CONFESSION ZERO

O! Humanity flying down! Will thou not catch thyself and stay a while longer? Can you not hear the music within you, the sweet reverie of morning warble, “Live… Live… Live…”? Look to your sky not to your feet. Look to serenity not to the eyes of oblivion. Look to the children dancing in the night. Look heavenward! Right thy journey! See the bird’s wing aloft in splendid flight, may not you be like her and stay a while longer? O! Humanity slipping `way! Do not forsake this world! Stay within her arms! If you turn `way and face not the writhing truth you’ll let slip a fragile magnificence and her children will laughter end... © 2008 by mark prime/thepoetryman

The sun had its sky, the sky had its blue, the blue had its clouds, all held to an ensuing loss. The world had its nectar to offer, stunning mountain ranges, plentiful fields of grain, sustaining waters… The sky did then forsake them on this day, widowed of a pristine love bathing them in joy, the weight of it unhappily tumbled down, congregating with one another, mourning… The sun had its sky, the sky had its blue, the blue had its clouds, all gripped in looming collapse. After the shock of death’s swift alliance with anger they held their heads high and marched onward, all the while in grief’s search they strode past denial and posed the earth's hovering question, Why did the sky abandon our trust? “I’ve never seen people enjoying their husband’s death so much.” screeched the hollow voice of the rigor-mortis-of-rant, the miscreant’s language spilled from an empty breach splintering, once again, the solemn day’s widowed sky. Copyright © 2006 markrprime/thepoetryman ...

O! Madness of our most maddening day! You come as an unshakable memory sidling up against our ashen skin, howling low your senseless deluge, through bitter sky you plummet to our minds, tattered ruins of time floating face down, floor by floor, beam by beam, soul by soul… The squall, long gone, remains a dust of shattered will standing on the bitter streets of these events, bringing quarrel to honest men in dwindling light. A jagged state split by wealth and power, haves and have mores cackling in wretchedness, hording the air in search of our lungs, floor by floor, beam by beam, soul by soul… Molding a single day into mantra for empire, rattling sabers and beating drums to tyranny’s stride. You crushed them. You still crush them in rigid desire. O! Let this day alone! You must now let it be! Let them rest. Let the embers fade. Let them go! Release this day. Liberate it. Set it free, floor by floor, beam by beam, soul by soul… Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman The Path to...

Our dreams, our thoughts with silent hands groping for light, folding outward through the streets in hunt of a forged hope, what voice do they follow? What path calls to them, the bright toxic dust-spattered air, the founding ships, the bright soil aching for seed, the whimper of a child? Do they seek the stolen, warped, molten frame of glinting icons? There is no learning if they pursue the light to shine innocence. There is naught to glean in reaffirming glory’s ghost, igniting the once tall beacon if they seek to blind over truth and not use its sturdy beam to reinforce new hope. Have they crawled over garbage and corpses equally empty of love? While they search do they witness murder, disease, and the awful voices calling to them, “sing the anthem”, “pray for country”, “salute the flag”, “one idea”, “one god”? Have they freely begged, groveled, pawing that they might mean something? Our ideas, our thoughts with silent hands groping for light, folding outward through the ...

This year what shall we commemorate? What ghosts shall accompany our odes? Are we forever to bow to a headless myth? Is it right? Is it hopeful? Will it pass on, joining those without cause now gone? Time is a fickle creature shaped like dreams, last year can be no more than one year, the year before that and the next and the next. Ghosts wander in our minds not upon the ground and only in dreams might we call to them. Rage flies swiftly dispersing its grave weight and we feel nothing behind our dead face. Have we ever felt anything, headless phantoms, we? Last year mocks not the year before. It is we, we who mock the solemn red dawn. We’ll soon bow our headless heads in majestic awe and whispers of vengeance soaring on high, burdening the ground with a wrathful screeching sound. Next year how shall we mourn? Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

march march march bomb bomb bomb work work work bang bang bang enslave yourself to mankind’s bane march march march onward now in rhythmic chains stepping now forward once then twice back bomb bomb bomb truth now split hope gone flat march march march toward the tower toward your god work work work this, our drum, it must not stop! bang bang bang bomb bomb bomb march march march march march march march march march... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

They tiptoed into my sleep wearing dusty clothes and no shoes. They tried to not let me hear them but the little girl put forth a giggle and the boy laughed, too. Soon the whole room teetered in merriment. A while passed and a hush fell around us; a silent prayer, save for the short breaths of the children; petite puffs in search of a throat. There were nearly twenty in the group. They had been searching for years but were always met with sideways glances, and oftentimes violence. They smelled like sand. They were gentle. I sensed they’d come for my help, but knew not what I could do. The looks on their faces; the pain. The anguish... The truth... The little boy now began to cry, followed soon after by the little girl. Then, like rain, we all began to weep. Our crying grew into an unexpected howl; a sorrowful choir of wingless angels... and a great wall of water crashed down upon us dropping from the shat...