The Grower’s Lament
A peace not often found
I prune today a mighty plant.
I strip her branches dry.
I leave the fruit, the kaneh bosum, to secrete the frothy white.
Her trichomes glisten in resin, sticky.
And her vibrant pink hairs sing. The time has come to tell the world.
Her fragrance is so lifting!
Yet few now listen. Many run.
The legal cause so plenty.
The truth defies their hearts’ desires.
Discourse for our sentry.
For those still standing, I write today to encourage no surrender.
The war they’ve waged we’ll find a way to prosper yet deliver.
It may take a while. They’ll scoff and say, It must be regulized!
Tax it, tape it, accentuate it; Cover all your eyes!
Some prosecute and persecute the growers of the nation.
War for war the growers say of fleeting jurisdiction. The warden’s footprints in the sand, it isn’t game he’s seeking. The legal jargon, the racing darkness. They focus on the beaten.
There is a joy, I confess. A peace not often found. Not many know of this secret place, so wildly profound. We talk. We laugh. We change the world. We prosper day by day. We forget to save our money and we share all along the Way. We invite the world; So many, to kiss the dark goodbye. There is a Way to turn away, One crimson sacrifice.
It’s time to change the narrative and bring the lies to fire.
A healthy branch of pride and ourselves we may admire.
Within our tongues the power lies to manifest true greatness. To what avail, I know not. For this I’m surely gracious. For unto my hand, I have received beyond my wildest heart’s desire. In Truth I boast, with you I share. Let’s set the night on fire.
In all our patient waiting we have found in this together, that freedom matters and so we love our friendships when they’re faithful. There’s no reason ever to hate a man yet thank him for his service. Be grateful for his heart and eliminate your curses. Life is GOOD. So smoke a joint. Then, prune the painful branches.
It’s time to laugh before we cry and into despair we fall. No more seeking of the darkness as true sight could heal us all.
I return now too to decompress. For me it’s all cured flower.
To smoke, to laugh, to sleep in peace even in these darkest hours.
About the Creator
Alena Caranova
I’ve never shared my work before. So this is brand new for me. I’m hoping that by taking on some of the challenge prompts I can work regularly on developing characters. Maybe even write a few poems, confessions OR add some Potent content.
Keep reading
More stories from Alena Caranova and writers in Poets and other communities.
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I'll have to come back to this one as well. Much to digest here (I don't smoke 😅)