Bow To What I Know, Love Might Spare My Gloom

The music’s changed. The serenade with love has lost its smile. Love’s pleading I awaken from my slumber and join in life’s loving dance.

Cease your warring! Cease all sense of hatred!

Do you not yet know Love? Are you as blind as this that you would attempt to destroy the very paradise you believingly seek? You have to look deep inside of you and find yourself, find the animal in you, find the instinct, and, without hesitation, remember.

Have I not suffered enough at my having forgotten, at my having desecrated the heart of love?

The wind blows through the sleeping willow and she sways her hips to chance. She dangles there with Love.

~

No one is the wiser until they seek inside themselves, not from a book or another’s words or ideas of another, but until they find the very thing they seek, themselves.

I want to make her happy, love. She is my angel on earth, heavenly home.

Go to love with haste, drop to the human-stained ground and upon your thankless knees, beg love release you of your bond with the self that she might find you or she will have you removed from your suffering and into ever sleep. No memory, no point, no need, no love, nothing.

The spirit of Love is within me and I can hear its heartbeat as if it is my own. I am a child of love’s eternal wisdom. I do not know, I believe…

What of the products of your humankind?

They’ve proved useless to love. They’ve stained the breath of love, spoiled the nectar of love, chained the heart to greed and brought me to forget what’s beneath my feet.

Be in awe of what you cannot know in the flesh, be in awe of love’s artwork floating overhead, flowing with the river and ebbing with the seas, flying like the eagle, swimming the breath of creation over everything and all.

~

Love loves that I laugh, it invented laughter and tears and mountains and fears, but the children love have become cancerous to love.

Sorrow billows from love’s winter. The earth is healing its wounds from humankind’s filthy paws. Pray you’ve time to continue to bray at the top of your man-fouled lungs. Pray now, before the clarinet wails its final note…

I am ready to begin this dance with love. I will tarry no longer in search of truth, it has found me.

Hush now, child. You’ve said enough. Might we talk awhile?

Yes.

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

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........•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...

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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

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CONFESSION ZERO

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