Patience and the Prodigal is a collaboration of mental flotsam and jetsam carried at random on a craft of curious construction. It has no intellectual compass and is at liberty to roam at will to sites of likely interest to the crew.
Among the cargo will be the creation of verse. We intend also to post (No paste!!) our original sketches, paintings and snaps.
We steer a rudderless course which is always a little hazardous. Why don’t you join us in some idle moment on our odyssey?
Prodigal went for a walk in the woods this
morning and once again after three score and five years noticed the gradual,
almost imperceptible, change in the hue and presentation of the face of the countryside.
The infinitesimally slow greening of the complexion of nature. I suppose it
must be true that the seasons measure all movement.
Time for a comment on ‘Seasons’.
Seasons, reasons for
surviving, Staying aliving, living
through it all. Spring is springing, wings
are winging, Rutting, strutting,
nature’s call. Blossoms peeping, acorns
sleeping Leather jackets buttoned
tight, Fleeces gambolling,
foxes rambling, Daytime stretching into
Pairing time, despairing
Eggshell smashed at toe
of tree Bull a-bellow, daffodil
yellow Next to black on back of
bee. Apple blossom mixed with
cherry Hind in waiting, past
commotion, Pheromones flying, all
directions, Rising sap in every
Spring tide wades in sea
of summer Fish so skyward they might
fly Colour and stripe
replacing green Corn and barley
stretching high. Sun ballooning, young
maid swooning Scenting changes in her
stretch, Vacations ruling
calendar Frisbees in the throw
Light shirts, short
frocks, power boats
Darting forth like
dragon flies Learning not from copy
books No jumpers, socks; no
scarves or ties. Visit cousins down or
upstate Duty calls and family
bonds Grandad rocking on the
porch Skaters flit in pleasant
Apples ripen, jump from
boughs Into trampolines of
grass Worms and wasps and
greedy jays Take plenteous breakfast
as they pass. Potatoes climb up
through the clay Abandoning their mother
stalk Mother goose in grand
parade Takes her children for a
Stihl saws buzzing in
Logs of birch and
pitching pine, New mown hay and wheat
asmell Grapes snipped from
umbilical vine. Gathering nuts and haws
and sloes Flavour for the winter gin Pumpkins, berries black
and blue Stain the lips like
Winter steals in,
sobbing, sighing, Ochre stained and yellow
dyed Life is waning, soon the
dying. Brown carpet on the
country side. Lean time, mean time,
passing time In hollows, huddles,
soggy drains, Frost and fog, ice and
snow Frequent, those
Mistletoe and ivy strung, Service at the place of
worship Parson begging, carols
sung. Time of patience, time
of waiting Sometimes hunger, often
pain Still we peek around the
corner Spring will soon be here
‘Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.’
If you kill time, you injure eternity.
You can’t kill time; you can only spend it unwisely.
These are among my favourite quotes about that
timeless subject, time. What is time and who controls it? What does time mean
for each of us and how do we measure it? The Prodigal will try to describe time
in layman’s terms as that is the only qualification he has for this task. What
to give as a title to this attempt to describe the impossible. Death is the
leveller so time must be the destroyer. That’ll do.
Yesterday’s cloud is today’s muddy water
Yesterday’s love is today’s lovely daughter. Yesterday’s green is today’s flower blue Yesterday’s dream today has come true
I stand here a jester having tried for a king
The budgie had pedigree; just couldn’t sing My crew went to college; I forked out the money But the neighbours flew off with the milk and
They said I was handsome, just look at me now,
A profile like parchment, crooked drills for a
brow. I longed for a castle so stately and grave I sleep in the corner of troglodytes cave.
Ambition I nurtured, from flicker to light
And watched it extinguish at coming of night My hopes were the full of a mariner’s chest They are now merely holes in my second hand
We all wish for lofty not sure where to look
And the champion in waiting, in doubting is
stuck The priest at the bishop is looking in vain And the desert is scanning the red sky for rain.
The winemaker waits for the grape to ferment
And sighs when it’s ready the first day of Lent. The sinner repents from half-six to seven Saint Peter then sells him a pass card for
Tomorrows don’t happen just yesterdays past
Futures a joke and the promise can’t last. Eyes become sockets and bodies make clay Hopes disappear and dreams fade away.
Yesterday’s boy; today’s sturdy man?
Yesterday’s winner is today’s also-ran Yesterday’s great ones today stand quite small For time is the master; destroyer of all.
On January 31st, Sebastian Barry’s new novel, ‘Days
Without End’ was announced as the overall winner of the Costa Book Awards for
2016. The award was only justice for Barry who has attained cult status that is
not his thing but there it is! It’s a long, long way from the mild west of
Wicklow to the wild west of Missouri to write more sacred scripture but
seamless for a permanent gentleman. Sebastian becomes the first writer to win
the overall award on two occasions having previously been successful with his
inspirational novel “The Secret Scripture”.
By way of celebrating another Irish success the
Prodigal thought it apt to string a few verses together based on some of the
words and phrases found in ‘Days Without End’. Any man who chooses to name his children after
a sea creature, a magician and a jug deserves nothing but applause. Here it is!
When the strength died out of his father’s earth
And hunger pinched his fallen face He met the moon and stars up close Mirrors of a new disgrace.
Just a fragment of legend yet to come Hatched under a hedge in wild Missouri No compass or map; no direction Just forward and future and certain furore.
The hunger wolves under hunger moons Sand and Sioux, longing and thirst, And always the question; who would survive It maybe came down to who caught his horse first.
Now baked, then chilled, like a sweating wall Loose as dawn and tight as noon Face a collection of forgotten smiles Just there; linger note of a banshee croon.
Afoot, black acres of fallen flames Ashes like Lent Wednesday in Sligo town Mississippi glancing sideways at Wilsons Creek The whip-poor-will inviting perdition
perched on mountain top Just
a simple sight some distance ahead Like
beauty and lesser swapping places in the face Deposits
from the living in accounts of the dead.
all options are floated, memory picks itself, Lace
and shawl of winter on the shoulders of the hills, Peering
at the past through concave lenses Bitterness
buried in unmarked drills.