Skip to main content

The Tempest's Collection (Head-Lines)


Swath of New Tornadoes Strikes Central U.S.
Afterward, the geese trilled their song for me. Curving eastward, the pointed flight rode the squall, a trance of sorts, a column of meditation lifting my thoughts skyward, my escape moving just ahead of my baffled wits. I could sink or swim, do or die, remain powerless, or begin to fly...

Comet Chunk Slams Into Earth’s Atmosphere
The rumble seems commonplace now. Eerie and shrill, with impending misfortune imprinted on unfilled temples, buckshot discharging nature’s objection into the tapering air, above my prayer, exploding like confetti formed of sorrow.

Search to Resume for 4 People Missing After Flashflood in NW Arkansas
Is anybody out there? The dark and wind hide me from view, me from me, from love, from you. Is there anyone out there? Death comes too soon!

(The water told me I need remember her influence, understand that her breath laughs within my animal, twists up inside me like a party balloon.)

Holes Feared in Two Japan Nuclear Reactors
I suppose don’t get it. I choose not to see my own senselessness, instead, I spin the farce together like a long rubber band, then wait for life’s swift unraveling to splinter my hands.

Storms in Northwest Arkansas Kill at Least Three
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! The count rises with the morning sun. Traced from the tempest’s collection, nature’s watercolor canvas of heaven stands tall, only asking that I remember.

Storms kill 13 as They Tear Through Midwest
Thirteen spirits set loose that I might listen, heed the cry of Love, The Mother’s requiem moving my soul to again worship the original gift.

Home is where my heart thumps in kindness.

Resurrecting the Dead Sea
Breathing new life into what is not dead seems meaningless to that which has been dead or seems futile to that which is near its death, to that which reaches out with hope, which calls out to human affections and only asks that I brandish a useful love.



© 2011 by mark prime

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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
........•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...

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