Skip to main content

Where are you?

The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.
__Frank Lloyd Wright
It’s like a canvas painted so long ago, before the noise of machines, before the press of time, before, at the beginning, the unfathomable beginning of creation, eternity, Love evermore, the beginning of the beginning, long before my footprint began to widen.

Thought is precious to me, but that’s the end of it. My kind has limited belief by forming certainties made of fear and mistrust and greed and riches and streets paved in gold. If I chose to paint my beliefs like Love painted the (H)eartH with Life, I’d be in a better position to complain about the troubles of the world…

I’m beginning now to recognize myself in all of this, my dream of Love, my dream of creation, my dream of silence.

Silence….

Silence has given me cause to act. Instead of spewing prideful words with my newfound remembrance, I choose to be righteous instead.

What of that, righteousness? It is not boastful or prideful it is a truth that I cannot deny nor prove. It is a belief. What do I imagine the first humans believed in? I would imagine, because that’s truly all I've got, my imagination to soar me above my own frailty, but I would imagine the first believed less and knew more than my scratch of self-fulfilling idiocy, less because who I was was closer to the truth, I was Home.

Belief is no good to me if it isn’t moving toward or swimming inside of truth. What made me think I could just make it up as I went along? That’s insanity, and the way I've been doing it is the very definition of insane. Over and over and over, doing the same. Again and again until my idea of (H)eartH and Heart(H) and Love are so convoluted by rage so filled with madness that I can’t discern the truth from the lusty fictions any longer.

Stop! Look beneath my feet, breathe, look beneath my feet, breathe, imagine, focus, breathe, believe, breathe, truth…

My human instinct must rise again. I must begin to recognize my surroundings. I am not the most powerful force on (H)eartH, as a matter of fact, I’d barely register on the animal scale if it weren't for say weapons of mass destruction and virulent concoctions mixed up inside natures landscape as if I could actually pull one over on the HeartH of Love. The thinkers, on the animal scale of things, but I'm certainly not as smart as I've imagined myself to be. As a matter of fact, I'm quite stupid, if I really think about it compared to the entity that created this universe. Can I create the (H)eartH and sky? Can I create the cosmos? Can I create anything that isn't self-serving? Can I create anything as glorious as the (H)eartH?
No. Like I said, I'm actually too stupid for that.

This is not anger talking, it is sadness and regret, the woeful cry of my beast held up to mirror.

I am on the (H)eartH without mirror.

I am Home...


© 2012 by mark richard prime

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

........•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...
Post a Comment
read the poem

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
32 comments
read the poem

Per Plex Ed

            PER+PLEX-ED When you haven’t heard the truth in so long, when you do, it rings a most familiar s ong. That’s the human song, the truth rolling out exactly when it should.      (If a truth is told and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound only to the one that spoke it?)    Yes, but our ears aren’t strong enough to hear it.     [a perplexed silence] © 2017 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem