A Hushed and Soothing Reverie

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world and sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich. Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds and unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips.

O! That this world could make use of silence or a hushed and soothing reverie from the heavy chains knotted around our breath. The tongues are corroded over with idols and liars and hordes of impish drones and toadies and criminals, a fine mess we’ve made of it! A fine mess we’re into now, a world in disarray.

And someone’s going to stop breathing tonight. A father’s going to cry, kill or pray as someone else will sleep far away from his grief. Sleep roundly without sorrow. The moving sand and running streets and flying steel pilfering the radiance will send a messenger, a virgin warrior, with tidings of community and expectation, only to return with news of a lifeless planet with lifeless inhabitants; dull and jaded. Another more seasoned warrior will then be sent with reports and bags of gold, only to return with news of an insensible planet with insensible and terrified patrons. Then it will be time to send the general, a gallant, fearless stag of impeccable servitude armed only with the kings dangling gaze hard upon his back. The news is good. The planet breathes. The previous, now lifeless dispatches were two-faced traitors…

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world and sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich. Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds and unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips, a command was given to cease all opposition and to run crying for shelter.

Come! Warble your dissent! Whimper in anger! Snivel in disbelief and comfortless drivel until the soil trembles with your quaking of our liberty that is the world’s torment, for the virgin and the seasoned have been silenced and all that remains is monstrous! O! If the rivers could but sing of this time they’d flood the world in sorrowful verse...

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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