"hemp" poems
Le ***** Quest
Glasses up, Hair down
*** up, Face down
Ignore the sisters, I’m after the cousins
The catholic approved crevasse to bust in
I wouldn’t say im obsessed
But the ***** demon has me possessed
I’d call you blessed, its what you guessed
I’m hard pressed to bend you east and get at the west
I’m on a ***** quest with a lascivious request
to admire the caboose cleft
I can’t repent the intent of this unspent cement
But I’ll give up hemp for lent
Embark on a posterior pilgrimage of preposterous proportions,
Devoted to the search for thy voluminous bloons for which I swoon
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
I say unto you with a sniveling snarl,
Will you go on and be friends with an owl?
Why, YES! I said boldly with a pompety grin
My new owl friend will be lucky and win!
He will hoot and toot a most beautiful song
He will win a singing contest and sing all day long
We will take all his winnings and spend it on mead
We'll sing, drink and be merry, indeed!
we'll capture a horse and dress it in tweed
then ride to the sunset on our horse named, "Sardine!"
Sardine might get hungry so we'll feed him some hemp
We'll lay down to rest on a bed that's unkempt
We'll wake in the morning to see Sardine's fate
Sardine has died from starvation this date
The sorrow we feel is so hard to beat
So opon his flesh we started to eat
w'ell pair it with taters all mashed in a pan
we'll eat up our dinner as fast as we can
but hold on a second, how silly are we!
We tripped on some mushrooms we found on a tree!
our minds started swirling and twirling; so dizzy!
my owl friend shrieked and then started to tizzy
he gouged out my eyes and laughed at my pain
I fell to the ground and made peace with my name
for I never did say from whence I came
cause stories like this are not easy to tame
I lay here in misery, my friend's not to blame
It's all in my head, this silly word game
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
Over a cup of morning java
Scanning my daily mail
I came upon an advertisement sheet
*That exclaimed in BOLD rainbow pastel*
Grand opening of a store that has everything
On the corner of Daisy and William Tell
The one thing I saw that interested me
Is they were having a back to "60's" Hippie sale
Of course I stopped what it was I was doing
Hopped in my Lexus and left right away
The excitement had my heart all in a flutter
This I guarantee is going to be a good day
They weren't kidding when they said they sold it all
I'd been wandering the store for quite a while
That's when I came to what it was I had come here for
Before me in trippy little colors, the hippie aisle
So I bought me a couple colorful hippies
With my 25% coupon I was able to save
The Hippies even came with a bonus
Fresh cut flowers and Jefferson Airplane tapes
When I got home I showed them to their room
Black light posters and colored beads hung from the door
As luck would have it I bought an Indian hemp rug
From Pier One just the day before
They taught me transcendental meditation
While I taught them both how to bathe
Their lessons broadened the mind
My lessons the nostrils saved
I soon had a groovy little hippie pad
In which organic vegetables and enlightenment grew
We'd sit around crossed legged in a purple haze at night
Playing psychedelic tunes on our Kazoo's
And I was pretty good too! Who Knew!
Yes, a house of happy hippies
Is a happy hippie house indeed
Especially when Wendy Crystal Sky...Yes, that's her name
Brews her famous dandelion tea
I highly recommend the purchase of hippies
I couldn't be any happier with mine
Sure beats the punk rockers I got on close out last year
But that my friend is another tale for another time...
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
I'm a Tree Huggin', Soy Chuggin',
I won't eat no meat
I'm a vegan of convenience,
Still, there's leather on my feet
I don't believe in lots of things
I'll protest and attack
But you won't find me out in front
'Cause I'll be in the back
I give money to my causes
Save the whales, electric cars
But I'm not one to lead the fight
"Cause I don't like the scars
Bricks get thrown alot you see
And those things ****** hurt
And I'm not a happy camper
When there's blood upon my shirt
I won't eat seeds of any sort
They get stuck in my teeth
My clothes are all from LL Bean
Except what's underneath
Way back in the sixties
I lived communaly
We ate only what the earth gave up
We didn't watch tv
As years passed by, our voices died
Our causes became much rarer
We sounded more like Manilow
Than Phil Ochs or Tom Lehrer
I choose fine wine over wheatgrass juice
I like leather and wear silk
I no longer go and get the goat
So we can have fresh milk
I'm a Tree Huggin', Soy Chuggin',
I won't eat no meat
I'm a vegan of convenience,
Still, there's leather on my feet
I don't believe in lots of things
I'll protest and attack
But you won't find me out in front
'Cause I'll be in the back
I've changed lots since the sixties
I'm a capitalist blood hound
If I said I'm a true vegan
My board would see me drowned
I used to wear just cotton
Hemp and caftans and blue jeans
Leather shoes and belts and jackets
Were just not part of my scene
My friends, well, they grew up
And others stayed in touch
The ones with money see me
The others not so much
I used to go out jogging
Through the park in puma shoes
Now I workout in a private gym
Wearing nikes and with my crew
You see I'm still a vegan
When it suits me, don't you see
My new girlfriend likes organic
And she's only twenty three
There's forty years between us
Though I've done it all before
When my girlfriend is not with me
I am a carnivore
I support all of her causes
Though most things I don't attend
I'll be a vegan of convenience
Until our courtship ends
Who knows, what then will happen
Will I eat Tofu or some chops
I know which way I'm leaning
We'll see how that one drops
Like I said when we first started
I am a vegan, so I am
But instead of eating quinoa
I'll stick to eggs and ham.
