"prodigal" poems
Independence day, a day to celebrate the birth of a nation and those who fought and currently fight to keep it free.
It is something more at least to me ,it don't have to be limited to just the forth of July
We can have Independence day any day
When some one gets victory over Alcohol or drugs, it is an Independence Day
When someone breaks free from abuse, it is an Independence Day
When troops come home after war and get to be back in their loved ones arms, it is an Independence day
When the Lonely finally make a friend, it is an Independence Day
When the Prodigal returns to a loving family after years or being away, It is an Independence Day!
When emotional chains finally break loose, it is Independence Day
May the rockets blaze across the sky, raise the banners high
It is Independence Day!!!
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:--
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place."
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Growing up, I was taught the story of two men
One built his house upon the rocks and one upon the sand
And I learned the difference between humility and pride
I was taught to differentiate the foolish from the wise
Because when God sent the rainfall and the waters began to rise,
The house on sand crumbled right in front of thoughtless eyes
And my father would tell me, "Darling, don't build your foundation in the weak, in something that might die"
But I've been constructing my home on gravel my entire life
If there is a God
Why did he let me build my house upon the sand?
Why did he lay down every brick and let the nails tear through my hands?
I am an urchin in the dirt leaving claw marks in the earth
And my cries fall from my mouth and cling to my tattered shirt
If there is a God
Then why would he call himself a Father to me?
Why would he want to break my heart and crush my dignity?
He prides himself on the ringing in my ears
and his mason jars of tears
Instead of being my faith, why would God want to be my greatest fear?
If heaven is where he is,
then hell is anywhere but here
If there is a God
And he's my Father
And he is so divine
Then why did I grow up so sick and sad and tired all the time?
Why would he instill doubts from Satan himself for everyone to see;
"You're inadequate
Inadequate
That's all you'll ever be"
My mistakes render me useless,
At least, that's what Father says of me
And if there is a God,
And he's my father
How could he walk away as if nothing ever happened, although I have seen it all before
Because what happens in this House of Heaven stays behind closed doors
He would enter his bedroom, and leave the door open just a crack
So when he would read his Bible and show us how a true Christian should act
I'd turn to my little brother and say "I wish one day we'd be holy like that".
The mortar in my walls are breaking and the water is rushing in
I wish so badly to repair it, but I've always been like this
The dirt I fell in twenty years ago is matted to my skin
The cuts on my soul since childhood are all I've ever been
I'm sorry Father, for I have sinned
And I have nothing good to show
And I don't mean to point the blame, Father, but sin is all I've ever known
If there is a God, would he let me stand before his throne?
Would he take me into his arms and treat me as his own?
Would he wash my ***** shirt and let me stand where the saints have stood?
Would he help me build a house upon the rocks
Like a father should?
I wonder if I can build it well enough to reach him
Because my current house can't as long as its this way
If there is a God
I wonder what he'd say
about me
I am the prodigal daughter you never learned about in stories
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
1466
One of the ones that Midas touched
Who failed to touch us all
Was that confiding Prodigal
The reeling Oriole—
So drunk he disavows it
With badinage divine—
So dazzling we mistake him
For an alighting Mine—
A Pleader—a Dissembler—
An Epicure—a Thief—
Betimes an Oratorio—
An Ecstasy in chief—
The Jesuit of Orchards
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire Attar
For his decamping wants—
The splendor of a Burmah
The Meteor of Birds,
Departing like a Pageant
Of Ballads and of Bards—
I never thought that Jason sought
For any Golden Fleece
But then I am a rural man
With thoughts that make for Peace—
But if there were a Jason,
Tradition bear with me
Behold his lost Aggrandizement
Upon the Apple Tree—
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i was born all naturally
formed in a lax factory
im actually
a hack with ******* in my nose, practically,
every day, haphazardly
stumbling home, half asleep
i cant tell whats happening
vision begins blackening
im whack like kriss kross
crack like rick ross
major brown boy to houston
be like, "yes, we have liftoff"
dont like me when i'm ****** off
cause ***** i'm bruce banner
or maybe i'm bruce wayne
either way, i got mad manners
tearing down walls like berlin
preaching like its a sermon
potential begins to burgeon
i'll cut you up like a surgeon
killing in place of coercion
so you better lower the curtain
my head and my body are hurtin
so tell me how quick does the world spin?
i'm taddling on ya, you can call me a toddler
but the snitchin n' **** is somethin im never fond of
and i never grow up, cause i'm the neverland smuggler
peter pan turns into one of my best customers
i never grew into my head, im not cocky
never had the eye of the tiger, im not rocky
growing up i never got in fights or caused a lotta ****
but presently im screaming **** the world", i've got a bone to pick
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
you hold me captive, keep me trapped in your facets of laws
looks of repulsion are what cause me to brandish my claws
constant compulsions reminiscent of prodigal flaws
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
see im a goblin shark i'll sink in my nautical jaws
im not a joker im a jester with lesser facades
wrought with insomnia cause drugs are american gods
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
I wish this was about what is missing
I wish they'd have stolen all of me
Buried it somewhere
Pushed it out of a truck
Speeding down a highway
Too fast for
My mother to notice
Too quietly for
My father to care
It is what they left of me
For everyone to see
Out in the open
Ugly, marred
Screaming, biting
Foaming at the mouth
So unlike a daughter
The prodigal son
Is welcomed home
The feral mutt
Is drowned
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 5:40 PM UTC
1045
Nature rarer uses Yellow
Than another Hue.
