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?
Barefaced, bare-footed, staring
into an empty grate.
Empty, except for those grey-green
lifeless ashes
who had their bright moments too.
A sculpted mug of black tea
my only solace.
Sorry I'd be for myself
if I were capable of care.
Alone, I've spent this pagan Christmas,
alone but not my own man.
New Years resolutions pointless, impossible,
Successful reminders of last years failures.
Where can a man turn,
Faced with the farce of his own futility?
Hoping for an ember cinder
I prod with the poker.
Wise eyes pry, for clues and news in vain,
Old men measure nature, seeking stain,
Defied by pupil twins of steely grain
in angel face.
Wild straw thatch, a fitting faery crown,
Simple black, a full and favoured gown,
Smile that made an exile of a frown,
An ageless grace.
Glance to melt a heart of frosted lead,
Blush unique; a newer hue of red,
Living riddle, rose in lilac bed,
A fleeting fawn.
Venus vested, filling space with light,
Dull defying, introducing bright,
Living vibrant vendor of delight
like golden dawn.
Enigmatic, charismatic, fair,
Old as oak, new as stubble hair,
Impish grin, potent as a prayer
to lofty Lord.
Million women melted into one,
Loving life and love and foolish fun,
Soul mate of all men yet slave to none,
She's my reward.
Sometimes, through curtains in shadows we spy
an acre of earth, a sliver of sky.
Massless reflections of solids in space,
Bonded by light, facet and face.
A sort of a soul, attached yet apart,
Like Rick and his bar, a head and a heart.
And in purple shadows we often find truth,
Not readily seen in daylights bright booth.
For shadows are segments of limbo and love
tied to below, fashioned above.
Man miles of gray, sons of the moon,
Their mother a sun, vampire at noon.
And we dwell together like echo and sound,
Are bonded together when we meet underground.
I've known you a long time,
In sorrow time and song time,
We're past your peak and my prime
Yet we survive.
I've hated you and loved you
and set myself above you,
Yet martyred memories of you
are still alive.
Mirror of my slow sense,
Charcoal of my incense,
Image of my nonsense
In furtive glance.
So often have you bled me
of stuff of him that bred me,
Your tongue and tango led me
on merry dance.
We tramped the high and low road,
We shared the light and dark load,
And jeered the cautious man mode
of sheltered life.
I found no friend or lover,
No camp to build above her,
No skin or whin to cover
a wanton wife.
You taunted me in June-light
and mocked me in the moonlight,
Deserted me at noon-light
and I did pine.
Yet we wander mile of highway,
Still your way must be my way,
My last day must be thy day,
O shadow mine!
Crossroads time has come to you
and stares you in the face,
To make this world your oyster
or perish in this place.
Is what your mother had
sufficient still for you?
Do you want a lot, or her lot?
A purple haze or blue.
Your father was a working man
whose sweat provided bread
to feed a dozen urchins
and try to get ahead.
Still winter follows winter
and the story's still the same,
His back is bent, his youth is spent,
He fights a losing game.
Your mother is the martyr
and the victim, scarce a life,
A weary tired expression,
Once a starry eyed new wife.
She tries to tell her children
of mistakes she made and pain,
But she knows her words are useless
and her pleadings are in vain.
You have a voice, you have a choice,
To stay or break the mould,
To have a life, a decent chance,
Or far too soon grow old.
Do you want to taste sweet liberty
and reach horizons wide?
Or spend your life regretting
that your dream need not have died.
A little girl upon her knees
stared at the puddle pool
that wasn't there that morning
on the penance path to school.
Dipped her child hand in the sculpted
saucer in the lane,
scooped the life from the puddles heart
then dropped it back again.
and watched the bending ripple
that gathered round the drop,
and cupped the saucers random rim
to make the motion stop.
But the mirror shivered in fear
and the girl in her dismay
stomped and scattered the helpless pool
skip started home away.
But I wonder did she learn the lesson
of this messenger from the skies,
that the pool of rain was the liquid pain
that streams from her mothers eyes.
