STONED POEMS. 

Written and compiled by Will Rogers. (With a little help from my friends)

Nuff people are probably not asking the question of why I, out of all people, have compiled a book of poetry, as its normal to see me at a poetry evening only when I feel like heckling someone even more insecure than myself. How it came about though. ....It was one of those things that started many many  years ago.Summer 1986 if I remember rightly, it was a World Cup year, the year when Maradona did his famous `hand of God’ trick goal against England.  I was in a friend’s house and noticed a pretty poster with a frog and garden pond scene with beautiful flowing medieval script, I read the legend.
`Oh what a wonderful bird the frog are
When they jump they fly almost
When they croak they sing almost
And they ain’t got no tail neither’.
Isn’t that fantastic! Well that’s what I thought. Almost makes sense. And ever since, I have seen the light, or the sounds.... I have seen the words! Of what I considered to be `Stoned Poems’. Whether its from a friend that I have met whilst I've been on my travels or something that I've gleaned from the annals of history.
The first poem I’m putting in here is one of the best poems that I've ever heard, I got it in 1996 from a man by the name of Jim McHendrie, he says he wrote it, and I believe him as it was apparent to all that he has an exceptional talent for poetry. 
     We met under strange and dodgy circumstances where anything either of us were saying could have been lies and probably were. Though faking real skill and talent is very difficult to do more than once. (don’t imitate, gold cant rust! ... But neither does stainless steel and a few other elements too........) Anyway!....                                              

This poem, `THE FEELINGS OF A FLY’ is written in Jim’s own Scottish accent, which I feel makes it particularly potent. It doesn’t have to be read as such though, as it does translate into other accents, regional or otherwise. But for it to be enjoyed fully, it would need to be heard in a soft Glaswegian accent.FEELINGS OF A FLY.   Jim McHendrie. 1996
Today I’m gonna be a fly
To see if I can find out why
Giants try to kill us all
As we sit silent on a wall.
Dark shadow rises up with arm
To smite with force and do me harm
Knocking fly down to the floor
Trying to take my life once more.
What did I do? What have I done?
To raise this anger in violent one.
A blow like theirs I have not.
Could this be why they give me swot.
If this is so then pray for me
Or go and kill a lousy flea
Cause I cant do you any harm
So remember this when you raise your arm.
When god made people he made us
He gave you speech and me a buzz.
So this is why you scream and shout
And we just want to fly about.
So why don’t you just leave flies alone
Or fight a species of your own
Then if you fall down and die
You’ll know what its like to be a fly.

In about.... 1987ish or roundabouts, a good friend of mine Andrew Gibson introduced me to the `Metaphysical Poets’ A stoned bunch of people judging from their works, kinda people of normal passions if you see what I mean. They were around at round about the same time as Shakespeare, and were also superstars of their day, equivalent to the pop stars of nowadays, and judging from their works I reckon their vibes was in the nineteen sixties kind of thing.
This next poem is the lyrics from a man who has just arrived home from the local drinking establishment to be greeted at the door by his long suffering wife. He is drunk, again, but he can explain. Excuse the use of Italics but I wrote it down as I saw it written. I presume that it is important to.
`DRINKING’ by Abraham Cowley (Anacreonticks, 1656)
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
and drinks and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth and are
With constant drinking fresh and faire.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill’d that they ore flow the cup.
The busie sun (and one would guess
by’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when h’as done,
the moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
they drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature’s sober found,
but an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then fill it high,
fill all the glasses there,
for why
Should every creature drink but I,
why, man of morals,
tell me why?
I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and a sob is literally choking me as I write this, I know exactly how you feel brother. I know exactly how you feel! We might be separated by nearly five hundred years, but as you say. ‘ an eternal health goes round!’ and we are just tiny tiny!  slivers of that pie chart of eternity, sending a toast to each other across the centuries. True time travel.

The next two poems are written by a friend of mine, Pete Phillips, also known as `Pete the Feet’. Very poetical, and very stoned.
 Pete and sideburned musician Kim, sat down and played the blues (in the key of whinge) Kim played guitar, Pete played the `Tabla's’. They had a depressing conversation. This pushed Pete to new artistic heights. (or lows... Depending on where you’re standing)
It’s untitled because no title could convey the true meaningless of it.
The `Whinge’ (I’ve heard) is an object of art that has to be fed and nurtured for years, and while you can whinge without having something petty and insignificant to whinge about, that’s just disrespecting the true `Whinge’. You have to live `Whinge’, ..possibly even born into it, no college can teach it. ....I mean... it may work on paper, but the fundamental deep feeling that makes you want to throw yourself out of the window rather than hear those pitiful whines just aren’t there? And how could they hope to teach you that particular unsympathetic whinge that gets you insulted by absolute strangers, the whinge that one day will be your downfall and end in your death. Or at least broken limbs.
UNTITLED’.  By Pete Phillips, 1990.
You and me man
We gather to moan
Meet to blather our woes
The colours are dark
Subdued blues
Our lives entwine
Like spoons stirring Something.
Making
And creating this
Thing which some
Times has to be moaned about
What sour words can come
As a stone can look just
like a Peanut so can a song
be the most beautiful thing in the World.
This next poem, Pete explained to me is about one of the unsung pleasures of human existence. `Having a crap’, not much to say about it really, everybody knows and can relate to a good satisfying ‘shit’. Even Janet Jackson released a CD album about the joys of it called, `THE VELVET ROPE’. And it was too! totally pony.
FLYING SOLO.  By Pete Phillips 1987?
Flying solo in a two man plane
Speeding aimless in a too fast lane
Crouching froglike on enamel and wood
Forcing inherent like drifting wood
sifting sand dunes
Flimsy dress
Washing wafers
Soft caress
Fleeting glimsons