The Sower

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These blades,

Guillotine to slice flesh

From bone, shred all semblance of comfort.

This rack,

Gears ground like teeth on edge,

Stretch faith beyond breaking.

 

Suffering gouges, disembowels,

Carves furrows upon her aching heart,

Divides the sheep and the goats

Into messy eviscerated piles.

 

The Sower scatters – dignified, purposeful.

Seeds cling with new tenacity

To scars, places where faith

That bleeds replaces stone.

They fall into gaping wounds,

Freshly ploughed soil

Where germination reigns.

 

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Pollen Counts

princess purple pollen

Golden grains, a holy harvest

hovering on fruitful lips;

words are pollen, rich with meaning,

pregnant with potential scripts

.

that sow within a listening soul

a seed of hope – embryo

which, when implanted in a heart

take root, sprout,and start to grow.

.

If unspoken, pollen withers,

loses ground, and starts to die;

if too forceful, it will spatter,

staining as it whizzes by.

.

If applied as God intended,

spread by gentle breeze or art –

pollen counts, and reproduces

life and health and growth by heart.

 

 

 

Far From the Tree

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When Apple first fell

from the Tree, she bobbed

along on her sea

of forgetfulness,

oblivious to

the bruises on her

backside, pockets of

pus hidden by a

polished red skin. She

named her world Stunning,

and made plans to suit.

.

Tucked in the shadow

of those gnarled roots, her

gnarled senses labelled

sickly vapours ‘air’,

decomposition

‘bed’, insect-breeding

swamp ‘home’. Belonging

lulled feelings into

a caricature

of the love she read

about in novels.

.

But the day she rolled

outside canopy

limits, beyond the

reach of Eden’s bite,

sun-seared retinas

peeled the picture bare –

twisted trunk and sour

fruit and warped world-view

became as glaring

as raw contusions.

.

Now she rolls, rolls, rolls,

far from the madding

shroud, far from the reach

of branches carved like

talons from deformed,

wormy wood. Far from

the Tree, in a patch

of pure light on grass

greener than life, she

sows a single seed.

 

 

Emptied

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Emptied,

she waits

for her children

to drop by,

call,

bring heaps of dirty laundry,

anything.

Emptied,

she waits,

silent heart

shrivelling.

Little does she know

that when her progeny

dropped from her grasp,

one day

the sun would shine

and seed would spawn

and green grandchildren

would spring up

to fill her quiver

full.