Long Replanted Poems
Long Replanted Poems. Below are the most popular long Replanted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Replanted poems by poem length and keyword.
Adopted early after birth
Replanted back into the earth
From small to tall, a tiny root
Withstanding all and resolute
It whispered and it whistled
Every wind song that it knew
It's verdant needles bristled
Glistening in frost and dew
A friend to all both large and small
Seeking refuge in it's shade
To rest and recline, with the fresh smell of pine
And a songbird serenade
From green, to red, to rust, to brown
Giving all it had left, back to the ground
A pine that spent it's time worthwhile
Living life with grace and dying with style
It taught me how to dance in the wind
Whenever it howls, be willing to bend
It taught me how to whistle a song
While giving back, as life moves along
Like you and I, trees live and die
When death comes young we question "why?"
The answer is, it's all by design
Down to the death of a hardy young pine.
Daniel Turner
The obstacle
After the none violent revolution in Portugal
1972, as often happens in my life when something
unusual happens, I was there, not knowing I was
witnessing history
My ship came to unload cargo, but we ended
up staying for weeks, a revolution is too important
to be wasted by mere cargo
In the village where I later settled.
the new era brought a road, not a big road
but wide enough for a school bus
there was an aber, where the road ended
two olive trees blocked the road for further
expansion
The trees belonged to an old man who refused
to sell his trees to the camera
With the dictatorship over and a new democracy
with rights and freedom for everyone
The school bus had to drive onto a field to get past
That lasted until the old man died
and his relatives allowed for the olive trees
to be removed, with roots and replanted in
someone's garden.
A strange blue rose - alone
midst an array of clustered flowers -
a few of them her friends -
the shy violets, lovely white lilies, and bold marigolds.
In the gracious garden spot the traveler singled her out -
his gaze resting admiringly upon her.
Each day as he passed that spot,
she was the one he sought. . .
And day by day the traveler came around,
speaking through the fence softly in sweet sounds
that wafted her way with the wind.
Persistent wasp, in guise of a honeybee,
he tried so hard to wear that flower down. . .
till unexpectedly, he strode right through the gate,
and blissfully ignorant of a rose's care,
plucked her up, swept her high up into the air,
and uprooted that blue rose from her safe soil.
But he did not a gardener make.
Knowing nothing of roses,
he knew very little of any flower he pursued.
Moreover, one mere blue rose cannot long compete
with the other bright fanciful flowers
which, along that traveler's path, he was sure to meet.
Those soft whispered words
that caressed her blossomed cheek
soon ceased.
And the water to her soul (if a rose has a soul,
he did not care to know), stopped its flow.
Scars he left -
new thorns on her stem that grew outward
from his cruel cut,
but she'd go on. . . .
Long time replanted now in solid refuge ground,
the strange blue rose
has gained self-understanding,
that one thing for himself (she imagines)
which the traveler she so briefly knew
has never found.
I moved onto the farm when I was eleven,
To the farm eroded of trees.
I’d stand on the hill in the middle of summer,
Unshaded in a blistering breeze.
Then the winter shook hands and my work it began,
Iron barrow, saplings, and a spade.
I planted, I nurtured, hundreds of trees,
Before I realised I’d been betrayed.
It took a plague of rabbits a week to destroy,
Every tree in my little plantation.
So I replanted each tree, surrounded with plastic,
In a war of land occupation.
Then the sheep we had, broke through a fence,
And devoured every little one.
Damn, new strategy, wire mesh for each,
The regrowth had, now, just begun.
Then a drought, “you’re kidding” every tree turned to dust,
Every tree I’d planted with care.
The drought broke when I was fifteen, so I replanted the hill,
Replanted on a wing and a prayer.
Now, thirty years since, you can’t see the hill anymore,
It’s blanketed by leaves on the trees.
You can now stand on the hill in the middle of summer,
Shaded with a cool, calm, comfortable breeze.
At the kitchen table
Sat still like stone statues – petrified.
A sick game of musical chairs
Sat waiting for the muted music to play again.
Saplings uprooted early; replanted in rows
seated in toxic soil – a stunted growth.
Wooden faces: no smiles or frowns.
Emotions set in stone from eyes set on Medusa’s head.
The slim cracks in plates a widening schism
Where we sit stranded on one side.
An earthquake leaving never ending ripples in the water.
A word or deed, seen or heard. On repeat.
Chairs with no more legs to stand on. Everything and everyone on edge;
Braced to face a world turned upside down.
Sliding plates and tilted tables; fallen trees and twisted broccoli.
A seismic shift from foreboding calm to unnatural disaster.
With shattered glass come shattered dreams
Shards bursting imaginary balloons of hope – slivers of normalcy.
Promises smashed against the hard cold walls;
Fragmented, strewn and lost forever.
Reflections in the broken glass show broken faces –
A blackened eye, a frown mistaken for a smile.
Sliced lips hiding wobbly teeth; a stern and stoic jigsawed face.
Hiding years and months and days and lifetimes.
Ketchup splattered walls dripping fast past congealed blood
From last week, last year. Running parallel to tears on faces.
Races with no prizes for the winner once the finish line is crossed.
Blunt knives, sharp tongues. In a colour red
To go with black and blue and green and carrots, beets and peas.
Sealed lips, bitten tongues. Tension cut like a rusty knife
Through sweetest bread. Through gullet, throat or neck.
Heart and stomach; guts and innards without the glory.
