The Prodigal

This is the poem I was going to share next in a poetry slam. It's a spiritual odyssey that seems to be stuck on repeat in my life.

A Slave and a Master: The Prodigal

I. Sorrowing of the Damned

I did not wish to be a slave,

Not to anyone.

I was a master of my fate

Until all was said and done.

Yet somehow in these chains I’m bound,

Welded through the chest.

A master pulls me where he will;

I do get no rest.

“I didn’t want these chains!” I cry,

Gasping short for breath.

A master spits and slaps my face,

“You did choose your death.”

Is there no balm in Gilead?

No salvation near?

Poison enters through my eyes;

No physician here.

Alone I tremble in despair,

The only thing that’s real.

I close my eyes and do not pray

Because I do not feel.

It’s silent now. I hear a laugh;

The devil at his prey.

He pulls the chain; I follow in vain.

It’s just another day.

II. Faint Hope

Canst thou hear this prayer, my Lord?

In sin I’m wrapped so tight.

The devil’s angels in one accord

Seek to end all light.

My masters two and Thou the one

Who seeks to save my life,

Yet to whom I’m bound, when done,

Will end it with a knife.

For Thy mercy I pray in haste,

Yet I am not Thy friend.

The words I speak are vainly laced,

Shallow to the end.

Look down kindly, I so implore,

On this wretched slave

Who did sell for Satan’s lure

What thou freely gave.

III. Redemption

Dearest friend, raise thy head.

Salvation is in sight!

I have come to free the dead,

To fill thy life with light!

Good tidings are at thy door;

Liberty I preach.

I will free thee and do more

Then thou now beseech.

For in me, though thou mourn,

Thou wilt be comforted,

Godly virtue thou wilt adorn,

And sin’s stain be rid.

I break the chains that hold thee tight,

The prison in which you’re bound;

And grant to thee a new life,

One with glory crowned.

Thou art no longer to be a slave,

But to be a son.

And to master thy own fate

Through the Holy One.

Out of love, I give my life

For thee, my dearest friend.

May thou know my love for thee

Never hath an end.

Jack Shirley

Poetry Slam: Why I Write

I wrote this for the poetry slam and wish I could recite it to you because it's meant to be spoken not read. It more or less goes through what I see in an average week as a social worker. It's also a cry to stop judging people because their lives aren't what we think they should be.

Why I Write

There’s a man who sits on a curbside bench just down the street wearing a beanie and a winter coat in the heat of summer and he doesn’t act like you expect and he doesn’t talk like me or you, but I still understand, and I write for him;

Because his awkward grin deserves a smile back and his disordered speech shouldn’t fall on deaf ears; because if he can be optimistic, why shouldn’t I?

In a house a little further down there’s a boy laying in front of a TV who slept through school today because his mom was too depressed to get him up because she has to raise him on her own and her life isn’t what it was supposed to be, and I write for him, and I write for her;

Because all they can do is try and they should try, and keep trying.

If you take a turn and walk a block or two there’s a theater with flashing neon lights playing nothing but the best Hollywood has to offer and in front you’ll see couples in droves crowding in to see the latest romantic comedy and inside on a row alone you’ll see a girl who took herself to the show because no one else would, and I write for her, but not only her, I write for the fake-baked beauties and the fohawked Romeos they came with, I write for the quiet couple who use pop and popcorn to replace the chemistry they once had, and I write for the young lovers on the back row who just plain don’t have clue; because they all stare at the same twisted romantic drivel and wish it was them; and they’re all lonely , whether they came alone or not;

Because they need to know that they’re reality is better than that screen and they shouldn’t need a director to tell them what living is.

And if you’ll walk with me a little further we’ll come to a house, you might not want to stop at, with a man inside about my age sitting in a dark room with the door locked staring at a flickering computer screen who wishes he could look away but he can’t, and I write for him;

Because if you knew the fight he’s in you wouldn’t blame him for slipping a time or two, and if you look in his pained eyes you’d see he’s just as pure as you or me, he just can’t see it yet because the unholy stigma, the deep shame society places on his shoulders is more than he can bare.

And I write for the wife who’s crying in that same house and doesn’t think she can take it anymore because this isn’t how her life was supposed to be, and I don’t blame her, but she tries and she should try, and keep trying.

I could take you further down the street, but in the end, I write for you;

Because you’re the one who will hear these words, and you’re the one who will understand, and you’re the one who will come to see that we’re all worth writing for.

Jack Shirley