A NEW BEGINNING BOOK

WRITING THE STORY WITHOUT FALLING DOWN...

CHAPTER ONE:

This story is a short trip into madness... A long haul into our echo to stave off what's surely coming...

The ridge line glimmered as the sun got dressed for the day-tripping across the universe. You'd have to be crazy to see it otherwise, perhaps it's just me?

(Who's crazy?)

Yes.

(Join the club, Poetryman.)

Why me?

(Shit, boy! You know the answer to that weak kneed response!)

Why not?

(Eureka! The boy's catching on like hot cakes with peanut butter! In the wind, Scribbler, just relax and go in hot, brother, have that spirit of Love enter in with you and you're sure to find it a joy...)

She is with Me. Think.

(Yip.)

CHAPTER TWO:

The ridge line beat a trail into grooves, beams of light glancing off of the next command of God: you become pointless if you don't speak! But then the same might be said of your silence.

The chirp of night leaked down its angel's wings and there was laughter in the valley. I wasn't expecting God to answer when I knocked, imagine had I been?

CHAPTER THREE:

-The Dance of Consciousness-

(Hope it's better than last year's Dance of Unconsciousness! I got stuck in the bathroom the whole night!)

Did you go to The Dance of Subconsciousness?

(No. I knew when it was, but forgot all about it.)

Subconsciousness thus hidden, can and must and will be revealed if we are to save ourselves from the elevated reflection we have of ourselves, these tiny creatures squawking about votes instead of talking bout what's real, what's vital to our survival, what rings a bell, that holds us lovingly, all, bar not one, in flesh or in spirit, no damnation exists- Hey look! It's Heaven's Gate. It's why in the story of hell there's no gate, we can always checkout and leave, this ain't no Hotel California, this here's the scribe, affectionately known as Scribbler. At least I think it's affection that brings another to think such kind things. Circles are handy things, huh?

No need to be demeaning in your inability to speak of what I believe as much as what you believe your idea that belief resides outwardly along with God- See? Already hit a snag! Not five seconds it took to reveal the truth- God is also, always and evermore, within you...

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