Best Dispensary Poems
Outside, being outside, I thrill in nature’s seminary.
All lives sincere within earth’s sweet, sylvan sanctuary.
Trees never lied to hide their ancient commentary
or nature bid to conceal its ways often arbitrary.
As a golden, soft, internal peace dispensary,
nature does reveal mysterious ways unwary
of gifting precious tranquility I find necessary.
Alive, being alive, I soar when I may tarry
with nature’s simple, honest need, and frolic merry.
Abundant joy I do derive breathing solitary
while nature comforts me in her own monastery.
From ocean shore to ocean shore, mountain to prairie,
earth elements venerable release is salutary
for human grief to fly away in nature’s aviary.
4/10/17
Presently
You all stay in my memories
I wonder if my family and friends will remember me
And if not, then I'll just let it be
Respectfully
To you all I'm sending out positive vibes and energy
For the span of the century
Bless you all and may you remain heavenly
Hold on steadily
Think cleverly
While using every sensory
Especially when in times of jeopardy
After learning from something exemplary
Often I was doing things rudimentary
Yet effectively
Whether or not using some accessory
Due to habits and tendencies
Many times I bought alcohol and things from the dispensary
The cycle was going on endlessly
I've been my own worst enemy
Not always thinking sensibly
But rather recklessly
With my extemities, strength, determination, wisdom and integrity
Got to work towards serenity
While following my destiny
And occasionally taking time for reverie
Near and far from any effigy
Things happen unexpectedly
Sometimes involving complexity
Yet they just may turn out successfully
And lead to something amazing incredibly
That inspires you tremendously
Or it just may turn out unpleasantly
Objects moving at different trajectories
At speeds of more or less than seventy
Do not have intentions of treachery
Or jealousy
Over such pitiful and petty reasons essentially
I like learning new recipes
Regardless of if it has celery
Or sesame
Allegedly
Smart decisions and choices just may lead to longevity
By: Dalton Ogletree
Jesus reincarnates on the earth plane
and decides to open a medical marijuana dispensary.
Although business is booming,
he forgets to get the blessing of the DEA,
and soon the IRS becomes his worst judas to date.
Can the savior of psychedelics conjure a reason
to avoid crucifixion in this latter day tale
of medicine, financial derivatives,
and destruction of the empire of symbols?
To love, or to be loved, what is love?
To have loved and to have been loved, which is greater?
To accept one’s fate concerning love, this is a sentence of life.
Where is peace found, when love abounds everywhere,
but the waves never touch the shore?
Can the sounds of the forest be heard in the heart of busyness?
If the busyness full of love is dispersed from the creator,
are we only fulfilling our own needs?
What of those whose love is a well of never ending supply?
Should not those that taste of that love not also return love to that well?
How deep does the well go?
When that well, is supplied by the creator of the dispensary,
that love will never run dry.
I am the dispensary and the forest, and I am the shore…
I walk in scarred peace…
Poetry IS the Mother of ALL art.
The completion and the part.
A private punchline-divine.
Be it the fruit or be it the vine.
It is The IS, sometimes the Music,
sometimes the Muse for us.
The usery that uses us.
The gizt of hearts in infatuation,
of the telling apart.
Insanity or bust.
Between lesson and instruction.
To be or it's destruction.
The painting and the canvas,
bared for emotions-teeth to take a bite of that
sweet ****- au pair with a peculiar incisor inflection.
Like a werewolf transforming with a tear, gleaming
to go on a tear.
Of whatever amazes or confounds us.
It uplifts and surrounds us.
There is poetry in a hungry infant,
and the warmth of a Mother- the need pregnant,
expectant.
Symbiotic-
Symmetry-
Symbolic-
Systemry- in offshoot,
Automatic
Ethereal firmament
To drink of
the bulwarks of love that
cultivates the brainworks as it wallows in
possibilities mud,
taking thought into-the bliss-of-the asunder,
of connecting string
Gloriously plundered.
