The Prodigal

She’ll get her back up if you ask her about it –
that life before
when she left home and ran around.
But she never says a word
and shoos you away from the porch
if you keep on pesterin’ her.

We all know the story
but never get to hear the juicy details
of those high livin’days.
And the stories of when she came home-
bruised and barefoot,
no better than the pigs in the sty.
They ran all the way down the road
past the mailboxes
when they saw her-
wrapped her in their best cotton sheets
and covered her hair in honey.
Calling all the neighbors,
they butchered their prize hog
and we ate like kings,
all the sweet meat and greens and potato salad
we could hold.
And, my, oh my, that coconut cake.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.

Ever since then,
she’s kept to herself,
minding her daddy til he passed
and now her mamma,
tied to this porch like there was a chain on her,
never uttering a solitary word of regret.

Or remorse neither.

She lived her life, some say,
in those wild, runabout years,
and now she’s paying for it.

But she’ll never say a thing –
not a solitary word.

(revised)

The Prodigal

She’ll get her back up if you ask her about it –
that life before
when she left home and ran around.
But she never says a word
and shoos you away from the porch
if you keep on pesterin’ her.

We all know the story
but never get to hear the juicy details
of those high livin’days.
And the stories of when she came home-
bruised and barefoot,
no better than the pigs in the sty.
They ran all the way down the road
past the mailboxes
when they saw her-
wrapped her in their best cotton sheets
and covered her hair in honey.
Calling all the neighbors,
they butchered their prize hog
and we ate like kings,
all the sweet meat and greens and potato salad
we could hold.
And, my, oh my, that coconut cake.

But that’s not what I want to tell you.

Ever since then
she’s kept to herself,
minding her daddy til he passed
and now her mamma,
tied to this porch like there was a chain on her,
never uttering a solitary word of regret.

Or remorse neither.

She lived her life, some say,
in those wild and runabout years,
and now she’s paying for it.

But she’ll never say a thing –
not a solitary word.

Parable of the Vine

Wild grapes in the Ozarks

Parable of the Vine

Is it Aesop’s fable about fox and grapes
Or an obscure parable from another sage-
The fox, red and handsome,
The grapes, rich and purple,
And the vine?
Maybe the vines the story-
The twisted shape rising to the highest point,
Looking out over ridge to ridge
To the world.
Maybe the  fabled fox is clever
And the grapes  tempting
And the vine always moving to make its way.
A fable of twists and turns,
A fox in the henhouse,
The wine and sour grapes.
And the vine.
See it comes back to the vine.
The parable is distorted,
We are drunk and outfoxed,
Left twisting and turning on the vine.