Replanted Poems | Examples

insubstantial

Insubstantial
I opened the window in the door, one early morning.
and was met with a face that looked like a cloud; it
blew frost roses on the glass, they were so beautiful,
abstract, and oh, so fragile.
Years ago, by the cloister`s wall, I saw some miniature
Looking at roses, I replanted them in my garden, and they
disappeared, I thought they had died out, but this spring
They were by my wall, nodding shyly in the breeze.
As the spring turned into summer, they had no shade
and disappeared like frost roses on the window glass;
And that is ok by me, cause I know they are there just
under the earth, waiting for another spring.

The Snakes in a field of Green

I inhale deeply, take the first step with desire in my soul to grow
to be the seed replanted in the soil to receive Vitamin D from Father Sun

I wanna be free, but I know I cannot fear living
just because I breathe out my nostrils and out my mouth.

I still hunger and desire for more for myself when I do not feel alive 
if I run far enough to the hills
break the chains that held a tight grip on me will I still be free?

That is something I am still learning to understand.

Death of a Pine

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

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.

Weeding The Garden

Callous rows gone fallow
human touch embraced

Hate uprooted — Love replanted
tilled in Heaven’s grace

(Dreamdleep: February, 2024)

A Little Caveman Reasoning

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!"

Moving Out

I was born in a muddy time
created to be a field of broken bricks.

Years wove their weeds.
There was hope,
enclaves of suburban heavens
old men in grim pubs spoke of.

You might think
that I pulled myself together,
dug my boots out
of that land of bitter muck.

Not I,
I killed the weeds only,
carried still, the rubble and smut
inside my belly for decades

only to give birth to an inner life,
small green shoots I then replanted
in earthenware pots,

tokens left on the bare platforms
of railroad stations

Worth the Trouble

beautiful orange dahlia
must be dug up in the fall
replanted every spring

dainty, fragrant, fragile, pretty dahlia
worth the trouble, if you live in zone 5
and I do

Working the Land

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.

Mixed Ancient Metaphors

The words taste like music
from worlds long ago
Each letter resavored
in harmonies old 

Coming to harvest
their sweetness imbues
A cave for an orchard
in wall painted hues

Old symbols retilling
those questions inside
Reborn when discovered
then never to hide

The silos refilling 
new birthrights to seed
Replanted within us
—a symphony freed

(The New Room: January, 2023)

I Am Freed-I'M Free-

Been searching for it;
It’s already been found;
Been looking for it;
Already on my mind;
Well

I am a wretched undone;
Just me myself a lonely one;
I been livid, living life sinfully;
My Lord Jesus Christ came and set me free

I am free
Freed
I am free
In deed I be
I am free
I am free
I am free
I am free

Was taking God for granted?
I was a rotten seed being scattered;
Not my growth is stunted;
Be replanted, now I am flourishing
Well

I am well
I am
I am
I am
Growing in His beautiful light
Now I am His beautiful flower
I was a wretched undone;
Just me myself a lonely one;
I been livid, living life sinfully;
My Lord Jesus Christ came and set me free
But when Jesus died for me, for me
He gave me a place in heaven, now I stand free

I am free
Freed
I am free
In deed I be
I am free
I am free
I am free
I am free
I'm free

11/20/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©

Corn Fields Already Glue Themselves To a Yellowing Future

If you lean slightly left
while facing the sewage plant
then that view of Ohio
could be back in the 18th century,
there's even a long cabin
resurrected from somewhere else
and replanted here.

The Wright Brothers palatial home
is now maintained by the State,
the 'flyer' hangs in a museum
built upon an old Shawnee village.

The 'hood' nearby
litters itself and craps on the once
well-to-do houses;
it's enough to make an old Indian cry.

Time meanders around
an invisible clock face,
even the future
has one ox-cart wheel
stuck a rut,
while the other spins slowly on.

Land Mower

a growler is running
clouds are being mown down
then replanted inside wind-scapes

Popping seeds
crunch together
   spill their fill into the air

a word on the lip of imagination
is chopped out of existence
ears ring 
          with dead bird songs

a silent space of myself
flaps away
i would rather be
a bat orbiting the moon
         than here and now

the grass under my feet is cut
a grave undercroft of being
                 turns over and over

a restless mind has long searched
for my house
but the house is cut down
and landscaped to pieces

i need an enemy to love
or a love to hate
        nothing less will do

Replanted

He was airlifted to another place.
The heath, the dales,
the ridges, the high moors,
they all began to slip away
under throbbing wings.

Occasionally a woman would approach,
a silk moth in the semi-gloom
of a night flight;
he was tucked semi-consciously
into a droning life-support system.

When you are unearthed,
green roots tug,
mud and twigs come with you.
Pools and sediment
make their way as seeds and marsh
traveling as your incubated life.
Places you have slept on,
waded across,
had breezy sex over,
they tether you to a tillage and turf,
of lived experience
even as you fly far from it.

He began to plant bits of himself
into the soil of his new home.
He hid mossy stones amid plastic rocks’
left lichen trails
on the marble floors of shopping malls.
He recreated his own clay
from the sand-shifting soil he found
in an alien loam.

Slowly the land began to own him.
He dug himself into the past
of this remodeled wilderness.
Became a native of rooted and uprooted things.
When he was asked:
'to which country he belonged?'
He would show the dirt
under his fingernails.

April Is a Slip and Slide Month

my yard is a slushy swamp
black umbrella has blown away
third one I’ve lost in a week- all black and bleak
my traitorous sandals slip in the mud
freshly spread grass seed has been washed away
it will have to be replanted after monsoon season
nothing is perky or fresh yet
April is a muddy mess

confident daffodils lead the way to the season
with their cheery yellow and white faces
nothing else is alive or exuberant yet
verdant grasses are two weeks out at least
a baby robin has fallen to its death
careful nest is lying a few inches away
mud makes an appropriate grave
April is a slip and slide event

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