I'm a Tree Huggin', Soy Chuggin',
I won't eat no meat
I'm a vegan of convenience,
Still, there's leather on my feet
I don't believe in lots of things
I'll protest and attack
But you won't find me out in front
'Cause I'll be in the back
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
4.4k
Some chemical influences are necessary.
Experimentation is mandatory.
Skim the syllabus and you will see,
MDMA is chapter three.
Hemp is the strongest ****
At least that's what I learned in Botany.
Biology came as quite a shock,
When the plants pulled out their *****
English came as such a breeze,
The Diazepam brought poetry bees.
They pollinated the dopamine receptor,
Which greatly impressed my psychology professor.
When the zombies rose for dead weeks droll,
Adderall and Vyvanse kept us cool.
There's always a place in the Union Bathroom stall
To do a dome some Coke before study hall.
Of all the girls in my dorm floor
Roxy and Molly were just next door.
Art history wasn't the most entertaining,
Until Absinth was my painting water.
Finals were such a stress, so I'll admit
We laced our gin shots with Xanex.
College was an experience, I'll admit,
But Chemistry got me on the DEAn'S list.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite
Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
Monotony of surface & of form
Without a break to hang a guess upon.
No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung
By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye
Or rest a little on the lap of life.
All hurry on & look upon the ground,
Or glance unmarking at the passers by
The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages
All closed, in multiplied identity.
The world seems one huge prison-house & court
Where men are punished at the slightest cost,
With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.
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Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color--no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
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Knee joints pop
With sounds of aging
As his haunches settle
Into the resilience of hemp.
He is seeking a soft silence,
Reverence for universal truths
And a communion with the
Silence of the moment.
Thoughts bounce through his mind
Like static on a distant radio station.
Memories of past silences come
Like a prairie wind.
Soft silence settles around him
While his mind tries to forget
What harshness silence has nourished
During his lifetime.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
Addiction's innocent cousin ***** needling into my veins
infected me seasons ago
the ache I once felt still strong as mast's girth
From wind to wind sea to sea we internally roamed
in my mind the map was a treasure trove for exploration
i never was bound to lake shore
wind whipping tide tussling rousing mornings and dusky
nights
My mistresses my pleasure gliding goddess
drift lazily and let me sing praise with shouts "Boom"
but coy or not I coil spry
aged not with time
but lessons learned
The youngest have yet to grow
knowledge of the mystery fables tell
of beautiful passings
Land's unreachable without proper direction
rudderless a hair's breadth magnified out of reach
cool autumn leaves fall on my skiff
She tugs at my heart and at your golden hemp locks
they have all my love stolen from your deck your bow
your stern your timber your core
but let us sail evermore
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things
So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth
So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila
As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware
But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”
Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.
11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.
Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.
Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
How she silences all my senses remains a mystery to me. She numbs my core but yet makes it beat rapidly.
My insides turn to jelly whenever she gnaws at my belly, when she sinks her nails into my back and bites my bottom lip like a liquorice stick.
Some others would call her a bottom ****, but there's so much more to her being than being more than a side chick.
She sings melodies which resonate with the hums of my heart when we touch,
much of which is far from lust but is purely just.
To me she's more than a nutbust, she's more of an infinite ****** from which i cannot overcome.
VS
my botttom ***** she.. changed the scene, I: the bottom ***** loved and gave in once again, Into all the blissful ******** she spewed using her tongue.
Her tongue numbing everything...everything except my hands clenching, gripping knuckles turning white, my teeth drawing blood from my bottom lip.
she walked out, leaving me , bleeding , aching core. she left my house, my little bit of heaven.
Calls at 3am , the top, begging to be let it and just like that the words " go **** yourself " stuck in my throat yet my arms are missing you.
i turn to mush when you make that face... this is why i remain in the darkside, feeding the demons you supposedly killed
these demons were fed with lead, resurrected and led by madness.
