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 chosen flower, plucked to serve a need?
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.
On a dew kissed morning,
while walking through the country path,
I chanced upon an unpretentious weed
peeping out of the crannied stone ledge with a flower
a lavender blossom with bright yellow stamens
around her navel announcing the mirth
that breathes itself in bloom.
Though lonely, she was a symbol of resilience
In many eyes an intruder, but she could put to shame,
her garden cousins, stationed high-
a testament to love, showing life’s art.
Away from mortal gaze, she survives,
to cheer hearts and waft a mild fragrance.
She nods her head in breeze
as if to invite the footloose ramblers
who might chance to pass that way
to feast on her beauty and taste her fragrance,
before she falls down dead in that wilderness
in another day’s time,
unnoticed, untouched, unsung!
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.
I stand alone, a testament to life's longing
yet, seen with contempt from infected eyes
Looked upon with anger
I live no matter the circumstances, or conditions
to my well being
I ask no quarter and seek nothing from you
Still, I am your deepest resentment
seen as a complication to the beauty you seek
You can destroy me without feeling
and crush me in a mere fleeting moment of anger
for arriving uninvited
I stand alone not bending to your desire
needing no applause or companionship
All I ask, is to be left alone
A crack in the concrete is a canyon,
a fissure enough to let a slice of green grow
with no gentle hands to cradle the sapling,
no affable soil to support the tender roots.
As the dust settles on the leaves of endurance
like silence enwrapping an abandoned life,
survival is the dispensation of the introvert,
unfolding in a space that’s not meant for life.
Outside, the world is an indistinct panorama,
the scenes move to make an alien array,
encased within the familiar frame of isolation,
where self-shadow is the only companion.
Yet, the weed survives the pangs of desertion alone,
perhaps because existence is the willful rising
to thrive even when no one cares to own,
for, it’s a life defined by what can be endured.
When existence is the emblem of withering forlorn,
after sprouting with the essence of insolence,
helping to bloom lonely life with the touch of hope,
waiting for the spring that’s never promised.
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
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
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.
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.