CONFESSION ZERO

Leave the cross if you absolutely have to, but for the Love of God, end the suffering and blindness to the root causes of such despicable acts of terror. Maybe the cross should be seen as ground-zero of our symbolism? Bless those lost to terror (war). Peace and Love © 2014 Mark Richard Prime

This day’s count as it leaps higher still allows death to rush in unscathed, a blinding illumination crests within the winter of those still living. And while they’re airborne in that nameless sky, because only vengeance can offer them comfort while torture moves in chorus with their stillness, they shall go in any direction the sightless point. It is the count that we most remember, all of them, the living, the dead, and the dying toppling as one. ~ Within all that is observed and undetectable A memorial service, a knot in the quaking cosmos The boots and helmets and guns are at attention They stand ever still staring like creation The devout sermons trailing them Leaking a thimble of truth. ~ In the room with the talking box where we gather to be awash in consumption, a tiny flicker adheres to our wonder. ~ © 2014 Mark Richard Prime

© 2014 Mark Richard Prime

Manufactured wars (wars) are not our friend and certainly don't decrease the number of "terrorists". They increase them by our becoming the very thing we say we're fighting, and by increasing the loathing for such despicable acts of "terror" in the guise of taxes paid by we the people to drop bombs on those we say want to kill us. It's indeed a circle we march around on, a maddening circle, at that, so let's be sure that what we find when we come around full circle is not self-inflicted. © 2014 Mark Richard Prime

Now that we truly see them, the people of the world, why are our eyes not wet in the midst of scaly grief? Have we not shrieked in nameless terror long enough, been onlooker to nightmares of insensible winters beckoning to us from unfilled graves etched in awe? Now that we might truly see ourselves with the world’s stale eyes why do we condone the enduring massacre of even one more? Are we so fearful as to not flinch of our queasy indifference? We should be vomiting out our coldness and ingesting the puff-tongued hunger for peace. We need be humble and reaching not bombing and preaching. Too many bomb-split, blood-spilled, freedom-cuffed, breath-snuffed and killed. Listen… You can sense the dead eating our horror. Heed the dry bone now bleached under dawn’s collapse, perceive the stars and moon tremble and overlap the other. If you listen closely, you can hear immense wings clamoring for heaven. © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

(September is Hunger Month, what’s your emergency?) When hunger strikes it is not as swift, it is not as jaw droppingly horrific or nearly as visual or pragmatic as when terror comes. (Hello? This is Terror, what’s your emergency?) Terror comes as a thundering blast, piercing the rust of contentment, disintegrating steely assurance, hunger slithers in. (Silence…) News of terror strikes fear and panic, seduces our pounding, frantic wits with darkness, dust and death devouring whatever’s left. (Silence…) Hunger pays no attention to time or place running our courage over our eyes with the private ghastliness of its teeth veiled in bravery’s demise. (Silence…) We’d recognize hunger in a crowded airport. Know it if we accidentally bumped into it and turn away from its ugly and careworn face. Terror’s not made that way. It arrives with a most thunderous shot, penetrating the crust of our indulgence, obliterating our steely assurance while hunger slithers in. (Silence…) ...

(911, what's your emergency?) For this flight is there enough food to nourish the dark and horrid famine? Plenty water to ease across the razor’s barren edge? Sufficient breath to coax this; a collusion deep within? Is there ample shelter from this; a deceitful tomb? (911, what's your emergency?) Truth. Is there none? (Truth?) Who needs the truth? Lies are more valuable, made to easily pass through the takeoff's devising eyes. It’s the clever packing of truth and lies into a single carry-on that is the trick. (Lies?) Yes! It won’t turn the plane’s shadow into flame. (Flame?) Yes! It won’t cut the neck of slipshod freedom. (Freedom?) Yes! It won’t bring massive terror to the shores. (Terror? Freedom? Flame?) Yes! Lies! Lies; packed together as one, more easily sound round, edging near enough to truth. (Click...) Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman (911, what's your emergency?) Traffic! (I hear ya! So are you trying to get off the inte...

Bring me around to peace. Deliver my message toward Love. Cart in my kind’s flaccid limbs. Carry my death-weighted tongue nearest to the depleted peace. Navigate the wobbling orb that she might hold me anon, and, with her love, carry me to weeping, bring me to remember the worship of her. My kind has forgone creation’s gravity and now dangles at the mercy of Love. Will I make it back from here? Will my mind walk upon fertile land or will I execute the world’s terror with my tall sickles cutting through Love, the unbendable screens flickering an SOS… © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark and Michelle Prime