...but then, remember too my friend:

...But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.

We're always (no matter how far we've strayed) welcomed home again.

I have never been able to understand this very Catholic imperative; the weight of guilt we're all supposed to bear.  I like to think that if Jesus were alive today, he'd probably be saying "yo, chill, relax and enjoy life" because I firmly believe this is why we're here.

Like all good poetry, though, yours has raised some interesting points.  It is a pity we can't sit down and discuss them face to face, though.

Good to see you posting here, mate. 

I agree with Maso. That's why I like the feeling that the Prodigal son parable always gives me -that yes, we ALL stray but in the end (if we come back) that's okay. It's kinda like... this. I found a lot of comfort and peace in that particular scene.

Thanks, boys.  I don't think it's guilt as much as it is simply sorrow.  I finally learned what the story of the Prodigal son was really about last summer.  My pastor asked "Are you the older son or the younger one?"  I answered both, which he agreed we probably all are at different times.  My goal now is to be like the father.

Thanks for the film clip too, Roy.

Later, men,

Moskowitz

I always felt the elder son could have done with getting out more, like his younger brother did.  I view the younger as an adventurer, keen to learn about the world and what it has to offer.  In some ways, and even though I'm the eldest son, I like to think of myself like this too.

I don't reply much to your posts but I do read them.

They always consistently make me want to be a better writer, and to be more honest.

I missed this. I don't know how to comment on this, but I like reading your stuff.