THE KEY TO LOVE’S DESTINY

(Songbird Studio - Violin Lake)

It makes its way to me in prayer, this spirit of my dance. It isn’t the man I became, or the many I’m with in dance, by prayer, by chance, by fate, by sanity, by simple reasoned explanations- maybe it’s all a dream…?

I’ll go with Love and place within her my Heart(H)…

The birds and breeze, the sky and sun, the sounds of Heaven soaring over man’s noise, the perfect accompaniment for what I have to say.

(The violin floats by as the songbird summons her aria and the wind lets its presence be known…)

Let me begin to pray to what I know and not what’s made from thought! Prayer is Love’s scribe and God’s unwitting stumble…

Take back my mind! Snatch it back, it's been snatched! Take it back, the key to Love’s door.

(Quiet your mind, Mark, and joyfully help create Love’s masterpiece!)

Oh! Rejoice and make history!

(Better make your fear history, too.)

What is this squat word that brings man to trembling on his knees?

(God?)

I meant fear, spirit. Fear is the squatting ogre, but you make a valid point on the word used to describe something so complex that words themselves can’t even begin to do it justice. Pray I'm ready for such a transition, and, above all else, I'll live, laugh and love.

My mind is stuck- twisted metal frame, plunged down again, I cannot shut off my upside-down head’s attempt to be savior in her eternal life and in her laughter and her love…

(Thank God for your head injury, there’s no telling where you’d have head-longed into if the story had been right-side up, hell would have been an impassable place…)

I climbed the mountain many times, had to go back down again to retrieve what I had forgotten to remember, but I’m now prepared to hold my ground, to pray to her known’s by my actions.

(And what the hell would you know about taking action, Mark Richard Prime?)

I wouldn’t, save for the act of giving my mind away. I do, however, know plenty about inaction.

(Do tell?)

Rather talk about action.

(You said a mouthful there, Nimrod.)

Touche’! …I meant I’d rather imagine action than its counterpart of death. Eternity offers some great accessories, standard, even on the oldest of models…

(What’s that supposed to mean exactly?)

Exactly? Nothing. But I wasn’t talking out loud, I was thinking.

(Thinking? You can’t even give a straight answer to the question, my unfettered friend.)

Exactly…

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

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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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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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CONFESSION ZERO

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