THE PIGGISH FLAG SLAPS IN THE WIND

The piggish flag slaps in the wind behind the backdrop of mechanical beasts.

(And the willow?)

She stood with her ancient limbs calling downward in leafless sorrow, pleading I surface in my breath with Creation, with Love.

(That you raise your voice now in joy, most thankful for your fortune of being in Heaven.)

The eartH, it is Heaven. Heaven, eartH…

(Do not pretend that you’ve nothing to lose just because everything, according to your belief, is going to be okay in the end. Do not cover your eyes if you can’t believe… raise your arms, drop to your knees, and pray to what you know beneath your feet! )

It’s happening- and on my knees, I find Home… Rejoice! Heaven awaits my full Love!

(But you are not worthy, you’re guilty!)

Now! Now is the only moment that counts, Curmudgeon! We are free to have Heaven, or if can choose to create hell, its been arranged by humankind to have one.

It is not the time to get angry at my plea, it is time, however, to acknowledge the sound of truth. If I fail, I’ll have this life to repeat again and again in search of Love, as if I’m raving, sightless, until death fails to breathe in the spirit evermore.

(If you'll see, you'll sense you are in heaven!)

Evermore…

(After you rejoice and sing of your great fortune, get busy cleaning the eartH, Heaven, Love’s water, rivers and streams, oceans, forests and seas and thee...)

I’ll bow to belief when belief requires only that I Love! Then I’ll bow.

(Who dares to question reality?)

It is I, Mark Richard Prime, greeting your sorrow with Love.

(It is not up to you to question certainty, you must merely believe in the unknowable truth.)

Truth?

(Believe that you’re in heaven and you’ll be in heaven. Begin. Begin now to shape your world, take it away from the oil barons and destroyers of the earth and give it back to Creation!)

Oh, Love! I’m home! I believe the wind is yours! I believe the rain is yours! I believe the snow is yours, I believe the mountains are yours, but for the life of me… why is man?

(Silence…)

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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........•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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Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

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CONFESSION ZERO

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