Skip to main content

Now is Agony. Now is the agony of Our Making. Tomorrow Must be Peace.


And you Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother, I give back your Love. I return it that you might send it to another more in need. I breathe my Love into your gasping lungs, I give it all back, save enough to keep me from falling headlong into agony.

Now is agony. Now is the agony of our making. Tomorrow must be peace. Tomorrow must be Love. Mustn’t it? Are we not held accountable for our actions?

“None shall get to Heaven by deeds alone.” 

Poppy cock!

“The eartH is Love's and everything in it.”



Our actions speak so much louder than our sorry excuse for Love, for worship. We can’t hear our own gnashing teeth or feel our bleeding scalps, the agony between man and Love is too great.

Stop...


© 2011 by mark prime


Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

........•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...
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

Per Plex Ed

            PER+PLEX-ED When you haven’t heard the truth in so long, when you do, it rings a most familiar s ong. That’s the human song, the truth rolling out exactly when it should.      (If a truth is told and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound only to the one that spoke it?)    Yes, but our ears aren’t strong enough to hear it.     [a perplexed silence] © 2017 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem