Posts

Showing posts from May 15, 2011

Cautionary Tales (Head-Lines - Friday, May 20th)

Image
(Hadron Collider from engadget)
Was Roswell 'Flying Saucer' Mystery a Soviet Plot?
There are limits to a thickening plot even where aliens rise.

Their skin had my attention as it glided by my befuddled gaze, passed by in solemnity, large eyes, without panic. They landed with a warning, a kind message for a self-destructing world.

Doomsdays: Dubious and Deferred
The endurance of the tick tock grumbles near me, marking off a cautionary demise. Three, two… One minute out. The racket of the car horn, the driver crashing fists through time.

Mummy Had Earliest Case of Heart Disease
Kings wrapped in golden hearts called out to sleepy sentinels nodding their walk along the turret, “Be vigilant! Protect your king!”

Silence…

Syrian troops 'kill 30 protesters after Friday prayers’
Love untaken still floats with fondness. Lethal bullets pierce proper affections. Prayers not flown, sink in sorrow. Murder given away flies deeper.

Israel's Netanyahu rejects Obama proposal on borders
Propos…

A Tin Can Summer

Image
(Guardian.co.uk)
Laugh child and skip on home now. Forget the clang of the tin can echoing down the alleyway, you’ve joy, school’s out soon and you're tired of lies.

You run to the corner and steady yourself on the concrete path, the programmed route where your kind and dog walk with hints of madness. Let the sea hold your limbs, your spleen. Tall shadows crumple in exhaustion over whistling gutters in an obscure baptism as you move alongside them. Mom’s waiting. Forget the bogeyman, he’s dead. Don’t you know that war sent him seaward with steel shoes that sank like a mother’s heart? Dread has vanished along with affection and truth. Love’s more like the tin can than the bogeyman.

© 2011 by mark prime

Our- Scratch that- My Purpose...

Image
Nature, if I'll but listen, calls to me with love. She implores that I make a vow with the song of kinship, the incantation of peace and goodness. The sky, the mountain, the stream, the forest and ocean wait on me to implement my inherent love upon another, my caress of all things that whisper of serenity. Nature is patient, much like Love, and looks to me for wisdom, for reason to counter the destruction and agony found in cruelty, in murderous rage, greed and indifference.

Why I was unable to see the endgame of ruin found in war is beyond my reach, yet the path to peace rests within me. The answers dream the question that I must ask myself, is my purpose love or is my function to hate? If I conclude that my reason for being is hatred, then I must convince the instinct for survival of its hopelessness, then encourage war to end all suffering, to come swift with horror in its fists like the birds of Ares. If I conclude that my reason for being is love, then I must persuade war th…

Landing Gear

Image
When the night took post along the skyline it waved me in with its beams like a plane handler signaling my craft’s slope. Tall, and diving like a hawk, she fluttered inside the clouds, clattering of sadness. At her emergence, the moon unwrapped its wings and stood alongside the bright symphony of wonder, a gathering ballet, elegant stars and devoted spirits pirouetting their worship across the squalling runway. I whirled within the telling shadow left by my awakening (Ive flown this pattern before). I lifted her song ahead of my appearance and engaged her blazing gear with wheels inside the lines of a burnished devotion.

I prayed the night beams resurrect their tender opus as a pair of hands guided me home with their slanting nod like angels touring Eden, grasping the rapturous scene, crying of truth over the rumble of my former self's hoodwinked perception.

O! Let me stir her happiness with confidence and urgent need! Allow me to see the bursts of light, the beams of expectatio…

When Peace and War Collide

Image
(Pixdaus)
(Syrian government denies mass grave found near Daraa)
War denies the earth’s grave rumble, her plea within my ear, an inescapable aria shattering the selfish walls of separation, thundering vociferously like a shot across my brow, eyelevel warnings of my use of her as creation’s tomb, my dumping depravity and brutality upon her affections. O! Can’t I cease this; my ceremony of bereavement? Bring an end to my marauding bravery before she weeps again, before I'm sent cowering, groveling for mercy and Love? It is of a most momentous weight that I conformed! I must join my bloodstained hands and begin to cleanse the dark spirit!

Syria, Afghanistan, Egypt, Israel, Darfur, Côte d'Ivoire, America, one seed, one family, searching for what’s been buried from view, pinched, squashed and hidden beneath the eyes, within the self-dug grave beneath a solemn verdict.

I, with my thoughts hovering in prayerless ignorance, lowering mass indifference to love underneath the loam, mourn …

The Dilemma

Image
(Véronique Fabri)
The mission, at least for me, is not an accomplished art. Its message flies in the face, opposite any impending action with its trembling meander of what cannot be known, of what might be appreciated as a good and merry Love. If it’s just for my own consumption, my own journey, so be it. If it’s more than that, I still plan to seize upon it like a servant whose brimming confidence totes love with a hidden pleasure.

I understand the dilemma. I see the greenness of my journey, the wind and chill and starlit diversions upon my course to love, the storm and dust and fluttering fears warning me of private snares that may await me on my road toward the unknowable unknown. Roadblocks can be removed- find a clear way around them. Believing is nothing more than a waiting doorway. A door, taken or untaken, is still a door to more of the unknown, a conduit on the way, propped up for my dreams.


© 2011 by mark prime

I Shouldn't Write of Love While I'm Angry

Image
(Eternal Embrace via Mythic Meditations)
I shouldn’t write of love while I’m angry, but I am powerless says the muse of muses, the un-masterful master eating from an empty dish. I imagine one thing, told another, and shown nothing! Could it be that I’m oblivious to the half-love that boils beneath the skin as if it’s a cauldron, a vat filled with the grins of conjurers gnashing their despair?

It isn’t rocket-science! Its innate discipline! It's basic math! But also lunacy, impure insanity lodged inside a gravely infected folly; nightmares lined with the mutilated skins of the children of war!

Have I gone mad? Has all of this change, this hope, been a test meant for me to see even more of the unhappy rage, the world off her edge, children coloring outside the lines of white noise?

Truth and untruthfulness are counter to one another, yet belief and disbelief are lovers, sightless and deaf, sharing their tired and crimson wretchedness with the other! Lies are devouring truth like vul…