Long Spliff Poems
Long Spliff Poems. Below are the most popular long Spliff by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spliff poems by poem length and keyword.
An old man in Buffalo
Got toes of unwanted glow
He kicked the banger
On a cliff hanger
Waited for a truck to tow
Antique or dear jalopy
The bloke was on ecstasy
Smoked gum from his tyres
Lit wreck with pliers
Failed his own carbon copy
When rescue came hands on deck
They had no clue who’s the wreck
Chevy was rusty
Owner smelled musty
So they took both by the neck
Pick up onto heart massage
Fogey to a near garage
The crew had a spliff
All had a quick whiff
None wanted more sabotage
12th July 2019
Syllables checked by howmanysyllables.com
Somehow I feel connected to each lock
They remind me of a time before me when black was not just hip hop
They remind me of a movement towards freedom
When we were gaining the momentumm to no longer be oppressed
To me they represent bold, natural blackness
Symbols of non-conformity and to some
a sign of spiritual royalty
From ancient egyptians
to the movement of the rastafari
The lion of Judah remains represented entirely upon the heads of those
who rebel against enslavement
In modern times and during the times of
John the Baptist, King Tut, Solomon and Samson
Connected deeply to the Rastafarian and the struggle of the block
Guerilla warriors swore not to cut the locks
until the release of their authority
Jah-Rastafari or Haile Selassie I
Big ups to the dreads with conscious minds
The intertwined knots remind me of naturally grown crops of herbs
Each lock a spliff of some FIYA YA
to help calm my nerves
Burning the corruption and the lies told about the words written
While filtering out the bullcrap I found truth in transmission
Giving it to you is my soul mission
Locks. Beautiful like the afro
Symbolizing freedom from strong holds
Still black and proud though
I love locks
They remind me of pure blackness
THE CAT, THE DOG, THE MOUSE AND THE RABBIT HUTC>/center>
When passing the pet shop window, I saw a wondrous sight.
The pets were having a party, far into the night.
The cat was smoking a home-made spliff she’d rolled between her paws;
The dog was sipping pink champagne and nibbling petit fours.
The pet mouse jived with the python, getting ever bolder;
Until she pulled a muscle, throwing him over her shoulder.
The doe, in a slinky cocktail dress and the buck in a silk tuxedo,
Slipped behind their rabbit hutch to exercise their libido.
The tortoises, though normally shy, had come right out of their shell
And took the floor in a slow waltz, which of course they did rather well.
They beckoned me to join them and we danced at a furious pace.
And then I awoke with a tickly nose; my cat was licking my face.
30th March 2020
Cheerful Rhyme Competition
Sponsor - Line Gautier
you appear here rhyming beard and weird
eating oatmeal acting fierce
here's your limelight here's your career
here's a spliff and here's a beer
and a magic trick where you disappear
a rapping disaster passed a chance
to topple the master and steal the stance
six years of ideas captured in write
yet rhymes don't appear and it's childlike
syllable rhymes which aren't true but more near
A's rhymed with E's insulting the ear
and from a poetic perspective it's awfully clear
your brain's only human when the pulse disappears
flatlining blind at the peak of it's climb
declining back down yet on the same line
Tough, but ever hip,
Our Miss Patience said,
"You all never tip,"
"So, patience is dead."
"Here's some more bad news,"
"You all leave a mess."
"Got grease on my shoes,"
"And stains on my dress."
"Then, when my day ends,"
"And finally get home,"
"My family and friends,"
"Can smell me from Gnome!"
"No more free coffee,"
"And no more free swill,"
"No more sweet toffee,"
"Best just pay your bill."
"Don't like my new rule?"
"Go elsewhere to eat."
"I'll sit by the pool,"
"And put up my feet!"
"Light up a big spliff,"
"Then, when in the mood,"
"I'll take a big whiff,"
"And eat my own food!"
A Southern Band, so grandeur
Always professional as they tuned and toured
The Skynyrds, as i grew up with them
Southern gals and Southern men.
Rossington, Medlocke and the famous Van Zants
Straight Southern Rock without a slant
Boogie riffs, and maybe a spliff
But what they produced, was my music wish.
In 77, their world fell apart
This horrific plane crash, did its worst
Cassie, Stevie and Robbie Van Z
The pilots and Dean, died at the scene
Three days after, this title tasker
Ironically titled Street Survivors.
The courage and love
As they moved through the years
Every time i play them
It brings a few tears.
My only wish is too see them live
Absorb their music capture their vibes
Wave their flags, as they do each tour
And wish all their lives to be so pure.
The above words are from who i am
James from Scotland just - A Simple Man
" For one of the best Rock Bands ever "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music.php
Cantankerous cancers found my blood letting from the slit,
Is it avarice of me to desire the love begetting of Lazarus?
Enjoying life cadaverous like forgetting the want to live,
Is it glamorous for me to die while God desires I live?
Forgo the solid ground,
My feet dangled off the edge of a jagged cliff.
I fought the howl of squalid sin,
I caught the wind sending back the fire of my padded spliff.
Below I spotted a town,
My feet angled to squish what I saw down to the earth’s crusty skin.
Got calls asking where I’ve been.
Like,
“Just,
Just been wondering.”
