Pot Poetry

Pot Poetry

These are some poems that pertain to pot. This topic is quite appropriate, since it seems that many poets are “potheads”, and many “potheads” are also poets. It also wouldn’t be fitting to have poems about cows here at hempbc.com (unless it relates to grow fertilizer). Searching for the perfect poetic device? I like lavish alliteration, myself. Click on the titles below to be wisked to the source of heavenly verse.

The Short Poem Collection

Buzzing – when i dont have my weed

I have seen, with my own eyes, a pretty representative cross-section of
my generation, all equally naked beneath their scrupulously
chosen clothing,

I smoke up the Kallie

Right now-


when i dont have my weed,
i get all up tight.
but when i have lots,
i’m feeling alright.

my toes are all numb
my mouth is a drying
in a couple of minutes
i’ll feel like im flying.

the numbness is gone
my mouth is all moist..
so get off your ass,
and give me a joint.

im flying again
my toes are still tingling
my legs are real heavy
and my ears are a ringing.

i only feel good,
when i am stoned.
im all out of bud
so im ending this poem.


Right now-
there are people in another state of mind…
Having just smoked up, we are in complete contentment.
Our eyes are Chinese, our minds are free, our bodies numb and tingling.
And we sit here laughing at what I just wrote.

by an anonymous Stoner

I smoke up the Kallie
Get up an irie view.

Wash clean the brainwashings
Of the shitstem
They tell I what to do

They tell I what to say
But I gonna let them know
That I know my way.
I smoke up the Kallie
Get up an irie view.
Your politicians babble on

And Tey and tell I what I need,
But I don’t need Their Babylon
Or its self destructive creed. So I

Smoke up the Kallie and
Get up an irie view.
You can make your laws,

But the Herb still grows
You can tell God its illegal,

But the truth is all he knows.

Give thanks and Praise for all you have and know my brothers.

by Rob Griffith


(sung to the tune of Ginsberg's "Howl")

