The (H)eartH is a playhouse built by Love

The (H)eartH is a playhouse built by Love.

To me, in this loving belief, I've emptied any unneeded fears that might have tried to snuff out the light of Love’s truth, and if others have ill intentions toward any “fordrawn” conclusion in this belief, save for everything's going to be okay, when considering the one exactness, then it's on them. Belief can't end, it must continue until Creation says otherwise. Does that make sense?

It is not mine to control, it is Creation, it is the (H)eartH, it is God, it is Allah, it is Jesus, it is our most precious belief turned toward truth that we can imagine.

Ulaeal, unbelievably lovely and eartHly angel love...

Tulaeal, the unbelievably loveliest of angels, Love…

The traffic leaps in now as if to say we hear you. I reflect upon this great fortune within this belief come pouring its spirit before me.

It is you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you- and I’m not so sure that we’re not all prepared for this, our dance come latlely! A rat a tat tat and a flippety flip! There’s more than meets the eye in this! Boom bang and rattle tat tat and a rattle tat ting and fade into the sound…

Silence, Love, Worship, Reason and the Truth. All is, or so it would seem to me, to be out of our actual physical control and most indeed within our belief’s sway to lift Love at the level in our beliefs as we imagine Love to be…

Deeds and prayers, actions and words, they must rise and fall accordingly in our worship of what is our reality and of what we’ve created from what was, or is, inside of our beliefs…

The breeze tells me to take a breath and close my eyes to all that is done with the fullness of love, that I see or that I remember in order to then imagine the outcome set to greet me from such dimness.

Let’s converse. I ask that you, of your own accord, tell me of the fearful sorrow and the fullness of Love inside of your own belief, how else am I going to scribe your joy if neither you nor your spirit is near enough to join me in this, the dance of the Spirit of Love?

(What is the sun?)

To me, the sun, or sol, is a brightness resembling the crispness of truth, a freshness that should always remain within our personification of the same.

The wind and birdsong are sending me into the silence of prayer…

Peace, love, laughter, the circle of life. The life of my worship, not the worship of my life…

(ping)

(Echo…)

(Silence…)

(Sound…)

(Love…)

(Laughter…)

(Life…)

A Lifetime of Laughing
A Lifetime of Living
A Lifetime of Loving

…to you, yours and the HeartH of Creation…

(Joyful laughter…)

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

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

read the poem

Laughter's Grip

They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait on His voice to destroy the golden temples of man, hold my tongue until His powerful breath was upon me, and from His loving casualties I’d at last know the Savior. They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait for His followers to die away their persuasive babble and the murder of Islam to breach the walls of the earth as the many damned souls drowned under holy laughter. “O! The Lord God is looming! On his way with God’s wrath! We are to take up swords and send evil howling back to die their well deserved and slow death! Their faces popped and spattered these words as they fell back, caught in His fiery presence, twisting their tongues into drivel and thrashing their minds in the glory of an Eden unlike any other. And then the snake planted his venom through the laughter of their gyrating madness. Tears emptied their pockets, spirits came crashing , and the anointed rapture of their making grew tire...

read the poem

CONFESSION ZERO

Search This Blog