Saves she all of that for Sunsets
Prodigal of Blue
Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly
Like a Lover’s Words.
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Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Independence day, a day to celebrate the birth of a nation and those who fought and currently fight to keep it free.
It is something more at least to me ,it don't have to be limited to just the forth of July
We can have Independence day any day
When some one gets victory over Alcohol or drugs, it is an Independence Day
When someone breaks free from abuse, it is an Independence Day
When troops come home after war and get to be back in their loved ones arms, it is an Independence day
When the Lonely finally make a friend, it is an Independence Day
When the Prodigal returns to a loving family after years or being away, It is an Independence Day!
When emotional chains finally break loose, it is Independence Day
May the rockets blaze across the sky, raise the banners high
It is Independence Day!!!
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
I want to be your guitar
Run your fingers over my fret board
Pluck my strings and give me my melodious avatar
Sing to me and play that major chord
I’m feeling your song through and through
You don’t need a plectrum, you’re a born original
Work your rhythm baby, let’s get on the groove
Your fingers are enough to create our music wholly attritional
I will reward you myself for how you release my tension
I will resonate our love song through longevity
You’re a prodigal performer, I can feel you in tune with locomotion
We will move from verse to chorus under no shadow of ambiguity
I want to be your guitar
Let my moans reverberate off your walls
A finer touch for our creativity – a sitar
Let’s Indioul our way through these musical waterfalls
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
3.8k
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck
I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter
Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question
I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s
I am
I am what I will be
I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light
I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies
I am
I am what I will be
Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"
Choosing well
choosing better
Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully
Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
The truth flowed out of me
Like a flood
And everything I've ever said
Tainted with the blood
Every shadow brooding
Silently I
Call to the sun
Open my purple eyes
Strangulation
Seared imagination
The child the child the child
Put down the child
Cast away the child
The prodigal son
Was killed by bears
Hounding sidewalks for nickels
The truth shone from my eyes
Half closed
Half asleep
Half adrift
Not alive.
Something deep within has died
Brittle bones and shaky sighs
Rattled breaths and paper hide
Put down the child
Goodbye
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Caecearian dissection
Reaped from the sow
Emerged & is unable to die
Everlasting love for Jasmine
Flawed emotions in time
Reputable craps of worthless reason
Ostentatively prodigal, these
Multiple details in our pound of flesh
Hate; no opposite of love
At tandem thus may exist
Temporary it is; fate quenched
Elevated again is love; for it'll never die
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
*Should the prodigal sphere of daffodil
Finger your hair divine with its powers
And hold a communion of flower to flower,
May my heart flatten like a humble plateau,
So when you smile the smile of the City of Bacolod,
I can clumsily tell you the poem of I love you-s.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
I **** on your grave for I have had too much to drink!
A glass 'o ginger beer and shrimp crackers I ate today.
Thou art not to fall! To tartuffery for a drink is as good as the last.
But alas, I am not to drink.
For my heart is heavy with woe.
Those stoics! They bring me much misery.
Oh the stoics, with their logically given truths that are naught but prejudice! Prejudice in truth they claim, liars.
Oh the stoics, with their ****** analogies of nature and so fourth.
To be! Like nature, is to be indifferent and prodigal.
That's probably why we love the intelligent uncaring character. He is nature.
She too! O' who's heart is full of love! She brings me roses and kisses upon my lips. She too, is nature. Stupid also, unbelievably crass.
Is crassness then, what we call nature? Then it is he! He! Who bring us our daily news who is unnatural. But then who is the preacher?
No, nature is to live. To live! Hah! A joke! To live is not a command for you cannot conceptualize living without living.
You'd do better as a pretty little scarab, but he doesn't drink ginger beer.
So too, our conclusion is to be natural. But not the scarab. To live, obviously. To be correct! by our own prejudice. And to reject divinely given truths. I do not know how I would feel about children of my own, we'll see when I have one.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
I sleep in pitch black rooms and wait
for candles to light themselves
Thoughts the same shade of dark.
Counting sheep as they hop into slaughter houses of gluttonous, avaricious men who trade their humanity for pocket change.
While satans minions work with circumspectivness to reap what their slave-like bourgeois have sewn living with a motto of
Yesterday is history tomorrow is a mystery
In the Meantime fribble prodigal sons of the privileged ponder their inheritance
While the daughter of a currier burns her fathers letters because something's are best left unknown
and the candles remain unlit.
But beauteous animals still roam free in the wild,
little kids still smile.
There's hope in the heart of each child.