Rage!
or a caveman savage!
Or..
i could call her over and offer her some tea and muffins, from a musket.
Hemp rope and hang (with) her, bound by invincible chords to the Lord but what more could i ask for but harmonious love from broken keys.
Broken keys for broken hearts, broken hearts deserve shotguns to pump bullets into the minds of those who sugarcoat the truth.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Over a cup of morning java
Scanning my daily mail
I came upon an advertisement sheet
That exclaimed in BOLD rainbow pastel
Grand opening of a store that has everything
On the corner of Daisy and William Tell
The one thing I saw that interested me
Is they were having a back to "60's" Hippie sale
Of course I stopped what it was I was doing
Hopped in my Lexus and left right away
The excitement had my heart all in a flutter
This I guarantee is going to be a good day
They weren't kidding when they said they sold it all
I'd been wandering the store for quite a while
That's when I came to what it was I had come here for
Before me in trippy little colors, the hippie aisle
So I bought me a couple colorful hippies
With my 25% coupon I was able to save
The Hippies even came with a bonus
Fresh cut flowers and Jefferson Airplane tapes
When I got home I showed them to their room
Black light posters and colored beads hung from the door
As luck would have it I bought an Indian hemp rug
From Pier One just the day before
They taught me transcendental meditation
While I taught them both how to bathe
Their lessons broadened the mind
My lessons the nostrils saved
I soon had a groovy little hippie pad
In which organic vegetables and enlightenment grew
We'd sit around crossed legged in a purple haze at night
Playing psychedelic tunes on our Kazoo's
And I was pretty good too! Who Knew!
Yes, a house of happy hippies
Is a happy hippie house indeed
Especially when Wendy Crystal Sky...Yes, that's her name
Brews her famous dandelion tea
I highly recommend the purchase of hippies
I couldn't be any happier with mine
Sure beats the punk rockers I got on close out last year
But that my friend is another tale for another time...
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:01 AM UTC
The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.
This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”
—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.
Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!
The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—
Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Possessed the land which rendered to their toil
Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.
Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,
Saying, "'Tis mine, my children's and my name's.
How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!
How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!
I fancy these pure waters and the flags
Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:
And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.
Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
And sighed for all that bounded their domain;
'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
The land is well,--lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'
Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
Hear what the Earth says:--
Earth-Song
'Mine and yours;
Mine, not yours, Earth endures;
Stars abide--
Shine down in the old sea;
Old are the shores;
But where are old men?
I who have seen much,
Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
Forevermore.
'Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
"But the heritors?--
Fled like the flood's foam.
The lawyer, and the laws,
And the kingdom,
Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone,
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song,
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
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They wanted to build
a counter culture
a version of
whatever
needed straight from
society
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
cause I recycle more than
I create trash and like
an acid flashback,
I don’t even have a license
just bicycle from point A
to point B
I realize,
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
they call me a hippie but
the fringe and leather
don’t make me
it’s that I practice what I
preach
I listen and I teach
I reach out to the old
faith
Gandhi and passive resistance
tryin' to make a difference
even if peace don’t
“exist” at least I don’t
reach out to war
as if it’s at my fingertips
and just like braidin’ hemp
the center splits-
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
I listen to classic rock
and jam to an mp3
records and tape decks
old school
is where you'll find me
Jimi and Zeppelin and
The Doors make me jive
without that music
I don’t even think I’d be alive
it’s that drive-
like man, you’re either on the bus or
off the bus
but I hopped coast to
coast
cause in love we trust
west to east in a retreat,
just to find the true me.
I shoulda' been born in the 60’s
I wear flowers in my hair
and sat on stoops
in Haight
I grew my hair long
and I sport natural waves
I don’t wear makeup or
go to raves
I try and find my grass roots
while they sport white collar jobs
and dress up in their suits
I write poetry and rhymes
I paint and I draw the line where man-
I should have been born in the 60’s
but I’m 93’
and thats ok with me.
in this current day and year
of 2014
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
No inner turmoil,
Will hold me back
I’m facing the world
And I’m poised to attack
I’m ready to fight
Before I die
Who are you to say
That’s he’s only getting high?
Who are you to say
That it won’t cure the pain
Of cancer, glaucoma,
And everyday strains?
Who are you to judge
Without knowing all the facts?
Why should we destroy
This very useful plant?
Hemp fiber is quite strong
And it’s easily taxed.
Legalization- an ongoing war
That mainly takes place
Behind various closed doors.
But I’m a supporter,
Like thousands of others.
You probably know one-
An aunt or a brother.
See, they’ve proved THC
Can shrink tumor size
In less than three weeks,
It’s the truth, not a lie.
