The Prodigal

You are never as lost as you think you are

The Prodigal

 

Even now

If you called me

I would make my way to you

Beyond the blue sky

Or as far as the river

I would turn my steps

To fit your steps

Drowning in a sea

Of crashing hope

 

Even now

If you spoke to me

With need

I would count my pennies

Reaching for the deep end

And never counting the cost

Giving as freely as

Seeds give pollen

 

Even now

If you said you roamed

Too far and that home

Has fallen through your

Careless fingers

I would turn out all the

Blessings tucked

In my pockets

To give you rest

 

I do not wait because

I think you will come

I watch because one day

You might

Remembering you in

Dreams made of

Rust and twilight

 

Even now

There is a light

In my window

Fresh leaves curled

And spices for your pillow

When I see your shadow

Down the lane

All the world will

Hear my shout

 

-Zoe Richardson (2025) 

Author's Note

If you think you've been forgotten, you are wrong.

Reviews

[Vol]

Zoe,
Wow... I send much time making love to words, so when I find a castle like this, I am all about its bones and structure, and design, that I have to pull up hard and say "you fool," and stop because, some things are sufficient in their beauty and all I can do is hope when my eyes caress their way down the lines that I miss none of it...
This is my "poem of the day, the week, too for that matter... hell the whole month.
Vol

[Zoe Richardson]

I cried a little when I read this. You are so very kind to me. And you are anything but a fool!

[Vol]

Zoe.
Aw, sort of like me when I read your poem...There are a million folks writing bad verse, but very few poets. When I was teaching High School creative writing, I had many students who could draw and wanted to be artists, I'd ask," Who's your favorite artist?" Blank stare, except for one who was already selling still lifes for three hundred bucks... he did stunning work and his favorite artist was Monet. Many of the others wanted to be Rock Guitarists. Jacob was NEVER without his guitar, hitting Rock and Blues licks, his favorite guitarists were Mike Bloomfield, Clapton, and Santana. In my Rock-n-roll history going back to the mid-sixties, I have never been rocked like he and his friends rocked me... Poetry is easy to understand, Whatever it says to you this time is what it means this time. There are no wrong answers.
Being a competent wordsmith poet requires a gift first of all, a talent, a vocabulary, and more than a few little gray cells that know how to see the world with one raised eyebrow and paint it in words. Someone like you...
Vol

[Zoe Richardson]

Poetry is the art of saying that for which there are no words. You must a gift, otherwise you are just a Vogon inflicting literary pain on others. I don't say that to slight other writers. Poetry i very beneficial when expressing your feelings and dealing with mental health issues. But to truly be a poet you must have a tortured soul. I applaud you for being a teacher. It must have been fulfilling work. And thank you for believing I meet the requirements to be a poet!

[Vol]

Zoe,
Teaching was torture enough without dragging my soul along for the ride... AND I've been at it long enough to know one when I see one... You are a pleasure to read...
Vol

[John the Baptist]

There are loves that never lose hope. This sounds like one such. Best of luck, but be careful.

[Zoe Richardson]

I wrote this for my youngest daughter. I am doing my best not to run after her and throw love at her she doesn't want right now. But a mother is always a mother and the ache remains.

[Green]

This just reads beautifully, and maybe it’s the content that helps with that because the theme of always holding out hope for someone is a nice sentiment. I just keeping going back and rereading parts of it.

[Zoe Richardson]

Thank you! I hope you find hope in the idea that someone would have that kind of love for you.

[red93]

This is Fabulous Zoe, it reminds me of some of Ezra Pound's more lyrical moments. Exceptional ✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

[Zoe Richardson]

Oh my! That is indeed a compliment. I tend to hold my poems in the shadows, like a nervous stage mother anxious for her protegee to achieve perfection. Your words give me courage to perhaps be a little more free!