CONFESSION ZERO

( Children Playing in Rain  from National Geographic ) They tiptoed into my sleep wearing dusty clothes and no shoes. They tried to not let me hear them, but the little girl put forth a giggle and the boy laughed, too, soon the whole room teetered in merriment. A while passed and a hush fell all around us, a silent prayer, save for the short breaths of the children, petite puffs in search of a throat. There were nearly twenty in the group. They had been searching for years, but were always met with sideways glances and, oftentimes, violence. They smelled like sand. They were gentle. I sensed they’d come for my help, but, short of giving them water, I knew not what I could do. I wept at the looks on their faces, the pain, the anguish, the truth. The little boy began to cry, followed soon after by the little girl, then we all began to weep. Our crying grew into an unexpected howl, a sorrowful choir of wingless angels. Our hymn shattered the floor of Heaven and a great anointi

( Zoe Keating.com ) Play from the Heart! What's the point of anything if we don't? Play from the Heart! What’s to stop us from staying in the middle while hate’s tangled up in a half-baked peace and love’s tapping out some half-hearted beat? Play from the Heart! Love’s not a liquid flowing between unreachable worlds- It’s now! It’s the curve of her neck as she turns to gaze at her children. Play from the Heart! It’s the teetering laughter heard over the howl of thankless men. Play from the Heart! We make Love useless if it only moan’s like a lamb- It’s loud! Play from the heart! It’s the whispered roar of goodnight as a father watches them sleep. Play from the Heart! It’s the fearless torrent of immeasurable expressions of grief, it’s not war… it’s peace. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

( The Birth of Liquid Plejades by Artist Only ) Nothing at hand is foretold, it’s waiting to be chosen. Everything’s upon two paths, one is the pathway of indifference, the other’s the passageway of Love. Within this, our heartrending time, the stars crawl on hands and knees from end to end, inching toward the sun of man. This arrangement of emptiness, mouths silent consonants in search of vowels to fill empty words the size of the ocean. The angels scour the floor of our living, touching their wings against the oily waters, their silence louder than tyranny and beckoning our decision. It will be at the liquid birth of creation that the reverberations of our collective choices spring forth. Let us pray they seep across a new and loving humanity. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

How could we have allowed Love to be forgotten? What happened to our affections and happiness? Is Love not worth the struggle required to wrestle it back from hate’s grasp? We can look at a thing until we begin to see what isn’t there, or we can begin to see a thing until we’re truly memorizing what exists. Evolve our thinking to include all of the goodness within every belief, within every philosophy, within every Loving thought, then progress with a vision honed in on Love and our perceptions cannot help but be enlightened. Do not focus on fears, they’re nothing more than the least of who we’ve become. To rescue humanity, before Mother, Grandmother and Great Grandmother settle the debt, we must soar with truth in our sights and keep flying until we begin to recognize the ancient and familiar song born in each of us, in all things, the song of Love. Pray we remember. © 2011 by mark prime