Poetry is,
A glimpse of
"The Way."
Sparking like a pinwheel,
on freedom day,
growing, blooming
the flowers seed of
Intensity, integrity, glowing into
Life's density in sporadic release of splay.
The I Am. Pied piping His signature conducting groove
into our channels.
As the orchestra plays.
The call that we all dance to.
Molding the Earth like pottery of clay.
God's use of snapshots of what love should be.
Has a chance to put from the reach of it's ease'.
The Universe His studio, and dispensary.
WE the ones fogging the lenses scope of things
(needing proofs before the picture is even through/
or while the ink is still new.)
Because it IS both abstract and it IS REAL.
There IS Contagiousness in poetry's mental feel.
Its thundering peel, uncovering, rolling. Roaring in zeal.
In a symphony of opened seals.
Showing like a signet ring.
Shofar in the spring of knowing.
Crossing over the next life level
over the hill double digits
crosstown 59th, uptown 60th
my closest friend RX
guide, translator and dispensary
preferred or not preferred
formulary or non-formulary
designed to self-destruct
at the non-preferred level
always in pain trying to sustain
RX slapping dollar dollar bills
from hand to hand just insane
multi billion dollar industry
and a world still in pain
the non-preferred psycho
government's best friend
we the people, yes we can
crossing over the next life level
minds must unsubscribe
life after life choosing sides
hate on hate constant genocide
and no vaccine to prescribe
non-preferred life unchosen
still trying to be freed
I can't breathe
bodies worn and torn
building non-formulary economies
I can't breathe
non-preferred in a democracy
racism still at eye’s view
in a world of many hues
minds of many still confused
the world’s republic is changing
a Pharmacracy is evolving
in the cracks of humanity.
If this here deep inside the depth
of the Great Pyramid was in fact
meant to be
A burial chamber for the felled
Pharaoh King himself
To ascent and assimilate his procession
and onward journey into the afterlife
And this his marble granite sarcophagus
Then pray let me me in silent contemplation
for a given time inside reside and lay in
waiting if only just for him
And listen out for the echo sounds
rebounding back to and from the afterlife
Regaling tales of enlightenment the such
as like
What indeed a star does actually sounds like
Or how long we are supposed to be dead
before we are born again
If in fact we are to be at all or secrets
Orion keeps hidden underneath his belt
Or if he actually has 3 sisters
Or why on earth was he himself indeed
deemed to be birthed and born as
a King
Yet I and countless serfs where meant
to kneel before his feet
And most pressing of all
Do we who's manual labor sweat and toil
both needed and used
In order to construct this monument
and so to apply it's manifest
Eventually get some great reward for
doing so ourselves
Grace a tomb entwined with walls
endowed with multi colored dispensary
by the greatest artists of the day
And an infinite supply of all earthly worldly
good's and treasure to accompany me
More gold than Midas himself had at his
disposal to mine or anything other than
I was able to own let alone dare wish
ever possess
Or are we so too as well too be ignored
and passed over in the afterlife as in
this life too
Samuel Garth ' DISPENSARY'
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A snowstorm blew in from the north last night
with blasts of frigid air pounding the loft hard,
paralyzing wind howling brought terrorizing fright.
In the morning I'm expecting a snow-covered yard
probably with banks of snow against the railing,
and roadways treacherous with ice frozen hard.
Lucky we will be if our car battery is not failing
and we can make our way to the local dispensary
though we cannot expect a trip smooth sailing
because the winds will still be flinging icy misery.
Wrapped in heaviest woolen coats and scarving
with heavy galoshes since the road is slippery,
In the new soft snow, our footprints are carving
for those tracing the path to the narrow lane,
They must hurry for imprints are quickly blurring.
On second thought, to go outside is most insane,
a snowstorm blew in from the north last night.
For those tracing the path to the narrow lane,
paralyzing wind howling brought terrorizing fright.
written January 13, 2022