FROM WHICH TO PRAY AND REMEMBER

(A bowed head goes a long way in humbling you, Mark Richard Prime…)

My journey into belief’s unknowable unknown has humbled me as possibilities unfolded before me one frame at a time. One frame held all my fears, the others, an eartH like I’d never imagined before.

(Ignorance might well be bliss to some people, but sightlessness is to none.)

I was blind. I had to have been to have missed her beneath me. Oh! The shame in that alone is nearly enough to spin me out of control within this prayer. I see myself as most guilty at having abused Love, both of the flesh and the spirit. Love hadn’t much reason to have whispered her vision inside of me, my sightlessness, my fearfulness of that which I could not know and of that which I never managed to remember…

Let me remember her flesh and her wings, her nectar and her green, let me pray to what I know, no more praying to belief. Just how long did I imagine I could worship my human mind’s unfortunate imagination without ever sensing that it wasn’t the most important thing to Love? Actions, deeds are the grand tests of my Love.

I deemed her Heavenly the second I laid eyes on her, seemingly for the very first time. Her beauty is one of grace and forgiveness and a most loving truth. She calls to me in the darkness through natures opening scene, to the moon’s beams cascading across the green and blue night. Rejoice! Her symphony of sound comes alive now! The whippoorwill comes round, the cricket trembles its sound, the dog yelps in the yard, and the breeze jangles its kiss across my skin- The stars! The stars gaze upon my journey! Love’s light to shine its kingdom upon my joyful countenance. They are sentinels in wait of my sight’s return after far too many years of its absence…

Love can conquer all. Just ask the Mother. Oh! The eartH, how she surely trembles at my human use? How she administers her affections to the craven mouth bent in supplication upon my horribly barren belief in everything but Home…?

The rumble smashes the ceiling of my dream and I catch the shards in my willing hands. They plunge inside my veins and return me to the scene of the Truth. It is noiseless, it has no noise (fear) within its grasp- it is radiant Love.

(Love hasn’t the capacity to fill its caverns with fear, it recognizes it not. It knows nothing but Life, Laughter and Love, it is a Heavenly Home from which to pray and remember…)

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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