parable

You are the parable:
the lost lamb, the goat amongst sheep,
a mustard seed, the feast
and the dinner guests,
a fig tree, barren and budding.

All these stories are your story-
the prodigal-
Don’t you remember that time when you fought
and said things you shouldn’t have
and all that stuff was so unforgivable.
But it wasn’t.
And now here you are with a family and children
of your own and you are cherished beyond
measure.

Or you are the eldest, the good girl that never
gave them a minutes worry. And you had to welcome
that no good son of bitch back
after he climbed out of the pig sty and cleaned himself up.

But now you know,
’cause you have been the prodigal too.

A parable, a pearl of great price, a seed sown in good soil,
a wise servant, a friend at midnight.
One who was lost
now found.

Lent 2019

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.