I have seen, with my own eyes, a pretty representative cross-section of
my generation, all equally naked beneath their scrupulously
chosen clothing,
dragging methodically from funky cigarettes in search of any fix at all,
staring blankly with burning, starry eyes, well into the night, at
anything but textbooks,
who sat upon the tops of cars in darkness and sincerely contemplated
Beavis and Butthead and Eddie Vedder,
gallivanting staggering on roofs, painstakingly illuminating their
substantial and literal limits,
who dissipated to universities, 2-year colleges, or jobs (wow, jobs!),
for which they never stopped to think and thank our commander-
in-chief from Arkansas,
who were suspended occasionally for tasteless t-shirts or harmlessly
smattering school windows with variously artistic and witty
who cowered before girls, barely in need of a shave, burning their money
on the cool underwear that no one but they would ever see,
who during fleecy botanical parasitic pilgrimages dreamt of Scorcese and
beards and NYU,
who rented hotel rooms after prom in hopes of purging their rampant
libidos in forcibly nocturnal paradise,
with creams and pills and latex impersonality, where they dreamt of
alcohol loosening up for them a place to place their cocks
and balls,
who had seen the world and in 6 months could legally drink in Canada,
who, light of mind and full of wine, sang songs they saw performed live
in cramped and sweaty halls,
who feasted on Subway and the batteries from which their Walkmans sucked
out life until the noise of WLLZ could no longer blast the music
drained of brilliance,
whose mainstream lifeblood was beer and CD jukebox radio (Fugazi and
crack for only the most remote),
whose unspoken aim was to cross the bridge of tolerated duration from the
local park to the local bar,
to whom platonic wasn’t a word in the Schlitz dictionary or the Molson
vomiting sour nothings and fictitious anecdotes into the ears of any who
would listen,
who wasted away behind brilliant eyes and in front of Total Recall and
Sega Hockey seven days a week,
who lived euchre games as if the blueprints of existence laid the
foundation of Trump Plaza in Atlantic City,
the excitement of aimless imperialists of personality in bleak furnished
rooms and school hallways,
whose broken hearts laid the tracks which led toward lessons never
learned in those neglected textbooks,
who lit cigarettes from boxes boxes boxes ’cause the foil-wrap didn’t fit
the image,
to whom Edgar Allen Poe and John Paul II were either peasants or kings
from Europe or Kansas,
whose baseball allegories made angelic their murky inside humor about the
Indians and Angels,
gloating of hitting the ball like a natural, all the way to Baltimore, if
only they were mad enough,
who rented limousines for homecoming and meticulously pored over each
coming situational impulse, meticulously pored over each coming
situational impulse, meticulously pored over each coming
situational impulse,
whose knowledge of the whereabouts of Houston or Africa or how to speak
Spanish or how to play jazz left hungry their need to know and
understand one another and themselves,
who disappeared to Chicago or Cancun, Mexico, for a break from one
lesson, only to find themselves learning infinitely more (out of
the frying pan, into the fireplace),
who tried to find sexy in leaflets of incomprehensible beauty, eyes and
skin a certain color, yet would in the here and now settle for
almost anything,
who hid cigarette burns in the backseats of cars they said were not their
who gave not even a glance to the stack of pamphlets (HIV and ACT) they
were handed each year,
who broke a sweat dominating everything in the gymnasium to impress the
other skeletons,
who wore turtlenecks to hide the scars of battle accrued during the last
who nervously drew pictures in those textbooks of arrows and faces and
wondered afterwards if they really were genitals,
who uncontrollably guffawed in terror of being someone who enjoyed a good
fuck up the ass,
who gloated of having been blown or being in love or (rarely) both,
who mornings and evenings privately wasted semen to shameful radio
ballads, visualizing whomever came to mind,
who giggled in anticipation of the encounter, preceded by hiccups and
followed by sobs,
whose blatant heterosexuality and allowance of anything else as long as
it didn’t touch them was to each an inwardly intellectual stance,
who had never heard the word “copulate,” but wanted to so badly, even if
it took bottles of beer to make the ultimate cunt out of whomever
was convenient,
who snatched from the trembling just one thing which was everything and
then was nothing by sunrise,
who labeled whores based on the night before, and who were ignorant of
Adonis but would’ve gladly taken her in,
who faintly hoped that their limited knowledge of movies and maybe
Ginsberg could keep awaythe beckoning of the unemployment office,
who grew up on stories of how much worse it used to be, how grandpa hiked
to a one-room schoolhouse through snow banks in borrowed shoes with
his brother on his back,
who claimed identification with Morrison and Joplin and Hendricks and other
icons who were crowned in pseudo-suicidal oblivion before our
lives began,
who nervously joked of crabs and gonorrhea over lamb stew and rivers of
Mountain Dew,
who lambasted a musical concept of romance they would have gladly and
privately embraced,
to whom “Under the Bridge” and “Jeremy” provided not only lofty listening
but anthem,
having never heard “Harlem Nocturne” or the symphony “Pathetique,”
who united in rock’n’roll mourning at the death of Kurt Cobain and
chuckled in yellow blase at that of Richard Nixon,
who would choke down lung heart feet tail or whatever they wrapped up in
tortillas and sold dirt cheap at Taco Bell,
and would plunge into a meaty second, loving it now and utterly negligent
of its consequences later,
whose concept of time was rationed out by nothing more than alarm clocks
and fashionable Mickey Mouse watches,
who would be successfully unsuccessful at anything but giving up and
growing old and crying,
who would both embrace and shun flannel as the sinister drunken
intelligents of Seattle deemed appropriate,
who jumped off any platform they ever climbed, this regularly happens for
just one free beer,
who sang with the radio out the windows of their parents’ cars, Japanese
and American, rarely European, harmonic moans beneath the blast of
installed Pioneers,
who barreled down highways and Main Street hyper-aware or utterly
careless of one another’s hot rods,
who used to run cross-country or play soccer or none of the above with
equal intensity,
whose plain John Denver faces have faded and will fade into irretrievable
who prayed to the depths of their souls that chance would illuminate this
girl’s breasts or that girl’s hair,
who slept alone, the reality of their youth having been sweetly accepted,
who reminisced about that break in Cancun, Mexico, and passionately
lamented the mount that got away,
who were hypnotized by a radio which planted in them the seeds of
insanity, or so the songs said,
which would inevitably lead them to the madhouse, or suicide, or
lobotomy, or potato salad,
some of whom would decompose in dormantory rooms, ingesting pizza and
electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy amnesia and more pizza,
who overturned every personal promise, vacillating like a dead-locked
game of primal ping-pong, ceaselessly searching for the visible,
what tears could stain and fingers touch,
rock and roll, and love, and dreams, and echoes, soul, and bodies,
(mother shuns the telephone at 4 a.m., the yellow paper rose,
the true imaginary, every little bit of everything except the
books, ******)
whose latex safety net stood tall as the pinnacle of chasm, animal lust
from soupy disease,
whose obsession (driven alchemy) would go each week unsatisfied,
the images of which would carry them through five days of elements and
nouns and verbs,
and syntax and prose of which no amount could aid the speechlessness and
shaking when pleas for nakedness were rejected,
nothing left to say, the madman left to beat in time to pulsing dreams of
the unknown down there,
whose lone diversion after was to blow the suffering and find some solace
in any shadow of a band the radio could offer,
with the sketchy honest finger-pointing heart of the poem of life’s
assignment good for a thousand little lessons.

by jason christopher kirk



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