Above the Telescope’s Reach

I am set to arrive any day now, in the place of my choosing. Might it be agony that I’ve chosen as my particular destination of self-annihilation, the one of my making, or might I yet still have time to find myself in the heaven that I believed?

Belief is not about what I imagine there to be, it’s about the truth of what there is in this; my exactness, but more important than any of that, is the truth of where I am, an instinct that is not in doubt, until I forget my duty.

Agony is what you’ll be handed at your own culpable paws. The earth is most loving, for it is but full love, yet, when earth’s children begin to plot her murder, the end of the rope’s been reached…

I will never fly past my orbit; it’s my thinking wits that tell me this. I am home, ladies and gentlemen. I am home on my heavenly love, which seems now more like hell, for it is what my kind has made of it.

Imagine the deceit that had to come packed to the hilt with utter fear to begin to pull off a plot such as that? ...Remember what you used to be?

An angel?

Yes. But not with wings, that’s the angel’s flight of fancying themselves birds. Angels are flightless, but able to soar above the clouds, above the telescope’s reach, beyond even what they can know and into what they believe. There is but one truth. There is one singular belief that matters, the truth. Believe in the truth, for it’s a long way back to Love as far as you've let yourselves drift away.

I have drifted away.

Yes. Now you’re beached, whales of a tale that are idle on the sand, waiting for a hero that looks like you, sounds like you, believes like you. It is you! You, my child, can create heaven out of the ashes.

Yes.

Look in the mirror at your singular self and begin to imagine yourself as angel again. You are being tested and you haven’t a clue. You imagine that you'll escape this place, this earthly heaven, this orb of love? Not on your lives…

~

Might I begin to love like I'm meant to, laugh like I should, breathe like I must, and mend what I need that my spirit might again its dance in love with all? I must love like there’s no tomorrow, because soon it’ll be yesterday, and all of this will be gone, buried beneath my ugliness, beneath all of the cruelty I've scraped across the earth like it were nothing more than an expendable tract of property instead of the heart of love. Oh, love! Please allow me to bring peace, love and goodness unto the world...

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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........•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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Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

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CONFESSION ZERO

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