For all intents and purpose this is unreal

(The Galactic Free Press)

Mark: It’s a figment of my imagination, all of this humankind business, all of it, each and every last one of man, woman and child.

Mother: And every spirit that is with eternity, crying out to you, jumping up and down trying to rumble a warning for your spirit and flesh. Your love and you. Your animal, lord and life, lord and death. So why are you encased with spirit which is not yours to carry away or to ruthlessly pawn, sell or trade, or imagine that you could begin to own?

Mark: But what of the spirit that is self?

Mother: You mean the spirit you were born from, the eartH?

Mark: Earth?

Mother: Everyone’s eartH.

Mark: Mother’s are the reason we’re here. Yes.

Mother: Mother and Father, but I’m speaking of everything and everyone’s Mother, The (H)eartH.

Mark: You mean Earth?

Mother: Why not (H)eartH?

Mark: You’re mad!

Mother: And you’re too filled with everyone else’s fear. Filled with everyone else’s nightmares, everyone’s broken heart, another’s pain, another’s suffering, another’s hardship, another’s weakened love, another’s hate, another’s crime, another’s thought, another’s death, another’s war, another’s toxin, another’s rule. Bow to what’s beneath you! To the mountain peak, bow! To the forest, bow! To the river, bow! To the stream, bow! To the ocean, bow! To the desert, bow! To the HeartH, bow. Love will be pleased…

Mark: How could I, in this looming weather, have ever imagined this story unfolding?

Mother: Eyes. Instinct. Love. Life. Laughter. Spirit. Child. Flower. Tree. Soil. Breath.

Mark: Prayers to earth are ancient and forgotten.

Mother: The Heart(H) has remedies for that, too. Love rises with the smiling spirit, in her crops, in her affection, in her air, in her skies, in her rocks, in her rivers, in her streams, her lakes, oceans and seas. Love rises beneath my feet and has been waiting to move through my spirit! For you to recognize where you were so that your spirit would grasp a hold of Love and goodness, and ride it all the way to the beautiful end.

Mark: Oh, Mother! I'm so sorry!

Mother: Wail your tall regret to another!

(A long and sorrowful silence...)

Mother: Oh, child. My heart is broken, too. Shhh… Shhh… Everything is going to work out, my love. Shhh... Everything's going to be okay…

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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