Best Hashish Poems
Hashish smoke trails her
along a dusky corridor
Aka the hall of fires
where mirage chimeras unleash
Encumbered with hands splayed
her crystal ball lumens
wires ghostly apparitions
mnemonic attachments
What mystery ensues
a phantasmagoria
of horror nudging
the demonic
Sitters drenched
in profuse sweat
fainting one by one
Alas unconscious
their fate met?
Coroners couldn’t ‘ve clarified
Described as an arctic chill
bolting across the sector
through each limp body
claiming mortality
As icy temps rise
Hypothermia responsible!
for the fatality, for their demise
Latter days professing onto
recordings of a gathering that took place
confessing that a séance
performed by a mysterious woman
in a trance—was the case.
The
Moon is waxing
First quarter crescent
The beckoning begins
Nodding, gurgling
Opening realms unseen
to the naked eye
Madame
Mystic, psychic,
a beguiling storyteller
and Medium
Down in a cellar, along with a Ouija
volumes of her writings discovered
delving into société espirita
The Goldilocks of the occults
Esoteric subjects,
a burgeoning interest
Astral travels,
unexplained laws of nature,
powers latent in man
Madame channeled
ascended masters
The Voice of the Silence
The Two Paths
The Seven Portals
"gifts" from the specters
This time Madame stands
to receive between intervals
and only he is seated
Warning him of dark spirits
a dimension outside
of our physical time-space reality
shadowing, making absence
of light a necessity
To invoke them
another nod
Continues unabated
Reveal the truth!
By sacred decree, by order
Behind the phenomenon
details of schemes came to light
Denounced as Black Magic
she was no longer to fright
Marked as a fraud
it all a façade
The moon is waning
Third quarter
Sorry, I no more seek your suns
Nor moons
Yes, your suns I loved very much
Your passionate sun
Around which my planets would run
Your cool moons
Shedding long leaves
On my glistening lagoon
I remember
All my swoons
From wine in your spoon
But your nerves
Went for new curves
It happens
Very often
Our rivers do not like the same course
Especially when you endorse
Flames of passion
And we are rivers
You developed a new craze
In a psychedelic haze
In that crazy spree
You started neglecting me
Initially I got lonely
Missed you terribly
My ocean frozen I was in a depression
Of the morbid flower
In pale blue showers
From the two windows
Morose under compulsion
For many a day, month and year
Irritation in the mug of bear
Tearing my spirit
Pulverizing all my lyrics
Landslide in Mirik
But again all rivers are resilient
If you stop its normal course
It gathers unexpected force
The remorse underlie
I grew seasoned without you
I was out of the bottomless blues
Though could not but reflect on the cues
In the morning dew
And sighed too
But I learned to live agile and alert
Brushing aside the frozen heart
Gave up on hashish
Cleaned the debris
Started looking smart
Now I have travelled a long path
No more remorse no wrath
No smokes of the aftermath
Now I understand
The diamonds of life
Love matters much
Especially in the flowers of touch
But when you ignore
It does not matter
I have got my poems of freedom
Your walls can never ruffle them
______________________________
23/11/2016
Note: Mirik is a Himalayan tourist spot in Darjeeling
Were
I
Jazzed
At every kerfuffle-
I shan't have the time to peer at the sky
Rubble around me and six inches deep
My only recourse ahh! triple mud pie!
Economy crumblin' Wall Streets a mess
No one will notice I've pickled the cress!
Breads in the oven yea! spiked with hashish
Just one bite congress
might pass some relief!
Tornadoes are twistin' earth shakes below
If memory serves me i'll conjure up snow
For more than five lifetimes, patience we've been
While line by line constitution has waned
Grab your water pistols- fill your balloons
Let's have a party
Make lawmakers swoon!
james marshall goff
08/31/13
© All Rights Reserved
When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth
My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping
A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust
The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan
Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by –
Insofar as the choice is moderacy
Over me they seek to keep
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep
A quest to solve the world
Challenged to fix my head
Get me defined – no word
Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck
Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry
He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song
The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate
Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . . ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions
Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
So many sick rivers
Of pain, shock and shiver
Flow from longstanding wounds
Of soul-chopping depression that surround
Many islands next to you and me
As a consequence of the malady
Our development system is trapped in
Because of the flaws within
In Kolkata the other day
Collin in sheer dismay
Accepted the unacceptable truth
That his son cannot have the fruit
Of higher education in a star college
As he cannot afford the package
He could have been
Another Stephen Hawking
Phillip in Nairobi
Is forced to lobby
With corrupt controllers of the system
For his free cancer treatment
Nevertheless stays encumbered
His days are numbered
He has no wherewithal
To go to a better hospital
In Mexico
The blue sky of girls destitute
Get imprisoned in dark cells
No, actually sheer hell
Of flesh trade
A huge global population Is demented
The world is fragmented
Gravely disproportionately
Right from the ages of amoeba
Till today’s human ova
Trees are stripped of their bark
Stark naked a major part of the world
In frustration I sometimes do scream
Nevertheless dream too
For a perfect world
Enabling all to unfurl
Leaving none deprived
Of a health-packed miniscule yellow sun
On every breakfast dish
And no hashish
May be it will take
Many more centuries to make
An even ground
For Prometheus unbound
------------------------------------------
Calcutta.
Hot and unberable in the searing summer heat
and unberarable for more reasons than the heat.
In a popular tourist cafe an American widow
obsesses on her dead husband: she has a bundle
of photos, letters and other mementos to show as
she tells stories, ad-nauseum, about his now stiff
prowess as a prolific and technically perfect lover.
She moves from table to table with her bundle
of banality disturbing patrons at random with her
loneliness. This happens in the Calcutta stink of Indian
cardamon, paprika, cinnamon, sour sewer and rotted
garbage. All this aromatic decay combines with the
overpowering scent of jasmine. Mother Theresa's
favorite intoxicants.
But other smells and stenches permeate and nasuate your
senses. Certain streets are dedicated to the putrid permanence
of sensory corruption. But only the uninitiated visitor seems
to suffer insult to their olfactory awareness. The indigenous
poor are scattered on the streets and walks in somnambulist
slumber, like fatalistic, hashish soaked, discarded rags.
Children with sunken, obsidian eyes and belly-swell of abandoned
malnourishment reach out toward passing lost-eyed foreigners,
their palms-up; "Rupee please, sir, I am hungry, sir, coins please sir,
I am hungry, sir." The widow from the cafe slaps a child's reaching
hand with her bundle of deceased memories then trips over a sleeping,
legless beggar and splashes face first into the fetid stream of seminal
waste flowing from under his two exposed stumps. No one, including me,
offers to help the child-slapping widow onto her two intact feet.
Calcutta.
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 59
Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish
In all probability by set built-in laws
Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish
Will good works against Nature’s grain admonish
Can living beings alter the Big Plan strict laws
Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish
Should Nature keep house for the tenant in anguish
About who’s the owner of the wind that blows
Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish
Nor for those who refuse house rules to distinguish
Turn not fire down let hot water run indoors
Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish
Or when the owner’s preparing to cook hashish
The tenant goes out to dine dance with rich in-laws
Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish
Nature sets the rules of the game in his hospice
The guest who knocks late from revelries stays outdoors
Does Nature dispose at random by whim or wish
Part of free will which wills ill makes karma punish
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
I’ve heard tell of some suicide cult in Kenya;
Poor folk pledged to starve themselves to death
For God’s glory, and so malevolent surgeons
Can harvest their organs for profit in trade.
Well, I’ve been to Kenya, and I can say this:
Mombasa seemed quite exotic with its
Sculpted elephant tusk archway granting
Unfettered access to the Year of the Cat.
The open road to Nairobi was a safari adventure in itself,
Needing no explanation other than a quarter pound
Of the finest black Afghan hashish this side of Kandahar.
While in Kenya, I never once thought of killing myself.
But I did determine that it would be unsafe
To pass out drunk in any public venue
For fear of waking up with a pain in my side
And find I’m missing one of my kidneys. Kenya, dig it.
There is a plant that is making the news...
It has so many names, you might be confused...
Mj , hashish, pot, reefer and weed...
Just to name a few and it grows from a seed...
A drug that’s been illegal for many years...
And when mentioned put’s fear in a parents ears...
There was a President, however, that stated he...
Lit up once , not thinking you see...
Tried it in college...but never inhaled...
Lucky for him, no one ever blackmailed...
So for a number of years , it has been Taboo...
To smoke this plant , and if anyone knew...
You might lose your standing in the community...
However, now it’s up to the government you see...
To pass a bill for you and me...
So we can smoke it as we wish...
Alas...it would become a legal “ fetish “....
Turn the corner
and you will find, some dark figures
huddled together under the rains
of words. In a fractured
embrace. One chunk of floating
pain falls on you. The assassin
had come quietly.
A song was knifed today.
Turn off the lights. A smeared
moon will rise tonight in earth’s
shadow. Now hashish eaters were
coming, now hashish eaters.
Unnoticed, disconnected,
stinging. From olive to bleeding heads,
poetry to prey.
The koel will not sing tonight.
Satish Verma
Stepping through its beaded door
was like walking into a time cloud,
whiffs of marijuana and hashish pipes
lined up by color in the cabinet
to the right, behind which stood
a hippie and his girl, with beads
and long hair, who lived in the VW van
parked in the rear, the one
splattered with colorful peace
signs like the psychedelic posters
on their store’s walls, glowing
under the hidden black light.
Nirvana was a safe haven,
offering a calm which transcended
my fifteen-year-old my psyche,
magnified by the freedom
to wander through without shoes
or purchase, unlike the neighboring stores
on Union Turnpike in the heart of Queens.
The place exuded the potent energy
of my love generation. I wish
there was a store like it here
in my new neighborhood, but I suppose
I’ll have to settle for the natural health
food store, which offers the same sort of claim.
My Experimentation Days!
My experimentation days began while I was serving the United States Navy
I had begun drinking at age twenty-one
and had tried and experimented by tasted over two hundred all together brands of different beers, whiskeys, rums, sakis
vodka, wines, asaki, and other alcoholic beverages
in doing so I justified it to figure what I considered be a good and bad alcoholic beverage
I smoked marijuana and eat psilocybin mushrooms for the first time in the Navy, shortly before I got out and didn't get caught on my drug test either
once I was in college I began experimenting with more different alcoholic beverages
eventually experimenting with lots more marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy, Molly, adrela, hashish, flavored tobacco, and cigarettes
Smoked cigarettes for two weeks to see if I enjoyed or if they actually gave me an adrenaline rush like the others had and it actually gave me four canker sores, four fever blisters all at the same time
stopped smoking cigarettes every since I realized that I am allergic to them
each drug became my escapade just like aforementioned about my binging drinking
I actually enjoyed doing them
however, I eventually burnt out on all of them except for alcohol of course and quit doing all of the other drugs because they weren't giving me the same high that they had the first time that I tried them
I quit them all cold turkey and never had withdraws from any of them
after nine years of binge drinking and three years of other drug usage I quit drinking as well
I have been clean and sober for five years and it has definitely help me with so much in my life!
There was a chef famous for his quiche
Crowds came in and paid lots of baksheesh
Feds came into town
they busted his crown
for his quiche was sprinkled with hashish
x number of hours from
a to b, and while certainly it can always be worse,
it could always be better---
the fact remains that there are mother****ers in the cities
who don’t have to get up early & jump in their cars
to get on the freeway & haul ass
while dealing with the frustrations of every moron that was able to get a driver’s license,
there are people in the cities who walk to work,
who hail a cab &
yes, though there are those that stuff themselves into a small tin box in a
sequence of small tin boxes &
glide slowly in the heat, underground, stopping every 100 feet or so…
the commute doesn’t warrant such thoughts that might illuminate the commute itself.
the commute is time spent in a personal cell
drifting above the asphalt, pondering all the happenings of the day before,
of the night before,
witnessing the weather, whatever it might be,
treating you like its own little pet teddy bear
to throw around in its teeth,
like a dog that just got out of the pound
getting that first real bone again
grrrrrrrrrrrrr---
and the morning coffee on the way
just doesn’t do it,
and the donut or the bagel or the cigarette or the hashish
just doesn’t do it---
it seems no matter what can be done in that time spent in the car,
the commute steals time that could’ve been spent elsewhere.
might think that it is the 21st century &
the fact that they don’t have flying cars or the ability to “beam me up, scotty,”
just pisses the **** out of you,
might think that oral sex would improve the ride if you had cruise control,
sure,
might think that this routine is
killing you, and that the commute itself represents the inability to make what you really want in life to be your own, quicker---
might think that today is the day to step on the gas, make a quick withdrawal at the bank &
turn your back on all that was,
making only room for what lies ahead.