"prodigals" poems
Harness the evil
Stamp! Charge!
Out!
You(r) demons
Send the swine hurtling off the cliffs of forever.
A mad king sits atop a crown of broken glass
A dead pop princess screams me to sleep
For forever and ever and a day my prodigals
are always running away.
My brother is my keeper
in keeping me insane
Go down to the railroad
You will see the past present and future...
Rolling into the distance like a faded man' is dreams.
An expired whisper escapes into the stale air,
as daggers cut me to sleep
open my door, Goodnight
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Tears of love
They are not joyful ones
But, I believe
necessary.
They flow
along with my prayers,
for my offspring
some of whom
are
the prodigals.
Cynthia Jean 2017
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
Endlessly, relentlessly, you make
haste by unbroken parable, cry
incense incensed, censure me, call
names of the unjust, we’re unjust, there’s
unbroken like fish and bread in
multitudes, swing low and wide on
fingertips that have never known bare
skin the way I have known
yours, chariots lost on pharoah’s
feet and dying prodigals covering
little ground.
Calling him, you came like
waves on shore parting for
boat hulls, licking up
starboard side thirsty for
purpose, raising church in three
days making metaphor into
matter, I met you halfway, holding staff
still dripping crimson on toes that
hadn’t yet touched the sea.
We made miracles.
I’ve yet to find contentment among
tents pitched forty days
ago, dusted in sugar burning
tongues too used to manna, leaning
‘against winds that
whisper designs o'er mount Sinai,
whisper Pontius Pilate condemnation,
whisper platitudes Peter proclaimed
before **** crowed thrice.
Crucify us.
We don’t dare step down.
Raise us.
We’ve yet to sin.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Amidst the market,
Shall I sell my lies ?
For it be seen expensive,
And afront stand many prodigals
Just as did I
Oh ,no!
I shall rather seek an online site !
Just as you ,
Maybe Facebook or any other for hi-byes
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 2:19 AM UTC
He stands in his house that is young than he does
His room is miserable like protégé of a teenager,
In contrast to his septuagenarian age ring,
He hates his house with juvenile energy
Not knowing what to do with such hate of loss,
In blurred memory of his estranged wife,
Not able to discern the current age of his daughter,
That had accompanied the distaff on the day of separation,
He lulls his nerves to slumber, away from such menace of a thought,
By walking slowly to the den of wine, like Mermeldov in hands of Fydor,
He sinks down in a chair, plants himself deep into a tumbler of Whisky,
The only fortress into which the poor prodigals take refuge,
Running away from duty of ethics that spans across life of man,
As he wants not memory of his erstwhile risky *** with a punch of ******
From which he condones his exposure to deadly malady,
He wants not his memory of overdrawing his account,
In faithful service to master wine, against the sub-current
Of wisdom that the carouser labours but labours for the brewer,
He wants not memory that his moral duty got punctured,
And hence self-exile in to slavish duty to wine
The only hostage to the whole rounded prodigal.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
It's been an age
[or is it an eon?
or maybe an epoch?]
since we were ****** from our Garden -
[and why was it called
the tree of the knowledge of
good and evil anyway?
we only ever tasted evil.]
so long ago now that it’s crossed the
threshold between memory and dream.
[was any of it ever real?]
There was never any hope of us turning back,
because that’s the way time drags us -
inexorably forward.
[merciless god!]
But I have been watching,
my love,
as we trudge this endless, dry dust:
I have watched suns rise,
and stars rise,
and moons rise,
And I have been thinking,
my darling -
I have been thinking that we must keep walking,
Because it seems to me
this infinite space
Is perhaps a circle,
And the further away we wander,
The closer to home we come.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
The Father cries
He waits
He waits for the prodigals
He cries for them
Who wipes away His tears??
Finally
some
turn back
to Him
Tears in His eyes
He runs
to gather them up
in His arms
Now
His tears
have turned
to joy
after all
He is the Ultimate Parent
Truly
He knows
our grief
our pain
and our sorrow.....
cj 2016
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
Thoughts inflame as feelings stir
Words simmering yet to boil
Unspoken sparks drift through the night
A pyre still to burn
Delphian in its natural form
The smoke a treacherous friend
As ink rekindles and lies cremate
The mind, its woods on fire
As heat restores the human soul
All prodigals return
With hope to melt the frozen dawn,
—and free the poet’s hand
The verses stacked and dried of doubt
Their ignition up to you
As dark they wait for your next breath
To light the spoken air
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
Listen to these words as you read it,
Words for the living and not the dead,
Many powerful men have been brouht low,
Just by lying in Delilah's bed;
Satan seems to be giving a better offer,
But i must admit that i'm scared;
Zombies creeping into your children's dream,
An outcome of what the media has fed;
"I think i should fornicate a little",
"I am afraid that i might not be wed";
"Lord please forgive me if i hurt you",
"I'll do anything to earn my bread",
You call your children prodigals,
They've chosen a way to tread;
People lying from the altars,
Claiming to be led;
Preachers dishonoring the poor,
The same people Jesus would have fed;
People fighting for the cause of religion,
A group of reprobates misled;
Many retaliating by burning national flags,
As if to say their god is dead;
Lands which patriots fought for,
Now a place where innocent blood is shed;
Do not make hanging from a noose the option,
When all your friends have fled;
You simply might have been lagging behind,
While the world is many years ahead;
Daughters cursing their mothers,
But for their sakes these mamas bled;
LGBTs now forming unions,
Situation of the world is code red;
Hatred, disunity and supremacy over others,
Is all religions common thread;
People afraid to stand for the truth,
Nothing but cowards scared;
But be yourself, save others and hurt no one,
Peace is all our soul needs to be fed.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
Reformed
reborn and
conforming to
the norm.
