Long Weed Poems
Long Weed Poems. Below are the most popular long Weed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weed poems by poem length and keyword.
Fly away
When the words sting like a bee
And confusion grows like a tangled weed.
When the wall inside gets higher and higher
Fly away, fly away.
When the respect dissolves like sugar in water
And you cannot see it anymore
Fly away, fly away.
When what you think is love, feels like hate
And you see yourself hiding, in places invisible
Fly away, fly away.
When you second guess yourself
But your instincts like lightening, strike
And tug at your gut that something is wrong
Fly away, fly away.
If you think you have no wings, you do!
The wings are the courage
That carried you this far.
The vast open skies are waiting
For you to
Drink some water.
Let down that wall.
Follow your instincts.
And fly away, fly away.
Heidi Sands
Beloved,
with preposterous
persistence,
I still search
for your likeness.
Gravitating
toward every
handsome bald man,
I scan the light
that reflects
off their head,
like the globe of home.
I strive for
the sight of bushy,
frost seasoned eyebrows
and hazel eyes
defined with
laugh lines, and I
shape-shift them
to resemble yours.
I hunt for
hearty hands,
calloused and
unabashedly
bleeding from
the weed wacker's
counterattacks.
I hearken to a
Manhattan accent,
while recalling
the name of
your favorite
fruit, "our-ange."
My ears perk
at the pep of
baseball announcers,
the background
soundtrack of
your steady presence.
The scent of rum
comforts me like
your broad-chested hug.
Beloved,
another's
stubbly cheeks
lead me back to grief.
Unattainable
in this stand-in space,
is your love,
beloved.
That amiable
smile that delighted
an entire room
no longer blooms with
its fragrant welcome.
Nocturnal
is my fervent search,
without night vision.
Knuckles outstretch,
but palms clutch nothing.
Beloved, your love
is within
roaming shadows,
splattered upon
the pavement
of nightfall.
Glances of
expansive
remembrance thin,
vanishing
into fumbling
fabrications
and uncertainties.
Yet certainly you
are loved forever,
currently
unattainable
to behold.
4-11-2021
David means "beloved."
Dedicated to my dad
It was simply an old rusty tractor
An eyesore for passers by
A graveyard, at the back, of a pasture
All covered with weeds and vines
Curiously, on slow approach,
I wanted a closer look
Carefully climbed the barbed wire fence
Hopping over a weed wild brook
What once had been paint was flaked and gray
Oxidized and turning brown
Left to die, to bake in the sun
And weather back into the ground
Some of it's parts were stripped away
Others hanging by wires
The steering wheel and seat had strayed
Yet four worn out flattened tires
Days of use had long since passed
The weather had taken it's toll
A necessity which was built to last
Still standing and left alone
But to me it stood for something more
It stood for time and growth
Shiny and new a dream of yore
Some family's lives and hopes
How times have changed lives been sustained
The wind and dust have swirled
With growth of crops, growth of a country
The growth of a starving world
Though time had been unkind to it
Now a tombstone out in the clear
As I rubbed the rust from the relic's side
Engraved was the name John Deere
An original poem by "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Does this mean, like morning chores, cleaning up around?
Or does this, like grave-depths, has concept more profound?
Cleaning up the courtyards are perfectly okay,
Should we not, for love and justice, give more way?
Thorns and bushes should be removed, indeed,
Should we not clear from within every little weed?
Like slaves, often, in chains of habits, we have been,
Many ups and downs and rises and falls we have seen;
When the physique is cleared of all illnesses,
Shouldn't the soul too comprehensive healing possess?
Shouldn't the anger that, as a wildfire, suddenly breaks out,
Surrender to peace and harmony, within, with no doubt;
Shouldn't fear, resentment, frustration, and anxiety likewise,
Blossom forth into confidence, contentment, and satisfaction wise;
Just like the slate of a student is often cleansed,
Shouldn't my screen of the mind, be bush-free, and de-fenced?
Like fogs and mists of winter mornings swept away by the sun,
Shouldn't inner weaknesses, by divine grace, shun?
Clearance, thus, has volumes mountainous speak,
Equilibrium in thoughts, words, and actions to reach its peak...!!!
