All poetry is copyright protected. Reproduction without permission from the author is prohibited.
THE PRODIGAL SON
A friend of mine from out near Roy had two sons with his wife.
Those lads were all his pride and joy, a comfort late in life.
The old man made them toe the line, and if they did, then things were fine;
They rarely gave him any sign that peace would turn to strife.
The boys grew up, but grew apart; each sought to find his way.
The younger broke his mother's heart and scorned what dad might say.
The older was a model child, obedient, his manner mild.
He watched his brother growing wild and knew he'd have his day.
The younger son found ways to shirk the chores that Dad assigned.
He never hid his hate of work and he at last resigned
To tell the old man how he felt, to risk his wrath and maybe belt,
To spurn the home wherein he dwelt, but he would speak his mind.
He told his father of his claim, which rightly was his due,
To what would help him make a name, and make his dreams come true.
He brushed aside the work of years, his father's sweat, his mother's tears.
He ridiculed their baseless fears and what they thought they knew.
The day he left, the sky was gray and promised early fall.
Though mother begged her son to stay, he held a note to call
For half of what was in the banks. He left without a word of thanks
To take his place and join the ranks of men who have it all.
He headed west to Wagon Mound, then on to Santa Fe,
But stopped to visit friends he found, for dollars paved his way.
For drinks and cards, the money flows, and no one sees just where it goes,
Though it's for certain Sonny knows his ship came in today.
He rose next morning late from bed, and traveled mile by mile
By stagecoach to the sights ahead. The boy arrived in style.
The gates were wide. He strutted in to ev'ry kind of mortal sin
Until, with wallet growing thin, despair erased his smile.
So then, with pockets full of air, he found his friends were few
He had no credit anywhere and pondered what to do.
His head held high, he left his digs with thoughts of singing, dancing jigs.
And found a good job, feeding pigs, and eating with them, too.
The barn where he could stay was not the presidential suite,
But there's a roof, four walls, some hay, and all that he can eat.
He shed his pride, though not a tear, but wrestled with the gnawing fear
That this would be life year to year, his legacy defeat.
Now, slopping hogs is bound to cure a young man's need to roam.
He sat one evening, sad, unsure, and wondered in the gloam
How many of his father's men were eating beef and biscuits then
And started planning if and when he might return to home.
He begged a ride from Santa Fe, rolled into Wagon Mound
Just after dusk the seventh day and dined on what he found.
He hiked until his feet were sore, walked east til he could walk no more.
His rambling days were done, he swore, and slept there on the ground.
Next day at sunset Dad came out to take up his routine
And let his old eyes cast about for movement 'cross the green.
There, just before the light is done, he sees what just might be his son.
He yells to Mother, starts to run to whom he thinks he's seen.
The prodigal began to run, then knelt as Dad came near.
But father lifted up his son, and banished any fear.
Before his guilty eyes could blink, he had clean clothes, some food and drink.
His father gave his Mom a wink and said, "Our son is here!"
The older son puffed up and said, "My mind has gone off track.
My brother's bottom line was red, but suddenly it's black!
While I worked hard these many days, he cultivated slothful ways,
It's him who takes and me who pays. I'm sorry that he's back!
"Of all you had, he squandered half, and now he wears your coat!
You served him up the fatted calf; I never got a goat!
If he had gold, he'd be gone still. Though he might say he's had his fill,
I think he wants back in your will to keep his dreams afloat."
His father said, "Your brother played and threw his money 'round.
There's no excuse for why he strayed; his judgment wasn't sound.
You've served me well; you'll have your due. All that is mine I'll leave to you.
Though most of what you say is true, the son I lost is found."
Dale E. Page
Copyright April 7, 2003
