Recital Corner: Prodigal Yet


A few nights ago, while listening to the radio, I heard the radio show host read a poem titled “Prodigal Yet” by a Canadian poet named Ethelwyn Wetherald. I must admit, I haven’t been able to shake off the words of this piece.

If the title hasn’t given it away, it deals with the parable of the Prodigal Son that Jesus told. The reason why this poem stuck with me is because, though the son returns to his father’s loving embrace, he still longs for his pitiful and “freedom-filled” days tending swine. I’ll admit, for someone who has gone through her own prodigal story, this poem hits very close to home.


Little Black Cloud


(Yeah, I know. I’ve been writing, or attempting to write, lots of poetry. I have a couple of short stories I want to post, but I’m still working on them. It’s been raining a lot around here and I haven’t been feeling great, so Little Black Cloud was born.)

There’s a girl I know with a round face
And downcast, hazel eyes that stare at the space
Between her red shoes.
All she sees is her little black cloud’s shadow.

The sky can be the brightest blue
Or her green lawn covered in morning dew,
But it doesn’t matter.
Her little black cloud hides it all away.

Her feet drag on the cracked sidewalk;
She tries to ignore those who gawk
At her gloom and downcast eyes.
She despises her little black cloud.

“They don’t get it! I’ve tried to run and hide
But that bit of darkness won’t subside.
The regrets and hurt hit hard.
My little black cloud rains on me.”

She looks around, in vain,
Wanting to see light and color again.
Yet, she is denied those joys
While the little black cloud hovers over her.

“Little black cloud, leave!
Your presence is a torment! Give me a reprieve!
You’ve robbed me of so much.
Little black cloud, just leave me…


Ode to My Creative Frustrations


I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen
And I feel like I’m being mocked.
I grab my vibrant pastels and drawing pad,
but the page remains unmarred.
My guitar is dusty and out of tune,
so I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

I’m emptied of ideas and notions,
And my brain and fingers are uncooperative accomplices.
No inspiration flowing through my being.
It doesn’t help this flesh is unwilling.
Rather than let the unwilling win,
I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

There’s a part of me that feels useless,
that I’m doomed to failure before I start.
A voice often whispers, “What’s the point?
“Why start? It’s going to suck anyway.”
I’m here on my laptop, fighting the best way I know,
by typing up my frustrations instead.

To wait until inspiration strikes is unwise.
Many times, you have to work even if your soul feels dry.
You have to write, draw, or sing even it’s uninspired nonsense,
Even if your whole being fights against you.
At the end, you’ll have something to show for it,
Which is why I’m typing up my frustrations instead.

Recital Corner: O Captain! My Captain!


Well, this selection shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering what happened earlier this week. However, if you’ve been living under a rock or just not a connoisseur of pop culture news, Robin Williams died on Monday.  There’s no point in rehashing all the grim details; that’s not my desire in posting this recording.

One of his best movies is Dead Poets Society, which you should go see if you haven’t, and “O Captain! My Captain” by Walt Whitman is referenced a lot in it. I wouldn’t blame you if, after viewing the movie, the urge strikes you to stand on your nearest table or desk and recite this poem.

Recital Corner: Un Buque De Flores


When I was in college, I had a class about Chicago Latino writers, which was inspiring to this Latina who dreams of being a published author. One of the books I had to get for the class was an anthology of poems called Shards of Light: Astillas de Luz.  Reading through it, I found a poem by David Hernandez called “Un Buque De Flores.” I didn’t know it, but Hernandez was considered the unofficial poet laureate of Chicago.  I say “was” because he died last year.  This poem captivated my imagination as a nineteen year old college freshman and I still love it to this day.  Hope you like it as well.

Gravel Road (poem)


(Back when I was a moody teenager, I used to write a lot of angst ridden poetry.  A majority of it sucked, but I should look for them.  I’m sure they would elicit a chuckle or two.  Anyway, I’ve haven’t really written poetry since college, but I thought up this poem and decided to just go with it.  Not my best writing, but that’s okay.  God is mentioned, so if you have a deity phobia, read at your own discretion.)


I limped on a gravel road,
my feet were bruised and bleeding,
I searched for a bit of hope,
darkness, instead, greeted me.

My eyes were blurry from my tears,
no relief could be found.
I tasted the saltiness of my sorrow,
before each drop hit the ground.

“God, do you love me?
Where have You gone?
My hope is fading fast.
I no longer can hold on.”

My feet gave out
and the gravel bit my knees.
I closed my eyes
and wondered if He’d heard my pleas.

I laid on the gravel road;
my spirit was undone.
I waited for Death to take me,
while I whispered my regrets, one by one.

In the midst of the darkness,
a silver mist came from the east.
It circled my broken body
and my pain decreased.

From the mist came a voice,
gentle yet not tame.
“Courage, young one!
Brave heart!” it exclaimed.

Anger swelled within my heart.
“I can’t! I’ve had enough! I’m done!”
Before the mist vanished, the voice said,
“The road is long. Courage, you must go on!”

Though weary in body,
I knew I still possessed much fight.
Though it was a struggle,
once again, I was upright.

I still limp on that gravel road,
my feet bruised, but my steps more sure.
I’ve savored more than a bit of hope,
moving from darkness to light, I now can endure.