Skip to main content

...Beneath My Feet


I found Love beneath my feet.

I dreamed I stood upon her neck and she was wheezing from my footprint, my thanklessness, my pride swollen, my desire to own her.

I found Love beneath my feet.

She asks that we end our parade of her, our pageant that mocks her grandeur, her love, her authority- The shocks went down my neck, they sent their waves into my belief. It floated freely for what seemed like days, it sent me earthward and greeted me with kisses, then slammed me down! She unpainted my portrait and woke me up to say, I love you. I love you. I love you. Love chants her will in the wind, her desire washing up on the shores, her love serenading us with Her Majesty.

I found Love beneath my feet.

Go, tell your sons and daughters to look beneath them, then bow.


© 2011 by mark prime
Labels:

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
Post a Comment
read the poem

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

Access to...

It's odd to me that the future is accessible to God, but we're stuck with remembering the past, it's untenable. History repeats itself from our obsession with it. I say leave history where it is and instead create something of a present worth repeating.  © 2015 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem