"replant" poems
We both have felt like charred trees,
Tearing out each other's roots and
Setting each other's roots on fire.
We've fought
Tooth and nail
Clawing out each other's eyes,
So we can't see.
But today you smiled.
And for once I felt bad.
You were alone friend.
And yet I left you.
I meant to be nice.
But what to say?
Reconciliation.
We need to replant our
Scorched roots
And hope that the seedlings
Sprout in the wake of our
Beautiful disasters.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
From the Azul sky a diving sparkling speck,
An unmatched beautiful creature without circumspect,
The golden leaves of spring like soldiers on parade,
Dip and make way for this fair winged maid.
I have so much longed to be first bite of this season,
To be touched and blossomed to perfection by your reason,
I grow juicy, soft and ripen as I fall for you.
Tumbling into your soft Cashmere hands on cue.
Salivating, I’m tasty, savour me between your teeth,
Sink deep in without remorse, how delectably indiscrete!
Say my name with a smile it’s so safe in your mouth.
I’m tingling the roof of your brain with my flavours coming out.
Take me away! as we fly, I’m cast about like an enchanted spell,
Moistening your soft syrupy lips of caramel.
I’m drained to sustain the iridescent colours of your gilded wings,
Moved by the high passionate notes as you sing.
Your smooth, probing tongue, my flesh diabetically sweet,
Leaving streaks of sienna nectar on fates smeared cheeks,
Wipe away before staining fabric from our black and white lives.
They keep returning, stubborn like long goodbyes.
Surprise! New emotions enveloping, hypnotic like Night Jasmine,
Mimicking a rainwater spout so bubbly, escaping, and exciting!
Your caught hopeless as a fish fly rod with a glass eyed trout
Choking while love swoops silent from heaven to pluck it out.
That’s when you look at my seed and you can tell.
I’m good for your ego but as bad as a toadstool’s spell.
So I’m placed in the first mound of mud you come across,
Where you replant me sprinkled with fairy dust.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
To the woman who scolded me for moving on with my life after my assault at age 13:
"Your life didn't skip a beat, you went to school and hung out with friends and everything," is what she told me.
Yes my life did not skip a beat when I was entirely uprooted.
What happens to a plant if it is uprooted? Can a plant survive if it is pulled up out of the soil?
I have found that just as with any other situation involving injury, there as some steps you need to take in order to repair it.
First you need to assess the damage. Broken stems and wilting leaves are obviously very noticeable symptoms of distress. What is important is the condition of the main stem and the roots. This will determine whether or not the plant can survive. The sooner you can take emergency steps the better.
The next step is performing first aid. The plant benefits from little additional trauma as possible. Torn branches need to be cut back, to avoid any additional tearing. Keep in mind that any cutting done should be gentle and done with sanitized tools to prevent disease in the already weakened plant.
One of the final steps is replanting. The plant can now be replanted even deeper than it was before, and watering it regularly can reduce its stress.
Lastly, monitoring the plants success is important. The key to restoring a plant that was uprooted is patience while waiting for it to adjust through a period called transplant shock. Note that the situation may look worse before it looks better. Large leaves may wither or drop. Transplant shock can last several months or even seasons. Provide persistent care to the plant, and do not judge it until the next season of growth, usually during spring. It is usually worth the wait.
So, yes. I did not skip a beat.
I did not skip a beat after I was ***** and my life became uprooted because the sooner you can take emergency steps, the better. I learned how to replant myself instead of letting my life wither away. And do you know what? It was surprisingly worth the wait.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
Everyday, I see people's thirst to be the tree
The tree bearing precious fruits for others to eat, seeds for others to replant
The tree providing shade for others to cool
The tree releasing oxygen for others to breathe
The tree providing home for others to live
The tree looking beautiful for others to admire
That is many people's desire
But remember, the tree was once a seed
It took time for the tree to grow
The tree had to withstand adverse weather conditions
The harsh weather built the tree a strong foundation
Don't stress, give in to your cultivation!
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
This is a true story of Sniper’s ally
The old man carried a cello and a stool
Bullets divided wind
So many straight lines he could see them like sheet music
He sat the stool down in the middle of the street
Held his cello
And played under the gunshots
Until everything was quiet
And in the outdoor acoustics
Made by apartment buildings and the morning cold
He played a fifteen minute rendition of heartache
On a cello tuned to the key of thunder
His high notes were so much screaming
And the deep low notes bellowed his hunger
It was the simple sound of savagery
When people needed another way to know what pain sounds like
They could hear it in the way that the strings
Absorbed the rust from his arthritic fingertips
Scraping the sound of struggle
It was the most painfully beautiful music
He played to the soft continuous metronome click of reloading
Beauty like a rose that dies in the hair of a girl
Whose own rose is a blooming ****** chest wound
Thought maybe he could replant her
Like the earth might give her back
Anything plucked from the root dies shortly after
He played for her
He played for courage
He played like a prayer to be shot doing what he loved
We all wanna die doing what we love
She was shot picking roses
He played cello
On a playground of bullets
A song that begged
**** me
Where is your god now?