This is life in the golden glass
a backward look at those who
pass
inspection.
It's not special being normal
but
it's different.
I am different too.
In time when the time comes
and the ships sails
when the tasks I have failed in
of which there are many,
(pick and choose one if any)
it'll be time to move but by then
I'll have moved on again.
In this race against time
who
can change base into wine?
it's
better and lighter than lead.
The winning post plays host to the
one who gets there first,
if you thirst for an accolade
run faster.
I thirst for lemonade
it's tastier.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
I have not found misery
But contentment and liberating Light
amongst ladened pygmies I stand head and shoulders above
So lets pity the Dividers
and the sordid indulgences of shysters
charlathans liars blamers decievers scallywags and larcenists
Tis the sweat off my brow
my aspiration and endeavours upholds
as does millions of others who in honest toil thrive and profit
Sham politburo hooligans
state half-wits spit anachronistic slogans
our Witchfinder General seeing silver spoons in meritocracy
Lazies do as lazy does
Never learning but heedlessly agitating
Puerile minds dividing projecting smearing and intimidating
Maniac fantasists deluded saps
Disingenuous failures hiding in plain sight
Cheats and sinners in glasshouses throwing stones
Dime store mobsters
Confused minds in haze exporting confusion
Mired in hate envy and jealousy they alienate enterprise and success
It’s monarchs it’s the elites
Well worn lies and excuses for the work-shy
There’s opportunities aplenty but dumb blamers point fingers
You can’t tell the truth
That you want something for nothing
That you’re the greedy and entitled sourly prodigals
Reds with red faced shame
dunce revolutionaries in Quixotic faux pas
the problem rests in you as you wallow in the divisive stench
whirling in the windmills of your rancid minds
He who took on the mantle stands
he who toiled hard to better himself stands
he who crossed oceans stands and even built more than you
with all your privileges what have you done to make yourselves
feel proud - oh yes, you throw stones and hide hands - bravo!!........ bravo!!
Dec 25, 2023
Dec 25, 2023 at 5:17 AM UTC
Seven dark prodigals approached in the night,
saying: “One has escaped and
journeyed into the light”
Seven dark prodigals with shadows now gone,
longed for he who had left them,
—for he who was strong
Seven dark prodigals wandered the dark,
no safety in numbers,
in search of their heart
“We must look till he’s found,” I heard two of them say,
seven sins unforgiven,
—the eighth gone astray
(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
It imposes itself on everything, and everything becomes a rotten ***** because it has seen itself. Beneath the surface, moving, cocktail-drinking, bubbly V.I.P. exclusive evenings, insidious snake hisses, double entendres, universal sunken rot. Career graveyards at a loss become compulsive shapeshifters in pursuit of larger goals, looting dreams. In addition to a carefree lifestyle, it is necessary to take on grief and dirt with a toaster. Sooner or later, even the absolute winners are driven out of the race.
Only Death can bring comfort and consolation. To body and soul alike it offers a semblance of equality.- Daily shedding their reptilian-veined skins are the Janus-like Angels, saints, pretending prophet-greats. Whose daily ruined lives they ruin, They notice nothing but the virtue, if it pops, or if they lack the necessary sum To preserve the ruins of their sham happiness.
It may be that everything has long since been decided according to the suggestion of self-interest. Perhaps, with a little effort, petty kings and loyalty stooges could stay afloat in economic life-and-death struggles, bargaining even at the cost of their miserable lives to serve the legitimate institutions of cheap lies like prodigals: to dream is folly.
But for now, surely, it is better for many to bellow, to bend their heads and shout, to bang others' heads against the wall, shouting democratic slogans - the respectable historical chronicle will also record this in a falsified form, but people will have no trace of it when the moral balance has cooled down!
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 1:39 AM UTC
Numerous are the ways of life
Each displays its own fife
Some “…the junction of pervert and povert”
Others "... the likes of gullible minds"
“…wine and dine with the best of time wasters”
One way screams on pride’s plane
Above terrestrial rendition
“…junction for all smokers”
It adds “…all those are welcome
who silt to their fill and pipe like a chimney”
Observe the folks encroached and battered.
Weathered in by wrong decisions
Gory tales to blame on the bell
And never their fault expelled.
Because they had their plans on air.
It is dusk so soon on pleasure borrowed
Now, they've gathered from pockets burrowed
Reared by those to begin their journey
"What's the way we seek to saunter?"
A question clothed in Uswanabaya.
The sage, suffocated in their Sulphur:
Their forerunner mixed in ‘holics,
Twitched his lips….then failed.
Stretched his hands... too frailed.
Then the digits, scourged for the prodigals.
That way, which looks rugged
With no welcome sign
So narrow your slings must part
That is the way, rejected but straight:
The Door, the Blood, and the Cross.
Jul 13, 2020
Jul 13, 2020 at 5:32 AM UTC
Thoughts inflame as feelings stir
Words simmering yet to boil
Unspoken sparks drift through the night
A pyre still to burn
Delphian in its natural form
The smoke a treacherous friend
Ink rekindles and lies cremate
The mind, its woods on fire
As heat restores the human soul
All prodigals return
With hope to melt the frozen dawn,
—and free the poet’s hand
The verses stack and dry of doubt
Their ignition up to you
As dark they wait for your next breath
To light the spoken air
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
though i may wander and stray
one thousand times and then
ten thousand times more,
i hear Him calling my name in the distance,
and when i turn around,
the Fathers heart chooses me.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC