{"id":1206,"date":"2022-11-16T19:00:13","date_gmt":"2022-11-17T00:00:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pensivejournal.com\/?p=1206"},"modified":"2022-11-15T23:16:14","modified_gmt":"2022-11-16T04:16:14","slug":"parable-of-the-sower","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pensivejournal.com\/poetry\/parable-of-the-sower\/","title":{"rendered":"Parable of the Sower"},"content":{"rendered":"
To the right of the clementine box <\/span> MOSES\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>EXODUS\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/span>GOLDEN CALF<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n somewhere above the flood <\/span> <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" To the right of the clementine box that my mother brought heresix hundred Sundays back,& somewhere betweenthe stapler & the plastic-wrappedpile of curricula, betweenthe Cloroxwipes & the stack of brownNIVs, beside the pastelcolored map of Paul\u2019s Journeys, between that & the white board & in the space between the all-capped MOSES\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":306,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"issue":[11],"coauthors":[253],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
that my mother brought here<\/span>
six hundred <\/span>
Sundays back,<\/span>
& somewhere between<\/span>
the stapler & the plastic-wrapped<\/span>
pile of curricula, between<\/span>
the Clorox<\/span>
wipes & the stack of brown<\/span>
NIVs, beside the pastel<\/span>
colored map of Paul\u2019s Journeys, <\/span>
between that & the white <\/span>
board & in the space between <\/span>
the all-capped <\/span><\/p>\n
of crosses, stickers & attendance sheets<\/span>
there is yet air <\/span>
for the poem to stretch its leaves,<\/span>
to savor the nutrients, dwelling<\/span>
richly in the roots<\/span>
beneath my feet, though, to be clear<\/span>
I am not the rose that squeezed <\/span>
through the cracks <\/span>
in the proverbial concrete.<\/span>
I am more like a seed <\/span>
that grew below the singing<\/span>
& screeching of pastors,<\/span>
smitten by love <\/span>
but also tempted by the thorny <\/span>
doctrine of utter depravity.<\/span>
Too many piled on this rocky & stoic <\/span>
terrain. Too many dried up the land<\/span>
but this poem <\/span>
is exceedingly bored <\/span>
by contempt for the soil. The poem longs <\/span>
to stretch out its limbs in praise <\/span>
of the farmer <\/span>
& say<\/span>
my god, how she watered her seeds.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n