When all you wanted was to be a casualty of love and music
He finished
Beads of sweat like ***** diamonds
As the morning sun mocked him for living another day
Some of us get to walk away from this
Without a single scar
Even if we wanted one
He walked away
And shortly after
The bullets began to do what bullets do
When they pierce flesh
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
Aborigines in the Australian outback
Among starving dingoes
A drug deal going on behind the bowling alley
And a butterfly knife waiting to be put into someones gut
Show some skin
Then maybe you will get somewhere at the customer service desk
Buyer beware, consumer keep cautious
Lay waste to that place and get your money back
They sold you an amphibian and told you it was a marsupial
The clerk wrote your inconvenience off as null
Off in Puerto Rico there's a cockfight
Pass the bug replant
Dos cervezas por favor
It's a steel cage grudge match
Brought to you by the courtesy of some man who's name I cannot pronounce
I got my invitation to this thing in a basket of tropical fruit
Someplace near substructure homes
I see a man in a bandanna looking at me
He turned out to be a free lance astronomer who has a thesis on starry quadrilaterals in the sky
He thought by betting on the bigger rooster he would hit pay dirt
But it was I who met pay day when I bet on the smaller, faster one
The astronomer had so much hate in his eyes I thought his corneas were going to burst
Be pulled out a blade and chased after me and all my winnings with the intent to puncture my torso and pillage my pockets
But had to go see a man about a horse named "Nunya"
Luckily I got away clean to tall the tale
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Shall I wither and fall like an autumn leaf,From this deep sorrow – from this painful grief?How can I go on or find a way to be strong?Will I ever again enjoy life’s sweet song?Sometimes a warm memory sheds light in the darkAnd eases the pain like the song of a Meadow Lark.Then it flits away on silent wings and I’m alone;Hungering for more of the light it had shone.Shall grief’s bitter cold sadness consume me,Like a winter storm on the vast angry sea?How can I fill the void and deep desperate needTo replant my heart with hope’s lovely seed?Then I look at a photo of your playful smiling faceAnd for a moment I escape to a serene happy place;Remembering the laughter and all you would do,Cherishing the honest, caring, loving spirit of you.Shall spring’s cheerful flowers bring life anewAnd allow me to forget the agony of missing you?Will spring’s burst of new life bring fresh hopeAnd teach my grieving soul how to cope?Sometimes I’ll read a treasured card you had given meAnd each word’s special meaning makes me see,The precious gift of love I was fortunate to receive,And I realize you’d never want to see me grieve.Shall summer’s warm brilliant sun bring new light,And free my anguished mind of its terrible plight?Will its gentle breezes chase grief’s dark clouds away,And show me a clear path towards a better day?When I visit the grave where you lie in eternal peace,I know that death and heaven brought you release;I try to envision your joy on that shore across the sea,And, until I join you, that’ll have to be enough for me.For all the remaining seasons of my life on earth,There’ll be days I’ll miss your merriment and mirth,And sometimes I’ll sadly long for all the yesterdays;Missing our chats and your gentle understanding ways.Yet, the lessons of kindness and love you taught me,And the good things in life you’ve helped me to see;Linger as lasting gifts that comfort and will sustain,Until I journey to that peaceful shore and see you again.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.
Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.
We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.
We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.
We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.
We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept
our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
A Lily never lies
unlike a neighbouring plant
where shrub and grub
are given a rub
like lavender to enchant
A Lily never lies
like your eyes
even if you tried
you can’t recant
you send a scent
and as soon as it’s sent
like lavender you replant
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 3:14 AM UTC
This is a true story of Sniper’s ally
The old man carried a cello and a stool
Bullets divided wind
So many straight lines he could see them like sheet music
He sat the stool down in the middle of the street
Held his cello
And played under the gunshots
Until everything was quiet
And in the outdoor acoustics
Made by apartment buildings and the morning cold
He played a fifteen minute rendition of heartache
On a cello tuned to the key of thunder
His high notes were so much screaming
And the deep low notes bellowed his hunger
It was the simple sound of savagery
When people needed another way to know what pain sounds like
They could hear it in the way that the strings
Absorbed the rust from his arthritic fingertips
Scraping the sound of struggle
It was the most painfully beautiful music
He played to the soft continuous metronome click of reloading
Beauty like a rose that dies in the hair of a girl
Whose own rose is a blooming ****** chest wound
Thought maybe he could replant her
Like the earth might give her back
Anything plucked from the root dies shortly after
He played for her
He played for courage
He played like a prayer to be shot doing what he loved
We all wanna die doing what we love
She was shot picking roses
He played cello
On a playground of bullets
A song that begged
**** me
Where is your god now?
