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Watching the Stats

“Watching The Stats”

People say I’m crazy doing what I’m doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I’m o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely your not happy now you no longer play the game,

People say I’m lazy toking my life away,
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to strengthen the light in me,
When I tell that I’m doing Fine watching smoke play on the wall,
Don’t you miss the big time girl you best get on the ball!

I’m just sitting here watching the stats go up and up,
They really love to read my words,
I tell them all the things the money hounds,
dont want the people to know,

People asking questions lost in confusion,
Well I warn them when i know of a problem,
Offering solutions,
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I’ve lost my mind,
I tell them there’s no hurry…
I’m just sitting here smokin kind,

I’m just sitting here watching the stats go up and up,
They really love to read my words,
I tell them all the things the money hounds,
dont want the people to know,.
http://youtu.be/Da69-pu_pqc
Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, The Art of Breezy Kiefair

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see also: https://kiefair.com/2014/01/15/of-poetry-pain-and-pot-new-verses/

Questions?

send a pm through facebook to this profile

email: breezyorilley@gmail.com
snail mail:

Bréedhéen O’Rilley Keefer

P.O. Box 849

Franktown, Colorado 80116

Posted on | Video

Of Poetry Pain and Pot new verses

Of Poetry Pain and Pot new verses

Jan 15

Posted by

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Here is some new poetry from the author of the book,

“Of Poetry, Pain and Pot”

Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). The next day to download it for free is December 21

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Poetry-Pot-Breedheen-ORilley-ebook/dp/B00FGF8WUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385582510&sr=1-1

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The river is broad, deep and still.
The cattle lowe upon the bank
Stately she glides upon a ship of gopher wood 
drifting upon the rivers ebb and tide.
It is a houseboat, a royal palace,
A temple wherein she and her healing reside
Her sails hempen homespun
Her mast the finest teak
Gossamer crystalline curtains beckon you within
A temple throneroom green and golden
You feel a peace and safety such as never has been.
And then you see her, such a rare and powerful beauty
Seated upon her high cannabis throne.
That is when you know, you have come home.

Poem fragment 12-2-2013 12:36am
Breezy Kiefair author Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, artist under the influence of cannabis at The Art of Breezy Kiefair, editor, Kiefair.com, Reefer Gurl and Gardening Tips for the Medically Damned

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I have the strangest fantasy of how things would be if I could disembody me literally

To disassemble the sum of my parts to allow each bit to focus on arts, healing written, and viewed and then I’d like to lay about the room.

Near the ceiling in the North East Corner of the room floats my stomach and digestive tract that has been lifted up in prayer so often it just floats like a gruesome garland rising from the earth to the air.

On the bed reclines a disembodied spine each vertebrae pulled apart so it can finally breathe

I separate my eyes always watching detached from all and yet they see what is, what was, what yet may come to be.

The eye that sees well closely i park like an orb web cam along with half abrain and my left hand. Grateful they blaze to work free of the body and shining in internet land.

The right hand, the other half of the bran and the longer sighted eye work leisurely on art’s beautiful sigh.

Above my stomach floats my mouth with a funnel filling system with nutritious fuel even if i get tired of digesting gruel.

My nose I leave in a bed of potpouri flowers.

My lungs float ever filled with smoke from an equally disembodied bottomless bowl.

My heart is broken and hides locked in a crate ever trying to put the pieces back together shattered by fate. Its physical hole and emotional hole preventing all hope for a fulfilled heart that’s whole.

My veins make a maze hoooked to the digestive tract with estuaries leading to confined heart and runs likewise to pancreas, liver, kidneys and it does to the heart.

My female organs are in pickle jars before the tv always in the line of view reminding me of what I lost being unable to see.

In a heap under the bed lies pathetic immune system hiding and waiting for a sterile enviornment

Muscles drape about the room like laundry drying finally feeling relief of tension.

The remaining bones save the skull are in a pile on the south wall waiting for the pain to burn them out of existance.

my blood is an aquarium in the west ever being purified and recycled.

one leg kicks asses online with brain hand and eye, and one leg disembodied hikes 14,000 ft mountains in memory of past strength within I

What is left of my sex lies secreted in a box beneath my pillow, beneath skull and spine in safekeeping mourning the loss of love.

What a gruesome sight this disembodiment would be. And somehow it is comforting fantasy to me.

Still alive, yet detached in so many ways from the pain and the anguissh that limits my accomplishments each and every day. 

