Skip to main content

Am I in Heaven?


I'm in Heaven? I’ve been blind indeed, Christ...

Is there no dignity left in my parasitic carcass than this? My beholden is the eartH, the Heart(H) of Creation!

(If the eartH’s song does not satisfy, you are too intolerant. The truth comes with both, spirit and the knowledge of Love, and if they came at the same time, Mark Richard Prime, you’d either, wobble around drooling of your ignorance, or death would come weaving its potion over you to absolve you of your gravest sin.)

When did I garner the nerve to question Creation? Have I questioned man’s books? Have I confused the truth through deceitful lenses, lenses so overflowing with beauty upon the surface that the eartH just had to suffer my shortsighted imaginings? Will this time be the last time?

(Silence…)

The key is to be grateful and content with where I am. Not with my words, they mean very little in the larger scheme of things, but with my actions and my ability to just be. Action is truly the only prayer. If you see a wrong, stop it. If you commit a wrong, remember, you do reap what you sow, again and again. Remember Love. Everyone faces some powerful spirits they’ve unwittingly shoveled into their own heads. Reject another’s clutter, find yourself again, and stumble upon yourself basking in the sun of Heaven…

(The wind, the wind, the winding wind finds you and smiles at your efforts to save Love and her children from the likes of the parasites of gloom, while being humble in the eyes of Creation, whatever it might be and wherever it might lead.)

There is nothing to fear but my mind not asking the question, “Am I in Heaven, the only Heaven I know?”

(Dusting off the last moment’s trophy- If you steal from the poor to give to the rich, you’ve got the tale backwards on your grin. All the hate and filth you’ve stored in memory-tombs of your self-induced mind, until, upon the brink, you go falling away from the embracement of Love, the soil of Love’s eternal kingdom, the (H)eartH, cherished in word and in deed…)

Remember…


© 2012 by mark richard prime

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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