5.25.12 I’M A MAN WHO KNOWS WHERE HE BREATHES

It’s after eleven and the morning bird becomes the night, she and he call to one another, waiting upon the reassuring echo of Love…

The single pipe of the frog at once chases away the sounds and swings in its reverie to greet love and her attending angels…

Heaven’s not just a metaphor for eternity, it’s a place, a place that calls to us from just beneath our feet. It sings that I might garner and replenish her gift, that she may then give back tenfold. Heaven pleads my attention like a child whose strayed from comfort, a baby feeding off the mercies of the Mother.

She begs I listen to her midnight counsel, the bird and insect and air slipping by my ear.

A frog and a cricket walk into a bar…

And?

And nothing.

A frog and a cricket walk into a bar? That doesn’t even make sense.

Made sense to the frog and the cricket…

*~*

The night sounds again breathe these words as I sit here amazed that my neighbors are up to no good. Something’s missing? Summon it all, Mark Richard Prime, bring your tall laughter and sing that this is Heaven, let us remember Home is where the eartH is…

I’m a man who knows where he breathes. Love is upon me as we speak, lips pursed as if to say, ‘Hello. I love you.’ as I stare wide-eyed down the barrel of war…

Rise up oh child of God! Bring your self, your full love to recognize that you shouldn’t be bowed in shame upon the loam, but that you should be joyous and a free steward of this, God’s Eden…

Bang bam boom and a rat-a-tat tat, listen for eternity in that…

Shame on me for imagining I knew things beyond my need to know. I should have realized that I was plummeting toward the hell of my own design. Surely I now see? Surely my blindness has been cured and I’ve been given the green light toward realization?

(So be in motion as you travel…)

Love brings me my dreams. She brings me the silken mist of remembrance. She awaits my change, or she will have to change things herself, she’ll not hesitate to get her wayward children under control so that she might live on…

(You sound desperate.)

I am! What would you imagine me to be? Calm, cool and collected?

(Yes.)

Okay. If I don’t speak out in full, I’ve lost my freewill, if I do speak, I risk adding conclusions to the unknowable which might well become my truth…

(Rock meet hard place.)

Enter Love as if on cue…

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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