8.09.12 I Discarded revenge like a snake

(Junk Culture)

Love is here, she breathes our scent, knows our suffering, for it is hers to bear the brunt of the damage we’ve done to Love...

The Love of God, it is before you...

You haven’t revenge left in you, I took it out, I shed revenge like a snake. I turned you and I both into foes, brother, by my reckless turn. I loved you dearly, so I was left with little choice but to craft it of our pain, and, with the surplus of Love that I had amassed from my affection’s gait, I give to you, my brother, that your Life, your Laughter and the fullness of Love might rise within you at long last.

Go down in the flames of agony, or rise up to the surface of Heaven? I rose and fell to my bloodstained knees begging her to forgive me…

It’s simple really. Really simple actually.

Is that even possible? How could something that was really simple evade our forward vision? The eartH of Creation waits on our actions.

Let’s dance, not weep, unless it is for joy! Let’s not imagine anything greater than the eartH until we ourselves truly know something greater than the eartH! What must have we been thinking to treat her like nothing more than dirt? Mother eartH demands that we begin our journey…

Its time I give the Love I owe to others, before we begin to think of our own. The fullness of Love will be upon us, either way, so the outcome’s assured to be most Loving…

The story is not ours to write if it’s of anything other than love. We haven’t the right to speak as if we know anything more than the next of our journey after we die, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t believe, it just means we shouldn’t create hell on eartH when we’ve the chance to make it Heaven, after that, it’s within the fullness of Love, so anything after that can only be Loving if belief has anything to lend to the truth…

I’ve always been the scribe and I am fine with that. It’d be nice to have known sooner, but knowing me, I’d have sunken away from the challenge that was set down before me by the fullness of Love. Love is all I imagined, though my shell was slammed to the ground, full Love was/is all I could begin to imagine as the personal duty for my sins against others…

Do not fail. Do not fail to Live, Laugh and Love… Life depends on it.

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