I have the strangest fantasy of how things would be if I could disembody me literally

To disassemble the sum of my parts to allow each bit to focus on arts, healing written, and viewed and then I’d like to lay about the room.

11/07/2013 1:07 am

Breezy Kiefair

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November 22, 2013 at 4:34pm
At the daily appointed time, she hides in darkness stretching the leafy dime. She inhales and ponders the days events and does her best to fear circumvent. She is filled with sorrow for so many who do without this simple comfort she has made her life about. In the winter twilight she shivers and smokes and prays for those who wish with her to shiver and toke. For the suffering smokeless masses are so very many and yet when I point them out I’m treated like a crazy ninny. I shiver and smoke and cry and toke and still have a heart for those who are broke. The feds raid and I wonder about the needs of the end user how will they suffer because of a possible regulation abuser? All this pain could be gone if we all just accepted growing and using a plant is not wrong.

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Have yourself a merry canna christmas
Toke until you’re light
How many years must we sow our grow out of sight

Have yourself a merry canna christmas
And if you cannot pay
next year charity might just give meds away

When will it be as in olden days
Happy toking days of yore
Hempy fields that are dear to us
Were grown near to us before.

Through the years we keep fighting this battle
Till the fates allow
A prohibition repeal but till then we’ll muddle through some how.
So have yourself a merry canna christmas now.
Breezy Kiefair, Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, The Art of Breezy Kiefair, Kiefair.com Gardening Tips for the Medically Damned

parody of the christmas carol Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

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January 7 at 4:09pm

For whatever reason, my creator gave me talents and gifts wrapped in genetics and circumstances promising me a difficult and unique life. I seek to find a way to share that gift with the world in a way that does not daily enrage me or break my fragile heart that already lays on the floor of my chest like glass waiting for a blower to put them to the torch and forge something new. If sacrificing most portions of my activism on the altar of artistic integrity is the price to find a path to peace, then it is a toll I cheerfully pay to gain entry to a path of potential higher art. Sacrifice is a part of most any artists path in one form or another. I pick my sacrifices carefully and am likewise selective as to what altars I bow down and sacrifice at. My muses rarely steer me wrong or into peril if I but trust them. Their whispers come from the same creator who formed me as I am and set the stage of circumstances. What have I to fear?

https://www.facebook.com/breezy.kiefair/posts/733001996719812

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January 10 at 5:51pm

I would rather be left alone with ghosts of poets, artists, historians, historical figures and other beings whose energies echo yet to this day with integrity than to sell my artistic and immortal soul to a community so corrupt as to profit off the weak, sick and dying. One company feels like pure ethereal silk upon the skin of the soul sweet and pure as you dance upon the clouds of nirvana, the other is a harsh dirty sack cloth on the soul in eternity that scratches the soul’s skin and makes the heat of an eternal flame more evident.

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Oh sore and throbbing knot that doth reoccur behind mine left ear. Why must thou swell and ache? Why when I find hope that you have moved to lungs and nearly expelled you from my realm do you redouble your efforts and climb back into my ear? Since 2006 you have dwelled in the swell behind mine ear of feminine creativity, body mine won’t you expell this bacterial or viral lodger and perhaps restore some function and quality of life to me? Nae, nae, instead it begins with sweats in the night and by the next night doth progress to unquiet discomfort yet again. Heat and herbal oils friends through the night. I shall call the physician tomorrow to update her on my plight.

 January 12 at 5:08pm

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Maiden, mother, crone… the triangle of stength and life each female soul must roam. We all begin as maidens latent powers to attract, mythical beings such as unicorns but in our world people see the power and detract. They impose their power, their ideas, their rules of what a maiden is and what life she must choose. Mother is a shadowy thing that some have choosen, some stumble into, and some supplicate and seek in neverending prayer like a treasure they are seeking to serve a larger thing to which they are beholden. If we have enough years, we all become a crone latent power here of a matriarch on her throne. Aged quiet power and knowledge residing in her bones. Remember dear ladies we all dance this triangle of power solitarily yet we all dance and never are alone.

January 14, 2014 11:16 am

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One thing I can do without lifting my head. I can express my love and gratitude for those who are interested and kind. I can send prayers and virtual tokes to those worse off than I to whom the world seems blind. I can dance upon ethereal planes and perhaps a spiritual healing I’ll find…. all these are more peaceful choices than listening to the pain seeping from my ear into my mind.
January 15, 2013 

Posted in cannabis, Pot Pride

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