All of these studies
Have successfully shown
The only harm known
Comes when it’s smoked.
But there’s so many methods,
Like brownies or pills.
With zero deaths a year,
Mary Jane doesn’t ****
But cigarettes do,
And alcohol too
Over 500,000 deaths yearly
What should we do?
Our forefathers grew it.
So why is it wrong?
Propaganda has brainwashed
Americans for too long.
Prohibition is immoral
And I will not be silenced
The only outcome
Is increasing violence
As the drug cartels rage
Below us in Mexico
We turn the page
To a brand new War on Drugs
Which, let me remind you,
Can never be won.
So many free citizens
With so many free minds
But the government controls
And accuses of crimes
As billions of tax dollars
Wash away, down the drain
Non-violent offenders
Are locked up and contained
Over-crowding prisons
It’s obviously insane.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 3:58 AM UTC
Rolling hemp
Legalized
Sweet Jesus
Wheelchair bound
Brave heart
Deems respect
Grinding brown beans
Aroma wafts
Favorite mug
Burritos
Frijoles
Flatulence
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
We shall not ask for the precious pearl of the Duke of Sui,
nor for the priceless jade disk of Master **
We merely ask for the recent news of our homeland.
The Palace of Spiritual Illumination must be still there,
surrounded by desolation.
What's happened to the stone statues buried deep in the grass,
still guarding the Imperial tombs?
Is it true that our people left behind in the occupied territories
are still planting mulberry trees and hemp?
Is it true that the rear guard of the Barbarians
only patrols the city walls?
This widow's father and grandfather were born in Shantung.
Although they never held high office, their fame spread far and wide.
I remember when they carried on animated discussions
with other scholars by the city gate.
The listeners were so crowded that their sweat fell like rain.
Their offspring crossed the Yangtze River to the South many years ago.
Drifting in the rapids, they mingled with refugees.
I send blood-stained tears to the mountains and rivers of home,
And sprinkle a cup of earth on East Mountain.
I imagine when Your Lordship, His Majesty's envoy, upholding the Imperial spirit,
passes through our two capitals, K'ai Feng and Lo Yang,
Thousands of people would line the streets and present tea and broth
to welcome you....
Announce that the Emperor's heart aches for the suffering people---
they are his own children.
Let them understand that the Will of Heaven remembers all living beings.
Our sagacious Emperor offers his trust which is as brilliant as the sun.
There is no need to negotiate many times after the long chaos of the years.
1.8k
this time something feels different
this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face
this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever
i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue
this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity
this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms
this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace
because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused
i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream
i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt
i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us
i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands
someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy
someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination
someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
I like that girl in the cutoff jean jacket
who always goes out with intent to make a racket
All that tribal black light paint
that you'd think would look cliche
until you see how well it illuminates her face
I want someone who still makes me feel young
Who isn't in a hurry to be all grown up
She's not afraid to say yes
to rock a neon headdress
and she always thought it cool to stretch her flesh
She rocks the shutter shades down in her V-neck
All summer long she's on the festie trek
She likes her wooden spiral plugs
her pieces shaped like bugs
and her most favorite thing is to give free hugs
From Triple Rock back to The Cabooze
Electric Forests and Bonaroos
She doesn't think that she'll ever grow old
with music, friends and stories to be told
Hemp and glass are her silver and gold
However, I am not quite like you
I'm just biding my time with this rowdy crew
I haven't yet committed to keeping my youth
and that's why my skin's still clear of tattoos
The longest lasting scars, forever proof:
You were once wild and young but afraid to face the truth
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
I might be a few years to late
As this has been decades in the making
But I'm going through with a commune
To give a few hippies something to do
So I wrote an ad, put it on a list
They say this guy Craig is the best
Now my yard is filled with hippies by the score
Or would the proper way be to say hippies galore
I hurried them all into the house
It wouldn't do for the neighbors to find this out
I set up booths in different rooms
I handed out name tags and colorful kazoo's
Don't let it be said I run a shabby commune
You gotta keep the hippies happy in all you do
That's why I have a calendar of special events
From karaoke kazoo to rug making with hemp
On Tuesday's we basket weave, Wednesday's we kite
But never in the day as hippies burn in the light
(Or is that Vampires...scratch that, that may not be right)
I even hired a Jerry Garcia look a like
To call out the numbers on Bingo night
All this hard work hasn't gone for not
Communes and Jefferson Airplane tunes last week called me up
They'd like to feature me in their magazine
A full page article on living the dream
Where I can help others to have their very on
Commune to invite a few hippies along
So go out if you can to a magazine stand
Read how it's done then buy you some land
We'll have hippie commune's from one end to the other
No color nor creed just sisters and brothers
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC