Skip to main content

It Is Love, No?

(Love Tree by Bent Fork from Scenic Reflections)


It is Love, spoke the child.

No. You can’t love someone like that yet, you’re a child, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. It’s not love until you’re old enough to know what it really is, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. Love is a tricky thing, be careful or you’ll get hurt, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. I thought the same when I was your age, but it’s not, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. You can’t know Love until you’re older, until you’ve lived, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. Love doesn’t happen that way, it’s much harder, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. It isn’t. That’s just puppy love, not real Love, said the adult.

It is Love, spoke the child.

No. It is not Love between young kids, it hasn’t had time enough to blossom, said the adult.

You’ve grown too bitter, too harsh in your affectionate weather. You’ve grown too cold in your vow with love, too cruel in your thoughts. You’ve grown too Loveless. It is you that has forgotten. It is not impermanent. It is inside of you, inside of all, born in all of creation, all life. It is not yours to fell like a tree. It is Love. Love is Love. Love is free. It is permanent. Love is breathing. Love is everything, all of life, spoke the child.


© 2011 by mark prime

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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
32 comments
read the poem

Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
12 comments
read the poem

Laughter's Grip

They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait on His voice to destroy the golden temples of man, hold my tongue until His powerful breath was upon me, and from His loving casualties I’d at last know the Savior. They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait for His followers to die away their persuasive babble and the murder of Islam to breach the walls of the earth as the many damned souls drowned under holy laughter. “O! The Lord God is looming! On his way with God’s wrath! We are to take up swords and send evil howling back to die their well deserved and slow death! Their faces popped and spattered these words as they fell back, caught in His fiery presence, twisting their tongues into drivel and thrashing their minds in the glory of an Eden unlike any other. And then the snake planted his venom through the laughter of their gyrating madness. Tears emptied their pockets, spirits came crashing , and the anointed rapture of their making grew tire...
23 comments
read the poem