When all you wanted was to be a casualty of love and music
He finished
Beads of sweat like ***** diamonds
As the morning sun mocked him for living another day
Some of us get to walk away from this
Without a single scar
Even if we wanted one
He walked away
And shortly after
The bullets began to do what bullets do
When they pierce flesh
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
the way
your life
blossoms
depends not
in the way
that you water it
but in the way
that you replant it
over and over in
different mindsets.
in different soils
and environments.
seeing what suits
your characteristics.
seeing how much
the sun touches your leaf.
and how you release
oxygen back to the world.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
Jasmine although your embedded scent is faint, I'm still stuck here with a headache when all I want is rest. My sinuses is a mess. I don't know if I'm crying or lying. I tried cinnamon, turns out subconsciously I was looking for a synonym. I didn't get the same adrenaline. So now I'm lonely again. Wondering why did you leave, missing your semievergreen leaves, bless me with your presence as I sneeze. I want you to bloom, replant yourself back into my room.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
Go find for me in all of botany;
The rarest green amidst the sweetest mire.
That blooms of petals white like cottony,
Of growth 'twas serenaded by a lyre.
Replant with gentle skill by window's sill
Repose the eye that sunlight does not steal.
The blondy gaze, so fixed herein and still,
Unless the breezes kiss corona's seal.
Then flowered dance shall sway to hymns of bay
And whom shall follow trance'd with steady eyes;
Be titled botanist, of beauty's play.
Degree that yields each morn' when sun does rise.
Find that and glimpsed what fair does lay this bed,
But 'pare her side the flower, flower's dead!
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 8:34 AM UTC
Sparks, imperial journey to the great gold
it's day for shining
dark for crying
and pining
deciding
where to go? in this great blue world
I see lines
better to remove the dust and
grab whatever's floating
How would we stay alive for ourselves?
Tell me what a real person is.
Ask me what a real human is.
Green, I feel green
in the face and the toes
because green grows
what the heart knows
Safety is gone
but i feel alright. Just because it might go away doesn't mean I have to hold on harder, or bite down stronger.
Everything slips, because
everything slips.
Hang me on a string
and rid the town of my modern making
They wanted a puppet
but they gave me the wrong color
the mismatched wood
uneven cards and googly eyes
that see too much.
Maybe the sun could bleach me
back to a perfect dolly
on the windowpane
for your pleasure and my disdain
We could avoid the mess
of dancing under Vega
Aquarius is finally here
and it only talks this way
in the summertime
But I've learned to listen:
love sets in after time, and distance is quickest.
I sent a letter admitting that it's partially my fault
for losing myself in the hanging orb
but internally I knew that distance is quickest
I sense a change above our hearts
and it wants
an audience
Maybe the stars know what to do?
Down here it's not true
to say we have any clue
If there only was a way to learn that Sparks in the sky
are opportunities to try
and lie less
to be great and honest
Learn that distance is quickest
Green: the spaceship of our baby dreams
and quilt seams
begging us to replant
and re-pot and re-hash
for a brighter future
a lighter day
Wringing on my knees in the end
to believe that distance is quickest
and harmony's not already dead
Finally.
I know that Sparks exist
for me to recharge and rebuild.
They're green and they live in the sky
that we filled
they live in my art and the world's heart
so if safety existed: Sparks would not.
and the distance would look like time.
So tell me why I should be human
when I run so much better as a
shiny
porcelain
battery
backup
mind
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
to replant or relearn
like they're the same thing
that to swallow a seed
is like eating the tree
water feeds worry
& words tell me
n o t h i n g
but you told me that you loved me
& it is all I can believe
tonight i'm finding poems
in every place you stood
& I am digging deep in gardens
busting knuckles over wood
the grace to understand, my love
is doing me no good
it is the way you burn inside of me
I wish you understood
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Can you help me find a remedy for this swollen heart?
She says it's just a side effect of all the alcohol.
"If you let me have my way, I swear I'd tear you apart."
She says I'm getting my aching organs mixed up,
and it's the liver that's in need of a detox.
Shit's all out of context.
I told her to forget it.
"One of these mornings will be the loudest you'll hear,"
but my head's still ringing from the echo of ten years spent ignoring alarm clocks.
I can see the too-bright light at the end of the tunnel,
but I'm getting off at the next stop,
and I can keep hopping these cars ad infinitum.
