Wouldn’t a Loving Peace and a Peaceful Love Serve Creation

(Desktop Nexus - Midnight Sky)

The midnight sky behind the stars went on forever, an eternal dream of mine, my never-ending reverie, my trance of evermore, my dance with destiny, more our dance, yours and mine, mine and yours, with a most willing spirit, the breath of Love.

The one star looking back at me brought me to wonder, might we live forever with death becoming a new life to relive again and again and again until our beliefs center around the things we know?

The (H)eartH of Love calls out with Creation’s thrumming beat, begging I give up belief ..and bring my eyes down opened wide and begin to feverishly pray that I’ve still time to end the attempted murder of Life, restore the Life I’ve drained from Love‘s precious Heart(H), return the Love I’ve claimed in blood. The tragedy’s a manifest destiny woven of fear, eternal instead of Love’s echo, her never-ending return to Love held in the spirit’s hands that tell me life will come again and again and again and again and again and I will be exactly where my belief takes me, good and/or bad.

Wouldn’t a loving peace and a peaceful love serve Creation? Wouldn’t a search for kings and miracles be better served if I looked beneath my feet, to the Home upon which all of breath breathes, all of Love loves and all of Life lives until…

I believe that all I know is all there is to know, but might there be more? Where I am, who I am and what I am? Let me turn my sights to that which gives without asking for anything in return, to that which is life’s sustenance, its beholden, the mother, the Heart(H) of Creation.

(Remember this, steward of love and home.)

If belief doesn’t always remind me of where I am, then what good will it be when my beholden begins to heal? I must begin to realize where I am before The Mother sways her hips and split’s the dance floor with her quake, before The Father strikes his radiance across the flesh and reveals the bloodletting of the sacred spirit, before the train whistle goes unnoted and my thankless existence gets erased from the songbook of Love.

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

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...

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

read the poem

CONFESSION ZERO

Search This Blog