosts a great genetic diversity of pomegranate and more than 760 Iranian
genotypes are collected at Iranian national pomegranate collection in Yazd, Iran.

The myth of Persephone- ...Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken off to live in the underworld as his wife. Her mother, Demeter (goddess of the Harvest), went into mourning for her lost daughter and thus all green things ceased to grow. Zeus, the highest ranking of the Greek gods, could not allow the Earth to die, so he commanded Hades to return Persephone. It was the rule of the Fates that anyone who consumed food or drink in the Underworld was doomed to spend eternity there. Perseph…

A Smoldering Pinch

(Lung Cancer Awareness Month)
Coming to a close, rib-cages meander along with a pinch of air from the radiant skies fumbling around my whispering breath. My lungs I’ve made into charlatans. I’ve rigged the game. I know the risks taken by my own inhalation and exhalation of the filthy tempest I've long unfastened within me. My days tow the dark like manacles being dragged over concrete. I missed the memo sent by the bruised air; words of warning from breath itself, words scraping the black shroud growing in me.

While others tow their breath around smoke, I haul a smoldering pinch of living ash, a clan of hyena scavenging for air. There is hope yet if I but heed my breathing. There are beasts slashing the air’s purity, but none as miserable as me.

© 2010 by mark prime

Behind the Walls

(Obama Returns Fire After China Slams Fed Move) I’m behind the walls, too. In the wake of division, I try to peer over, but can’t. I try to climb over, towering walls, trenches, barriers, hills and rivers and nearly make it before I’m called back. The stamp of boots brings me to trembling, to remembering, what of goodness? If I ascend the walls, what’s there for me on the other side, the end of hatred, murder, rape and war? Is it possible to escape the exhibition?

I’m tired of the clatter and clack of teeth and gunfire, the moans of shattered children, I want to scale the walls, escape the noise. But I've been summoned, called back to grapple another day or fetch laughter from clinched jaws. I cannot exit now, the stakes are too high, like a razor-blade held against my tightening throat.

Man’s kinship is breathing near the heart of truth. It is panting, eager and trembling near the stone that weighs down love and hides my joy. The walls push me back. The barricades are like cords …

The Truth is Very Elusive.

I consider man an experiment, part of one, at the least. 
We either strive to live with goodness imprinted on our faces 
or we join the noise of man to make a frown of it.
(This is American Diabetes Month)
There is our disquieted affection, anemic love of muted hearts, a ditch filled with bones, bleached and broken, like a bomb shelter of innocence, as if suffering had weapons or an award-winning plastic surgeon. There is loathing, arid teeth in search of flesh, a mad beast in a soundproof room, a noiseless hum, man without his reason, stumbling along the path, his demise welling up inside him with grief and regret.

Our sickly masks sit heavy, bombs set to ignite in succession with their dreary brightness. A tick tock of wary packages left behind, marking off our unpleasant faces, facades floating along the ailing shoreline, sailing atop the oil-ridden shells of our fluid-like thoughts emanating from low, anemic love in the midst of failure.

Noise, the lover of woe, like a smile withou…