This is the day, now is the moment, clarity slips its scarf and it wafts to the sacred ground, a blanket to cushion the blow.

"Battle my brother" takes on a whole new meaning when the traffic roars. I believe both women and men and children, all, are essential to the resurrection of truth. The first belief, as I've want to scribe, had to have been nearest to the truth of where, what and who we are.

I believe women are precious, as are the children. We men are also precious to Love and Creation, but we need to let go of our rage at having never truly recognized that where we are is Heavenly Home.

I believe that it comes down to logic. We just need to logically evolve toward Love in our thinking, it's guaranteed to create something worth repeating of our tenure...

© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

Who are these children, daughters and sons and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews, knowing their (H)eartH is the thing they need get to know, beneath the feet, above the peak but not so high that you lose yourself and crash too soon (and frequently). Me. Who else?

(To hear you say it, you have Jesus in you, scribe!)

I have many spirits within me, I’ve imagined them as those figures we view within our reality to have tried to make a difference for Love and Creation, they are many, I am one, with you and you and you and you and you and you and you, this story shall not end! It is not mine to do so, it never has been…

The spirit enters as I exit its dance to breathe some fresh air beneath my habit’s swill…

The spirit behind the blond hair, the sunlight dancing through it like an alarm of knowledge of his suffering that may surely be beyond what I had allowed my self to become. Speak to him or let him be in his realm? It is an easy choice if I believe I’m dancing with his story, his search for Love his search for inner peace was summoned through me to his loving spirit, no more charade of fear, no more charade of innuendo, the truth has set me free within you. I chose to take everyone and all on a journey that was not my choosing, so who knows what is decided by me and what isn’t “supposed” to be, let it come and smile and laugh and love and live like there’s always a sunrise tomorrow…

Now I’m bowing to God and Love, to Forgiveness, in Peace and with great and mythical joy of having finally found out the **** truth! Boom bingedy bang bang! The truth is what we make it, and I know it beyond my nose, beyond any sense of a system built to self destruct spiritually that it might then reset its clock and continue down this path of vengeance. Release me of such fantasy that I might rumble up in protest for how we’re choking the (H)eartH and destroying the Heart(H) by not listening to one another’s beliefs and finding its fullness of Love reflected in your actions, thoughts and words. I am a tri-fecta when I’m breathing my prayer…

Nothing to be alarmed about, not in the least, really, but I imagine there are those that seek to do the union of God and Love more damage than is soon to echo back its reply of there is no fear within the union, so Love will be sure to win, then they can stop imagining they’ll inherit hell instead of Heaven, well not on my watch, I can guarantee.

(How could you possibly guarantee that where you are is Heaven?)

It’s heavenly. It’s truth. It’s Love. It’s Forgiveness. It’s Laughter. It’s child. It’s youth. It’s our brightest imaginations summoning the fullness of their Love-

(Traffic swoops its talon’s through me and the truth is born of industry, the lie that money can buy you happiness! You’ve stripped enough of our will to be, just be instead of bombard ourselves with our foul human stains upon the grounds fabric, noise born of fear, the fear if never knowing why on (H)eartH we’re here! Boom shack a lacka shack a boom boom go her hips in motion toward Heaven’s escape from the truthof what is unknown beneath the feet, unexplored anymore save for her profit to a slim few, she’ll not hesitate…

Love will win out. Love is the strongest spiritual fiber known to humankind. Bar none.

What will our reaction be long after our wars have faded? Left to its own devices it will die away like an alley way whisper and open its wings and speak through Peace.

No more weapons of mass destruction
No more support from we the human population
Release your fears
set them free in me
They'll not have a chance to bloom
Chance to be no boom boom
Boom boom no more
Bing bang a ricochet against the faded truth
Let it hit the truth centerward
Bring out our bleached bones to greet the sun
We need a little help if our songs already sung
Singing of Love and Creation's a journey
A flight, a cruise over the ebbing water
Mother, Father, Daughters
Sons, bing bang, it's what they say
The spirits dancing within my dance
In the dream of the dream's chance.

This is dream's resuscitated...

© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

The wind, the wind, the wind; a bugle for the hours of our darkness puffing the moon to radiant madness like bloodshed leaking upon the soil.

We detect the method in our folly, but douse truth like a candle flame. We rigidly seek out bereavement to the tempest’s howling shame.