Sweet tooth lying bloodied at the head of the table.
Unseated from its usual place. Yet no crown in sight. No coronation.
A King without kith or kin. No heart; just jacks and jokers
Pummelled hard with clubs and spades. With withered spoon for humble pie.
A cry for just desserts fit for a King: The final serving is a bag of frozen peas
Applied to faces with a frozen look - chiselled art with eyes still warm.
Tears like ice – shaped like shiny diamonds. Sat on tired cheeks –
Semi-permanent. Sure to thaw well before the King is overthrown.
People ask why? Why do you express?,
Why do you wear your heart on your chest?,
Why do you even bother to explain?,
When people already know, don't you think it's a waste?,
Yet, I have always believed, we must be reminded,
We repeatedly re-member, in order to guide us,
What some see as simple, or sounds stupid to say,
Must be replanted in our hearts to remind us again,
We are a habit forming people, we repeat all the time,
That jolt brings us back, it reconstructs our mind,
We look back at our choices, we look back on our mistakes,
It monitors our growth, we check our hearts this way,
I believe anything I share, I need to hear it too,
I say it out of love for me and for you,
Words that come from the soul matter in this life,
Whether or not they sound wrong or right,
It's the breath of freedom that uncovers the truth,
A declaration of the heart concerning the next step we choose,
So I'll take that constructive criticism, that perspective, that idea,
It may not concern me at the moment, but it might next year,
The estate of my spreading life
has been plowed over many times.
Plantations have withered and been replanted,
grain fields have turned to dust,
have laid fallow for years
yet now the corn is high and golden again,
trees felled and burnt now grow tall.
Mind body and spirit maps
have had to be redrawn,
shorelines and boundaries moved.
However now I can walk my mind back into past times
and circle all the seasons of my existence
at once.
Barn doors are wide open to tomorrow lands,
My earth is still rich and good,
my store runneth over.
I am not the master here, just a worker following
a tilling, plowing, and seeding Owner;
I am charged only to oversee
this landscape of me.
When this soil I have worked
at last is blown away on the winds of time
a plantation of plenty
will be reflected in the mirror of eternity,
and I will be a servant of my most High Self
at home once more in my Master's mansion.
The creator wanted a thriving garden
For it was given everything it needed
To produce the fruit of it's tree
But it's desire and lust could not be contained
Therefore the trees began to not produce
They looked promising in the spring
While they only left one to starve
The weeds overtook the field
For we are all born as weeds in this time
So he sent his Son to resolve this
To bring forth the fire
For when we see we are in the weeds
And that no one is good
But only the father
Then we shall hopefully seek to separate
From this earthen vessel
For the son will pour out the holy ghost of fire
Where there will be weeping and resistance
Of the old man trying to hold on
Only through the purification of the fire
Shall one be purified of the impurities
That keeps it lost in the weeds
For Jesus longs to give new life
That through the father one might
Be replanted as a tree
That produces the fruit not of this world
For you will be brought out
He does not save us to remain in man's world
But to seek for the guidance of the Son
For he made it this way
That we might come to him directly
and receive in abundance
Knowledge, truth and life
That we do not have to rely on man
That makes the outside of the cup
Look so delicate and perfected
But the inside is full of lies and deception
That builds one up of pride and judgement
For Jesus did not come to save the righteous
He came to save the sinners
Also, those who claim they are healthy
By there own doing does not need a doctor
Jesus wants to walk with you
Guide, direct, and reveal his love
That one might see him in you
And call out for change
And when your time comes
You might be as Noah with your new vessel ready
I am humbly discouraged.
Deer once again
devoured gainful leaves
on my lonely dwarf cherry tree
I last hopefully replanted here
In part,
because it was repeatedly victimized
by mammalian grazing,
predation I hoped to leave back there.
Stunted,
unable to achieve
even planned and scheduled dwarfish size,
At risk of systemic
sun-nurtured failure,
not for lack of sun
or water,
but from over-grazing,
exploitation
of this tree's solitary replacement.
I have some dear friendships
like this over-exploitation
situation
destination
of over-indulged nutrition.
Safety zones
for mutual exploration
can also become
havens for insecurity predation
without alternative nurturing
and wider multiculturally challenging divination
of what is resiliently sweet,
What tastes predatively sour
and feels bitter,
And what smells tangy
fresh,
And what sounds played out,
tired
struggling remnants
of over-grazed communications,
While this feels true
at a personal
egocentric level
of predative grazing
and solitary unsolidarity treeness,
this hunger for safe zones
feels suddenly magnified
to a state
national
global eco-political level
by social
political
economic
multicultural distancing.
Interrupting my blind normal,
searching for a wider grazing field
to know
and become known
for my sweet cherry leaves,
however autocratically dwarfed
or democratically magnanimous.
I have always liked the hollow dark,
the cave, the sealed carcass of the night,
the lightless womb of the closed seed.
You said you were human,
and I laughed until my belly shook the earth.
I Imagined your bones cracking
from the heat of a great fire.
I ground my teeth with the ash
of a few brittle words.
"No one is 'human',
we are alien seeds replanted,
into a fertile blindness.
Humans are the shells,
the pods, the skin of a reality
they have yet to realize or reveal.
The garden,
what you call 'soul',
is a transplanted being,
it lives concealed,
within that alien you.
Keep that garden,
hidden from any who would,
proudly claim to be
remotely human!"