Best Weed Poems
I am but a weed
In God's flower garden
Humbled to exist
Even if not as red as roses
Not as tall as sun flowers
Not as warm as marigolds
Not as thrilling as lillies
But I am wonderfully and fearfully made
I invite imagination
And like a falling star
Children pick me to
Blow blue breaths wishes upon
And I fly into whimsical wind
To deliver the messages of hopes
I start my journey as gold and then
Turn white just before my flight
A prize in disguise
I am a dandelion.
Twas the night before Christmas and all were in need
as we waited for Santa who had promised us Weed.
Our parents were sleeping with not a clue in their heads
that their children were Stoners and away from their beds.
The cheetos had been placed on the table with care
with an idea dear Santa soon would be there.
The winter was cold with no time for a snack
hoping Kris Kringle would come with fresh Pot from his sack.
I had been to the Bank and had obtained hordes of cash
with a fervent desire St. Nick would bring the best of his Stash.
We had our concerns for a reasonable fellow
who was honest and straight... no harshing our mellow.
The time had been set as I looked at the clock
knowing the waiting was tense and we needed our Pot.
And then from the porch a strange sound did we hear
but it was only friend Jim who had gone for some beer.
I stared out the window and peered through the snow
and we were greatly concerned whether Santa would show.
And then from the street... what did I observe?
A '72 ford Pinto... which was stuck on the curb.
The engine was smoking and the tires were flat
and with the windows quite frosted... I reached for my bat.
This didn't look good as I gave way to doubt.
Wondering who was the driver and who would come out?
And who should come forth? But Santa himself
who was all bearded and fat, a jolly old Elf.
He climbed to our rooftop... was nimble and quick
thus avoiding the doorbell... this fella was slick.
He was now in the chimney and this lightened our hearts
and we knew he was close when we heard the Elf fart.
And then in an instant the Big Guy appeared
but asking double the price for which we had feared.
We told him our troubles as he pondered our point,
he then lowered the price on every third Joint.
The payment was made and the dope was obtained
and up the chimney he rose unconcerned for the flame.
I'll remember that night... for it was a doozy
when Santa came through... and brought me a Doobie.
As he drove out of sight... I heard him calling my name...
Merry Christmas to all and goodnight Mary Jane.
The End
*For those who are interested. I will be posting my cartoon 'Bob's your Uncle' on my homepage. A new one will appear every second day.
We seek out special flowers in the field,
That stand among the weeds in scarce array…
Quick pluck them from the thorns, a tiny yield,
Arrange them, stem by stem for our display.
Then serving on a table, shelf or sill,
Their fragrant beauty eases stress and strife,
While in the field, the crowded weeds will still
Meander on in wild pursuit of life.
The weeds grow dense and tangled in their clime,
Drink deep of soil and live for sun and rain,
While full, rich flowers, giving of their prime,
Will sooner wilt, their goodness spent for gain.
What's best to be—a carefree, rambling weed,
Or special flower, plucked to serve a need?
Sandra M. Haight
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest: Contest No 219
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 10/07/2016
~3rd Place~
Contest: Screwed XI
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 03/01/2016
Food To Feed Separate from Weed
Morning Has Broken and so has each seed;
Become food to feed separate from weed,
They found,
On ground,
Which was required that they surely need.
My main goal is to motivate others
to write poetry..
Jim Horn
We start life well grounded
like all great kelp families
attached to shell or bedrock, growing,
reaching for sunlight above the sea
all summer season long
I am battered about
colliding, pushed to and fro
waves and tide shape my destiny
at my rock-bound toes
purple anemones freely munch
trying to break me free
I feel every twinge, every crunch
my golden leaves frail about
stirring the salty blue sea
garibaldi and sea bass eat freely
my contributions go without heed
thrashing, crushing waves
swirling us all together
we cling to each other
our solidarity brings protection
then...one final nibble
a rough tumble to shore
beach sand smothers me
ending my life at sea.