Yeah yeah.
Yeah,
I guess you’ve just been wondering?
Could’ve made it better before I made it end,
Would’ve,
Should’ve,
But I wouldn’t have liked to make amends.
A couple foot of rope set up to further suspend,
Just to be an easy way out for whoever he is?
I misunderstood a friend on what is perpetuity,
I just want to live forever,
Instead I pretend to breathe on incongruity.
And as I descend upon,
I felt alive again when I grew dizzy.
I felt alive,
In my life,
I felt alive as I grew dizzy.
In a high rise block in Toxteth lived a Jazz clarinettist called Joe.
His fans in the Jazz club worshipped him and flocked to every show.
And night after night in that smoke filled club, his fingers weaved a spell,
While the audience cheered to the echo, unaware of his private hell
For, every night, in his tenth-floor flat, before he could play again,
He injected himself with Dutch courage to deaden the inner pain
It began with soothing cannabis, which the law doesn’t class as abuse
Just so long as that stash in the biscuit tin is purely for personal use
It can’t do any harm, they said, to smoke the occasional spliff;
Then the drummer introduced him to a line of white powder to sniff
It was just an occasional habit he wasn’t dependent upon
But he found that his music lost its edge when the buzz of the powder had gone
His dealer had something better at an introductory price
He wouldn’t become addicted if he tried it once or twice.
His music got better and better and the audience howled for more
But now he was hooked on heroin and stealing in order to score
One Sunday he didn’t turn up at the club so the band was reduced to three
Who thanked him as they pocketed a larger slice of the fee
When they tried to ‘phone on Monday, his mobile wasn’t on.
The neighbours hadn’t seen him and thought he might have gone
They found him three days later in his squalid tenth-floor flat
When they forced the front door open past the junk mail on the mat.
“Death by misadventure”, said the Coroner’s report.
“A tragic waste of talent,” he told the crowded court.
The church was overflowing on the chill November day
As they gathered to remember him and send him on his way.
A host of jazz musicians and a multitude of fans
Joined in celebrating the life of a gifted man.
His own band followed the coffin as they took him from the nave
Out to the wintry churchyard to lower him into his grave.
They have a new clarinettist now but, although he’s very good,
He doesn’t have Joe’s magic; well nobody ever could.
He lacks that extra something that no-one can define.
But the drummer’s offered a helping hand – in the form of a thin white line
To be clear...
I’m not asking you to love this.
I’m asking for you to meet me
where the words land hard—
where syllables ignite
like the last coin
burning a hole into your palm—
spent, but still cursing
what you could’ve claimed,
what you’re still pretending to chase.
I know...
you didn’t ask for this.
The ink staining your thoughts
like the memory of a tattoo gone bad—
the weight of metaphor,
that friend who never knows when its time
to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door.
I’m not here to make you believe
in anything more than the obvious:
the moon still shows up unabated,
the sun fades to an overhyped memory,
the world keeps spinning
because who needs a break, right?
However...
allow me to offer a word,
dew tap-dancing sweetness
against humbled slabs of rubble—
the way it burns like
that spliff smoked
in the backseat of a car
with no apparent destination.
You don’t need to love it—
I’m not asking for your devotion
just your pause,
your ear tilted toward the rung
of what might mean more
than either of us can say.
I’m not here to sell you
on the holiness of rhyme,
or to argue that a line can be
both prayer and weapon—
something churning in your soul
as you disappear into a crowd
too loud to notice.
I only want you to see
how language, this worn & battered thing
is the closest we’ll ever get
to a mystery worth chasing.
It won’t show up in the ding of a text,
or tucked between constant notifications
buzzing like mosquitoes
too thirsty to leave you alone.
This talk won’t beg your consent
only your presence.
It hangs in the air
like incense refusing
to dissipate from sheer obstinacy.
You’ve spent too long
bulldozing its remains,
lost in the whirl of your own doubts.
So let’s meet—
in the space where words
aren’t source guides or Google maps
but the body’s struggle to speak;
the pulse you feel in your fingertips
blushing on the page.
I don’t need you to love this,
but I can show you how a sentence
becomes a river you never meant to cross
but can’t seem to stop wading through—
how it pulls you under
and still,
somehow
manages to let you breathe.
It came back around and said, "I know you like to party."
He gave me a red cup, a little Coke, and Bacardi.
The Devil working hard, attaching himself to my body
He's scratching and clawing.
The work of my Angel, my Angel who has fallen
Firery halo, I get weak, then I'm calling.
Bottles and weed, a black to soothe the thoughts
I am already happy, But I need to do and be with something that would keep me off my knee's
A life I choose to keep me at peace when I feel like nobody loves me
Or is it just me?
When will I become free?
Addicted to you and me
Into my own mind, some crooked thoughts, and my own body.
The spliff is killing my eyes, shutting down every inch of my body.
"But you like to party."
Disrespecting Gods body
Forgive me, Lord, but this depression is acting naughty, and I have to kill It.
But now I am addicted.
Now my whole world shifted.
On a full train with the same gifted
We especially high headed to a place where half-baked lives.
I'm cooked out, and I want out.
Please tell me where my escape is
This is all killing me, and nobody knows it.
I might overdose
~I'M Addicted