The wind, the wind, the wind weeping a blanket for such coldness, a mantle for our threadbare shoulders, its agony holding in our disgrace.

Costumes litter our doorways year round; masks of suffering to cover the mourning in our eyes, as phantoms to fold over our speech.

The wind, the wind, the wind; the sign language of exactness blowing from hand to fist, from our breath to bereavement.


© 2010 by mark prime

The water waits on us as we lay upon the sand.
Waiting, waiting for our bodies to become one.

You say, "I do not know how to swim”
and I say, “I will teach you”.
But that is a lie,
it is the water that will instruct us both.

We walk into the water until it laps at our stomachs,
it surrounds us; our fingers, toes, *******, tongues, lips;
our naked bodies held by the ocean’s soothing caress.

The water doesn’t think of our fear.
It holds us. It sways our bodies.
The water cannot sense our doubts, our joy,
it only senses we're there waiting within it;
another tiny thing suspended in its grip.

My hands under your back are like small hover crafts
balancing you in the water that holds our smiles.
Our lips and tongues meet in a tender and watery dance.

The ocean doesn’t know we’re smiling,
doesn’t sense our urgent breath,
it is without conscience, yet exhaling with us.
It could easily wash us away if it knew our thoughts;
the evil outside of this moment,
instead it holds us there like a pirate ship,
a vessel that met its fate long ago,
frozen beneath this massive thing
lapping our nakedness,
the thing that brings us to sway.

You plead, "Don't let me go!",
and I say, "I've got you. I'll never let go."
But this is another lie.
If the ocean wanted, it could take you from me,
swallow us both, that we congregate with pirates.

My tongue now glides over your prone body
as your hands begin to reach down.
Your *******, without conscience, greet my lips,
your hands, reaching for me, do battle with the sea.

What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us
in the stamp of days lurching forward
on the damp streets, eyes upon our feet,
omitting the faces
reflected in this glass grown in our hands
and thickened skies over the oceans clot
of war’s nectar, man’s squander,
while mountains give way to unconscious
machines; voices, wooden with a thick green-love?

What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us,
that the march of a grassless plain
or an iceless crest cannot sign;
we gauge their descent like a killer,
set to be forgiven sins we’ll soon commit
as pointed fingers wag at the surging breach
leaning its majesty over the dampened sun.

You have led us to this place.
        There is no rest now, no slumber for man
        while the chirp of night leaks down on him.

        You entered under shadows,
        the dark of darkness weaving into apparitions.

        We may see a section of it,
        The sun wandering across us.

        I recall the dis-ease tightening the soul,
        bent to fit into hours of insignificance.

        When will you arrive home?
        Will your guests
        be staying long
        or will they step over graves like good soldiers
        when we’re sunken, our ******* eaten?

        Clear-cut skies climb inside our judgment
        and the likeness cuddles up with a dreadful worship.

        Keep leading us on our way, only curb your rage
        to a simmer, feast instead on love.

All clocks have stopped their thrumming,
    The creatures slink across the threads of redness,
    Not enough violins, too much violence
    Breathing to the drum of our failing love.

    This; our dust, is not settling as it should,
    Coating the skies with the scourge of loathing,
    Placing the truth lower than the ashen claws of discourse,
    Opening the metal gate to blindness and dismay.

    Time is not needed at present; it’s ticking, deaf
    To our tally, unheard prayers radiating,
    Pouring over the shadowy oceans and seas,
    Clocks without hands... or anything worth keeping.

The old man asked if air weighed more than gold,
if truth held sway over deceit, the last time I knew who I was,
recognized myself for me, not as a tool of greed,
but who I am; my truth, my love, my hope, my laughter.

I considered my obligations as a warrior,
a father, a brother, a son and a man… judge, jury
and executioner… Lift my spirit in laughter and love,
bring me to my knees beneath heaven’s beam;

I’m weighing my answers like a ******,
one eye upon the scope, the other, my motive.
Man and mankind, far from home, carrying out plans,
half duty, half flesh, standing bone-deep to my waist,
the exactness of a worship I cannot recognize as good.

In the bony sand, the original cradle embracing me,
kissing my eyes with wet lips, my ears with truth,
my body, with the throbbing of a most private flesh;
a forlorn inhalation stains my finest hour.

The old man extends his arms for me to enter...
or shatter. The choice is mine.