Dandiest of lions, roaming freely in your fertile field,
Feral kitty don’t succumb to pressure, let not your spirit yield,
Lie in the sun, relax, repose,
You are of the field, as of the garden is the rose.
Weed
it is,
edible;
dandelion
weed.
LUST IS AS ILL-CONSIDERED A WEED
AS EVER STOLE SCENT
Rejected in the main as superstition -
A gadfly, I’m alone upon the weed:
A hot cinquefoil brooding on position,
Declared intent of being in need of screed -
Now the subject of each idle bee
Gorged already, needing a restful stop
What if his gyrations bring to me
No true syncopation of a honeyed hop?
Beauty – not recognised as such – I wonder
Why man and woman excavate a flower garden
Tear my fertility, so they may squander
Wild possibility, and the earth around me harden.
Can the joy I have before I’m torn asunder
Be worth it when they never ask my pardon?
(C) Rosemarie Rowley
What is a rose to a weed,
The latter we fight,
The other we feed,
One grows in spite,
It takes over with greed,
What is a rose to a weed.
When will a rose use it's thorns,
We cut them for love,
They are picked as we mourn,
For those we think of,
For those we adorn,
When will a rose use it's thorns.
Can a weed be a flower in bloom,
They grow in the wild,
With petals which loom,
Admired by a child,
Like wild flowers assumed,
Can a weed be a flower in bloom.
Why is perceived beauty admired,
A rat and a rabbit,
Not equally desired,
Caterpillars are maggots,
Presuppositions are liars,
Why is perceived beauty admired.
So now, what is a rose to a weed,
Can't a weed be a flower in bloom,
When will a rose use it's thorns,
I ponder such queries till expired,
Such as, perceived beauty admired.
at the roadside
solitary flowering weed
vision of loveliness
leaf falling from the tree
does its last dance in the air
then settles to the ground
in the crack in the concrete
the grass pushes upwards
unstoppable life force
I love weed; Afghan Red to be precise
It is my favourite illegal vice
I do it in the bath and in the hall
I smoke it in summer and right through fall
I smoke in class and in canteen
I smoke when cops are on the scene,
I light up when in academic gown,
a practice that made my former
Wife frown
And on the bus it is a hoot, to fill the
Air with devil’s suit; to draw it in
And keep it down, is much preferred
On trip through town
So if you feel life’s closing in, forget
The doctor or the gin, it’s weed that
Makes the world go round, its soothing
Pleasure…it has no measure... this
wicked vice, I'll always treasure
It's not a flower, it isn't yellow,
it's just this rabid,
fearless fellow.
dandelions
freshly picked by a child
become a precious flower
life, death and tumbleweed
I have never encountered tumbleweed
in all of its restless rolling glory
never really thought about it
until just now.
if you ask me why now
my mind would appear
as a new page
filled with potential
but all unformed
brown dried skeletal lace
at the mercy
of every wind that blows
crackling scraping
it was once green
leafed and filled with life
rooted into the soil
beneath passing cloud
the motions of sun and moon
in death it moves
with thin fragile beauty
free.
I am a weed,
Why do you ask me to paint my face and nails?
Do you not see my beauty without the falseness of that view?
I am a weed,
No, not a rose, soft velvet pleasure,
Beautiful until you reach out to touch,
Her siren song lures you to the spiny web.
I am a weed,
Verdant, brilliant in my tenacious ability to survive,
My flower is more subtle, it is not that of the rose.
When in drought, my vibrant presence still endures,
During flood I grasp on to life with strong arms and legs,
My beauty is in my ability to adjust to life,
I hang on in the storm, as I am a weed.
Behold me, I am a weed,
How can I help you understand me, cherish me as you do the rose?
Look within to see me as
I grow in strength with each new challenge thrown my way.
I am a weed, I am not a rose,
Many are like me in this world,
Some surviving phenomenal events,
Clinging to life as we know it,
The beauty of our spirit lies within.