13 February 2023
The Clearing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
A man drives a truck and his wife's a nurse
He knows it won't be long 'til he's in that hearse
He's middle age now but he's pickin' up speed
He wonders when and how will he be freed
Thinks he's lived his life playin' by the rules
Doin' what he learned in his churches and schools
Pays his mortgage and feeds his kids
But he's feelin' lately things have hit the skids
Lost his insurance and his wife moved out
Stepdaughter tried to kill herself
Chronic back pain and now he can't pay
For meds he needs to get through his day
Feels like his world has gone insane
Looks around for who to blame
Maybe it's the blacks or the Mexicans
Maybe it's Wall Street or the corporations
He knows in his heart that it 'aint them
They're all tryin' to make it just like him
He can't shake the thought of a bad faith deal
But hate don't seem to him the way to feel
He tries to think of how to get unstuck
Get back to where he could give a (EDIT)
So he sits on his porch and smokes a little weed
And wonders when and how will he be freed
March 4, 2017
Hydro bill
Visa bill
Food bill
Toilet paper bill
Heating bill
Wine bill
Car bill
Phone bill
Clothing bill
Duck bill
Buffalo bill
Entertainment bill
Anti acids tablets bill
Insurance bill
Bar bill
House bill
Weed bill
Bakery bill
Starbucks bill
Medical bill
Psychotic drugs bill
Dental bill
Legal bill
( for murdering dentist)
Lawn bill
Maid bill
Sexy maid bill
Super sexy maid bill
Misc hookers bill
Feminists lawsuit bill
Internet bill
Cable bill
Speeding ticket bill
Second speeding ticket bill
(to pay first bill)
Drivers license bill
Tic-Tac bill
Kidney replacement bill
Second wine bill
Netflix bill
Barber bill
Uber bill
Russian translation bill
Predator Bill
Y-Bush bill
Donald Trump
Assassination bill
Legal bill
Alimony bill
Stormy bill
The Lonely Weed Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
I set out across the country,
hitching a ride on boxcars
to wherever the wind takes me.
I tumble here, and I tumble there,
across the steel of eyes,
voices of condemnation,
and the hands of fate.
Yet some days are better than others.
For I bask in the green grass.
Other days, I hide through the cracks,
lonely, dark, and cold.
When I'm hungry,
I take the soil from crying babies
and disrupt the lawn.
Along every stop,
I ward off the pesticides of life,
teetering and tottering with the pull of the wind.
It could be windier ... it could be sunnier
It all started on a whim.
Each and every day, whilst still in bed, she was delivered tea and toasted crusty bread
at the end of that consumption, she'd light up a deadly phag
Then drop the butt to mix with tea leaves at the bottom of the cup, On removal of that cup
by an eight year old son, the sight of that mix, would often make him gag
From both of his parents he keenly had observed,
how they did the drawback, on the substance from which he was strictly banned
Inhaled the toxic smoke, deep into their lungs,
he had practised many times without a cigarette in hand
At the tender age of ten, he decided
he would steal a cigarette or four
From the supply that his father held which he would then furtively smoke,
behind the toilet door
So now he lit the match to ignite that ciggy stick
took some puffs, inhaled the toxic smoke,
unexpected outcome, his head began to spin, he was also feeling rather sick
Subconscious mind to conscious mind
it sent out a stern warning, in which it did implore
It's a dirty filthy habit
it's one you must ignore
But the smoking it continued
interspersed with bouts of coughing, every single day
Until the age of twenty six, the penny finally dropped
this intoxicating habit, you must give it clean away
In those days there were no vapes no nicotine patches
it was the art of will power upon which he must draw
Visualisation of the bottom of the teacup that used to make him gag
was the image once again, that was what he saw
Fifty years have now elapsed since he decided
that he'd finally had enough
Withdraw from the weed which for fifteen years
he had always endured a daily puff
He finally could relax, no craving for the habit
disdains the smell of ciggy smoke
At age of three score plus seventeen years more
he has now become a so much fitter bloke
heart beating breath flowing thoughts spiralling
mind body appears to be in incessant motion
limited in space time and senses confining
so we plunge into the void of cessation
thoughts negated so ego recedes
yet pulse of innate aliveness continues
layer by layer fears and desires we do weed
each moment reborn as awareness self renews
time stretched silence as our flowing orientation
witnessing all movements within and without
embraces and releases each sensation
nonchalantly as we thus go about
we are still yet there is a mover
sensing strange magnetism within
our presence feels divine presence hover
each pore of form in thunderous bliss ignition
radiant electro-magnetic heat in time does rise
navigating its path through hidden conduits
acceptant spirit beholds joyous surprise
vaporised self in surrender resolute
obsolete mind concepts fall away
all analysis of wonderment paralysis
with childlike exuberance we gently sway
divine grace transmuting mind body by catharsis
scriptures have conflicting views on magnetism
with each affirmation having its own validity
suffice to say bliss fills in-form chasms
teleporting us to tranquil serenity
as a humble conduit of the divine
we receive and transmit Gods energy
mind and heart with pulse of bliss aligned
purring magnetism with love and light in synergy
08-April-2021
Oh station , station
Yee of intermittent locomotive
thoroughfare
Once standing proud now
sadly scheduled surplus to
moderna
Redundant made it's ticket
booth , collector and so to
it's master
Resigned and destined for
graffiti spray to patch it's
walls
With it's clock battery powered
down
It's fate a clubhouse for tomorrows
youth to wreck and frequent gather
in and under
Smoke and try initial cigarette
plume cough and alcoholic
spirit drunken after shock
hangover
It's track's to be repatriated back
to nature 6 foot overgrown by
scrub , weed and bush
No click no clack no whisper
harking back
Visitation only by means of
historical scholastic dissertation
It's final lesson thus if willing to
accept
Everything once valued once
it has seved it's purpose and
past it's exasperation date
Will in fact so to in future be
cast aside and face this
exact fate
And maybe if nothing else
but for death will be saved from
Seeing all the things we
treasure and keep as memories
most dear
Disappearing before us and
and so to point out
That the light at the end of the
tunnel is fast becoming dimmed
by the milli-second