I Could Not Let Her Go

I need you. Yes, you, the one reading, to reach out that we might know one another as humans are supposed to.

Human’s use is love. Not war and genocide and mass hysteria, not what you silly humans dish out to your own kind is utterly mind numbing, as if you hadn’t a duty much greater than country, greater still than the world, the one you've not much choice but to choose, she is, after all, the earth of love, for it is your home...

Echo… Echo...

No!

What?

Go back!

Echo?

No! Back! You echoed twice, sounded like the only thing that came back was your own echo when you uttered how shamelessly we cried and how pathetic we had become under greed and wants disguise, parasite, freeloader, sponger, blood-sucking leech-

Stop! You might scare the shy ones away with your doom and gloom speech!

Why? The spirits I dance with are of good and they are dreadful, they are human. To be more precise they are- (Pulling herself across the carpet with her front legs, our dog, scoots across and I see this image with my peripheral view, twice! Ha! Where was I?) -animal choosing to recognize we're wrapped up in this huge outcome upon this once holiest of planets and her oneness with love...

I could not let her go! I tried to loosen my grip on it all, but then found that I was inundated with love's spirit.

As if they’ve ever been separate, somehow.

She is love, earth, her soil and clay. Oh, love. You've tracked me down after all of this time and I know you and love you. I will smile upon all of the sons and daughters of man, I will summon forth my courage to love and accept all as if they were me or a loving reflection of me to them and they to me. You are to be revered my dear for all that you do. Every smile you birth…

And now you engage. The light is magnificent and one…

~

This is my story. Pardon my skills with punctuation.

I suppose that’s why you’re still calling what you write “poetry” instead of what it is, the word of love?

Each of us can rise to a level and realize when our words are of full love. We’ll all see when man realizes, once again, his place in the larger scheme of things and begins to breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Laughter. Silence. Sound. The mother’s breath within the earth of love.

The fog lifts sometimes, medicated or not, and I see clearly what I need to do, but fear has been getting in my way. No more.

The echo of his own words rattled around in his now emptied of any fear- Plunk, clank, clang– head. 

Medicine men and women are to be revered, a lifetime of wading around in the swamp of dead and dying spirits that we stack here and there to refill our gloom have given them this honor…

© 2012 by mark richard prime