Sitting in seclusion and coming to Ambiguous conclusions is always productive
So When did the key to success become failure?
when wasn't it?
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The homecoming of the soul is a great affair of joy and sweetness
but is also characterised by a feeling of surrender and meekness.
After having gone astray through ignorance into the world of pain and sorrow
it returns back home like a prodigal son with joy and thought for the morrow.
___________________________________________________________
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
I was born a little fat baby,
with eyes shining blue under a cloud of regret.
I was their marriage bond,
A single mother and her manager
and this new crying child that neither of them knew what to do with.
They didn't know what to do with each other.
I was raised on shattered glasses,
broken trinkets,
and holes in the wall
all souvenirs of my father's anger and my mothers fear.
I was raised on sleeping on my brothers floor
because the screaming was too bad to hear on my own.
I learned my lessons on submission on my mothers fingertips,
as she would sweep the glass,
wipe the blood,
and make breakfast while humming, as though these things were just another part of a family dynamic.
And when I was 15, and I threw back a shot of ***** for the very first time,
I found I had learned lessons on dependence
from my fathers daily sin.
My parents tried to un-write their failures in me,
Telling me all the things not to do,
as they handed me a meticulously crafted manual
on exactly how to do them.
I was a shining baby,
and when my dad started to see his regrets in my mother,
and then in me,
he left the state without a single goodbye.
I was a shining baby,
with blue eyes and soft hair,
and I watched my mother cry for months,
as she moved us from fresh start to fresh start.
I was expected to be a prodigal daughter,
forged in the ashes of the lives
that the shining baby burned down.
I crumbled,
I am not a prodigy,
I am a ******** girl
with enough mistakes stacked up at my young age,
to make my father proud.
I don't want to be a success
I don't want to be a failure
I don't want to be
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
In warmth beneath the insulated drywall
I curse my gooey insides
for not being as solid
as the lamented linoleum
moreover, I wish I didn't need
to declare such trivialities but
I do
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
some say im cynical
satanical
that my minds mechanical
diabolical
spoken essence erotical
detestable
jaded imagery hypnotical
unstoppable
liable to solve the unsolvable
while prodigal poets drown in their nautical modules
im a criminal
a cannibal
storming the street like an animal
shooting cannonballs
through prison walls
splattering the generals
in bathroom stalls
hostil
leave you poppin pain pills in the hospital
uncontrollable
my temper is flammable
mumbles illegible
choking you with your pentacle
leaving onlookers speckled
the abominable
mental protocols unstoppable
the unfeasible constable
shooting up the card table
willing and able
to call your fables
and smash apart a label
i raise babies in unstable cradles
let you bleed out
like cracked ladles
engorged in unholy wars
exploring
the corruption of the core
deplored
uniformed for
the clash of the double edge swords
taking control of vocal chords
a meet of the hordes
of the horned
misinformed
adorned
in sunlight
trying to shine
just 1 line
at a time
until my life signs decline
almost time
light and shadow combined
Horus and set
by hindsight blessed
yet to contest
to the rest of this mess
by melancholy caressed
as i arise unrest
from the cess
of the un confessed
blessed
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
Speaking with words of a thousand accents
Lost to a tragic void of human senselessness
That devours morality of Heavens sent
Lyrics turn to turmoil a prodigal life spent
Never to return in complacency or content
Injustice of the highest caliber we spend
Teaching immorality trivial aspects of human anger vent
Stumbled upon years of inconsitencies and torment
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.
This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.
the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.
The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.
They need more.
They crave it.
All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,
Emanating from within
Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.
Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.
Discipline.
The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.
Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.
A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.
You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?
The pastor’s prodigal son.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Your kindness will light up the dark caverns of my heart
bring to mind my warring thoughts
and I will buckle under the weight of myself
until mercy once again is in the ascendant, and love welcomes me home,
the prodigal and faithful personalities torments, reconciled once again.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
I'm not your prodigal son;
I'm your abandoned daughter.
Don't wait around for me to return.
I won't.
I gave and gave because I was a child
Hoping for love I received conditionally.
When I stopped giving, you left.
That says more about you than me.
You worship a God in your image.
One who asks for all.
You say he loves unconditionally,
But that's what you said about you.
You worship an abuser,
And in his name you abuse.
You pray for repentance
But are unwilling to change yourself.
I know you miss me.
You want me back so I can give,
And a part of you really does care.
Your actions matter more.
You could love me again
If you wanted.
I haven't hidden myself from you.
I'm still here.
You can't expect me to come
Crawling back to you.
The fattened calf you'd offer only
If I approached on your terms.
That's not the forgiving father.
That's a parent still grasping
For control of their child.
I don't need your food.
If you wanted to learn,
Maybe even consider
You could be wrong,
I might call you again.
You won't even use my name.
Like the neighbors of your savior,
You say, isn't this our son?
I'm unwelcome in your home.
So I've finally done it.
I did what I knew I had to.
I shook the dust from my sandals,
And I left.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 1:39 PM UTC