Skip to main content

GOD’S THREADBARE WHISPER



She looks thinner. Limbs, hanging on by a threadbare whisper, and with a slight rustle and a loving grace she soars.

(Listen to her prayer. Heed her tongue crackling with sorrow, she begs for you to see! )

She does not long for me to fail her. Fail Love, fail God, fail Creation, fail Grandmother, fail Grandfather, fail.

(Laughter’s etched with your name on her skin like a tattoo engraved by God. Wear it proudly. Wear it lovingly. Wear it.)

I cannot forgo the truth.

(She looks ill with man’s use. She seems to be nearing her tolerance.
Oh! Prop open your eyes by ceasing the noise found in your machines!
The greatest invention ever imagined remains the heart of God, his bride, an eternal eartH.)

The truth tarries not, the truth does not hold her tongue, she speaks plainly- rumble, quake, groan- she loves without condition save that I- boom, rattle, thump and echo- love, love, love, love…



© 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

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

Access to...

It's odd to me that the future is accessible to God, but we're stuck with remembering the past, it's untenable. History repeats itself from our obsession with it. I say leave history where it is and instead create something of a present worth repeating.  © 2015 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem