CONFESSION ZERO

"Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them."  ( More... ) Actually there are more ways than one to reach the heart. One, we’ve made a catchphrase, the stomach. But this is the least of them. The starved still love, still need, still desire affection, a hand unfolded for them to take, an open smile to veil their throbbing like an umbrella on the beach that holds the searing sun at bay. There are our hands that hold our ache, that grope at serious doubt, that let loose our caged hate like silos of grain. Hands that knowingly embrace friends, that high-five and remember routines formed at youth, our bond with one another, hands reaching for the most in man, his kinship. Our shoulders and elbo...

Where is the song, the verse to teach us truth, joy that is beautiful? Not the song that brings man to drop bombs and move others nearer their closing breath and leads us to murder, to cruelty, as if we hadn’t memorized our love, hadn’t perceived the sound of truth, witnessed the rage within us all. Where is the song... sung without self, without our stroke, the howling refrain without interpretation? We need remove our costume, take off the discordant uniform of flags, remove the banners we wear like smiles, panic pulled over our heads like a sweater, blind to what approaches below the fabric, beneath the fog of hatred worn in damp cellars packed with loathing. We need walk nearer the furtive truth, our oneness that looks with precision toward another. We don’t love that other song, the opus of destruction, lethal and hollow, a watery echo we can’t afford to sing, not for another minute. © 2010 by mark prime Anti-Violence Act Sends Hope to Women Around the World

How dare cruelty throttle laughter? Women withered inside the surrender beneath an oracle of klieg lights, beneath instruments of an unrequited rage with the stamp of coldness calling down. How dare brutality hammer away at joy? Pitiful artists, blood for watercolor, suffering as the brushes stroke that marches across affection like death bearing shapeless and shivering claws. How dare we do nothing but rewind, turn back our film to view such horror masquerading as grave confusion, a bitter love to be honored by man. How dare such loathing not be seen for what it is, our most severe sickness wearing the disguise of truth, lies wrapped in fists and tongues pointing back at man, without words. © 2010 by mark prime

"Life is not measured by the number of Breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away." Our veil’s been touched, our frown's a stage to lift up, expressions etched in fury. Joy to gloom to failure we’re dying, trading air for dust, belief torn to shreds for compost, limbs bleached with dirty bombs dropped down into caverns of love, flattened to make room for peace beneath the willow, the hickory and the oak of our breath. We know of joy, of goodness. We’ve heard stories of love, love without fists shredding laughter, truth served with water alongside seeds beneath the sun. But now we know of life curved, fallen into the dusty crypt that twists our spines into shapes that break our bond with another, fists falling furiously upon the meek, bent in disregard, scowling of goodness between two worlds on the beam of man. Our feet are gaining weight, bearing without joy, hands gripped in fury, fingers paled with dread, ...

I've nothing new to add to this, our story. I've nothing crimson or unique, nothing to bend in a new light. I've just me, myself to lend, this skin, my shell to wrap with a goodness, not mine, but of me. I’m moving under the beam of sun, the joy raised up to the light, a servant walking lightly, careful of the burden in my gait, in the silent request of my affections. I've nothing new. Nothing that’s crimson or unique, nothing to bend in a new light. Without the knowledge of that which truly matters, how could I? © 2010 by mark prime

I look at man, at green grass, old trees, red clay and the turn of frost tiptoeing toward me, and if I say I know, if I believe I know what comes next near this flame, I’ve purchased a vast untruth, the crippled body of man’s wreckage, lies, murder, rape, cruelty, as if we’re undulating with the engine of chance on divine tracks of quietude and not those of ruin. What does all this have to do with violence? If I love, I sought love first, you, only after my love was found. Thinking of this might seem crazy in a mad world of self, a quaking of failure that’s living upon our existence, that’s worshiping upon our loving, set to run aground where joy waits upon our inheritance, love upon truth. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? In my days, in my time, I will lift my love and my affection will feed upon the seeds of truth. © 2010 by mark prime No Bully Teaching Tolerance Kids Against Bullying Anti-bullying Network Stop Bullying Now ...

(Cause Cast)  ~This, A Prayer For Kindness, is the first poem in 2010 for the month-long series of daily poems called Violent Verses, poetry for non-violent resolutions, domestic or otherwise.~ __ Dearest justice, won’t you smile? We’ve heard of your coming, but need your breath within us now. Now, before our faces turn from goodness, forgo our account, our worship and love and make a charade of your sun. We’ve been looking for you, for your sunrise in our cups, entreating love’s gentle bloom to stand with its silence, its softness beckoning, asking that we open our steeled fist that they might again become hands. © 2010 by mark prime DVAM - Domestic Violence Awareness Month NCADV - National Coalition Against Domestic Violence USDOJ - United States Department of Justice FVPF -  Family Violence Prevention Fund (The link below will bring you to all, present and 2009, violent verses) Confession Zero's 'Violent Verse' | poetry supp...