"A long time ago, we used to be friends,"
but I've broken half-a-hundred promises since then,
and I'm in no condition to up and replant these seeds of doubt that my family tree dropped nearly three decades ago.
This ain't the song to end it on.
And these aren't the words either of us ever wanted to have to regret not saying,
but why can't you just say what you mean?
"We met one day in wet cement,"
and our swollen hearts have been slowly hardening ever since.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
The Games we play
This is not an English poem, the fear of showing
emotion, look at my stiff upper lip, wrapping
words of love in cotton wool. The truth is, my
Dear, I don't care for you, but my cowardice is
a deep river so profound I can't come and say:
I don't love you anymore.
Flowers sent, the ring I gave was out of pity
and guilt hoped you would sense the chill
behind the gift and frigidity of feeling.
Under a cloud of pusillanimity, we'll wed, live
near a hairdresser salon for you, and a park
bench of Autumnal leaves, for me.
Unbridgeable the distance between us, I will
go on dreaming, and you will scream at, my
passivity till there is no reason left,
the useless wind brings no seed to replant.
This is how it will end because I lack the gut
to say simply. “I don't love you anymore.”
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
There are layers existing deep
in you,
parts long forgotten,
parts yet to be found,
they call, but you have never known
how to listen.
They can no longer wait.
The Gods make sure of this.
Someone or something will come
and burn you down to nothing.
Burn down your faulty armor.
It will hurt. And it should.
On the other side of this hurt,
who will be there, but the charred seeds
of your soul.
Find them. Only you can replant them.
Only when you have stopped looking for yourself
in the hands and at the feet of shallow statues,
look down to the soil at your own feet, that ground
you walk upon, there,
plant those seeds, and begin again.
Grow stronger.
Grow wiser.
Reborn.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC
I am like one of your beautiful plants,
that you are taking care of every day ,
watering just to make sure it will not die,
cutting the dried leaf that's ugly to see,
talking even if its not responding.
you're watching it growing , and excited to bloom,
and suddenly it totally die,
and never give up, you do the cuttings procedure ,
never get tired to replant ,
it's because this is your happiness,
until it grows , some leaf are dried , but you're still there waiting ,
you almost give up , and one early morning unexpectedly the best felling and the most awaited moment had come ,
the morning that sun didn't shine , the rain never stop , but you we're there to see how beautiful i am,
i am bloom according to how you want me to bloom.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
I rarely edit my work
I prefer the fresh
green
words that sprout in the moment
There is something disingenuous to me
about letting someone
even a later self
uproot and replant my ideas
My mother wants me to
let the editors inside
she wants me to open my sanctuary
to the norms
the opinions
the pen
of the world
I'm afraid to touch my own words
because god loves ugly
because
I
love ugly
what would happen
if I let
them
touch my thoughts?
I think therefor I am
so if they help me think
am I still?
give me your downcast, your ugly, your broken
the grit and the grime of your teeming mind
I lift my pen, I peel back the wool
this is life, there is no golden door of escape
complacency is sickness
have I found it
of from it do I flee?
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
triumph! shadows will not prevail
lest you wander down the darkened trail
a winding road, covered by roots and stumps
a metaphor for life's greatest bumps.
our roots are strong, it stumps us still
the ground we live on is no longer fertile
to replant yourself is a key to growth
embedding deep, nature's greatest ****
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
When I was sixteen
I picked up my life
And moved across state lines
To a town full of strangers
And emptiness
And though the emptiness seems cliche
There is nothing as full and rich as your home town
With its familiar faces
And places
And ways.
And so that first summer there
I floundered
I slept too much
And I ate too little
And I ached for a home that didn't even want me
Or so I thought
But it's not that I abandoned it
It's that I was taken from my home
And told to replant and cultivate roots in impossible soil
But my roots have not cracked the surface of this new "home"
But when I go back to my real home
I go to visit my roots
Where I could have grown strong and sturdy
And maybe not lost the boy I loved
And the family I'd cultivated
And the memories I missed.
If absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Then maybe I've fallen too hard for my home.
But love is love is love is love
And I love and miss my home.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
Your beautiful mind is shrouded by our abyssmal surrounding
The jarring ruckus composed of voices with nothing to say, comitting lustful and spiteful acts just as confounding
You buzz around the gun shots in the night from the heated exchanges of the afternoon, and relish spreading the news in the morning
Yet we all hate the mourning
Your thoughts float along a tributary of violence, carrying too much weight not to be dragged under by the venomous current
And you love it
If only one ambition I could bring to fruition, if only one purpose I would be a leal servant
It would be to abruptly uproot you from this concrete savannah,
this rolling plain of debauchery,
this collaboration of skullduggery,
this tundra of treacherous trollops
And replant you firmly in view of the sun,
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC