Skip to main content

8.20.12 Forgiveness All Around


I imagine I’m writing many times that I should be praying and giving thanks to the Mother of the (H)eartH. The father just may be next for us upside-down headed children, an experiment, if you will? Will? Who had a choice in the matter? We’ve been programmed to receive some as of yet recognized signal from the angels on this eartH. We may be wingless, but God Almighty can we ever soar…

(More soaring, less roaring. Give silence a chance to breathe…)

She’s been in her solitude as long as she can remember. She’s been in her silence for longer than she probably even should in order to forgive her children their transgressions.

I was programmed to receive, if truth be told, and I’m okay with that. The eartH knows I deserve the lesson…

(Time…)

 (End.)

How can Time and End exist, there’s no such thing as either…?

If we’re tired, it ain’t from lack of trying…

(The sense is as exhilarating as it is destructive.)

End our vicious cycle of thieving greed and murder and war and rape and misguided judgments headed straight for the edge, what lies beyond in the unknown is anyody’s guess. As of today, at 2:52p.m. central standard time, it’s still unknown…

These words are flowing because they are coming from every spirit I've ever come in contact with. Every person and what they carried, the flesh of spirit...

It's not what others do that worries me, it's what they bring back with them in spirit...

We're all guilty of her attempted murder, for what, for Heaven when Heaven's beneath our feet the whole time? Sure, there's a chance this is the brain injury, but there's just as likely of a chance that the two events have more in common than I once imagined, either way, forgiveness all around. Cheers!


© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark and Michelle Prime


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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

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
12 comments
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...
Post a Comment
read the poem