Best Fungi Poems
More than one cactus plant is called a cacti
Must follow that a bunch of fungus are called fungi
Sounds kind of Asian
If I may be so brazen
The only thing left that rhymes with cacti is magpie
One day I'll write some thing
That will make this planet sing
It may not be perfect
For anybody, even me
We'll have to wait and see...
If the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You'll know I wrote something
That made this planet sing!
One day I'll be King
And someone else will sing
Songs I weave from words
Like an alphabetic artist
Who lights up the darkest.
When the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You'll know I wrote something
That made this planet sing!
One day wearing nothing
I'll wander down in spring
Dance the night sky nearer
Guile her with guitars
Then sprinkle her with stars.
Now the blue sky fungi
Sail below the window
Of my jet airliner
You know I wrote something
That gave the darkness bling!
FUNGI
You came as a miracle from
universe to earth from
a universe to earth
First:
we called you what?
Whatever until you told us better
was instilled inside our medulla obbligato –
though you favored our brain,
looked like a medulla obbligato.
Mushrooms only communicates with roots tentacles and spores;
Mushroom you bring good news for those whom pay attention.
Fungi spores high fly.
Underneath the ground we are surrounded.
By the communication of energy exchange.
Kai told me of your plans
As she was tuned in to your frequency.
Kai, mushrooms -mushrooms, Kai- synonymous.
That humongous world of Mycelium.
her gift was interpreting their silent message.
I think of you with every mushroom, seen,
mentioned or thought of.
I think of you with every new break through,
“Kai Kachelle now means mushroom intelligence”.
Fungi spore carry a universal messenger.
Prophetic year of the mushroom
Day one message:
nuclear madness is on the bloom
Usher in the house of bedlam
into a R.S.V.P. underground shelter mansion,
settle into concrete bunker chairs
for the half-shelf life walking dead
Winter black sky
illuminates the windowless rooms
See the global guests all dressed
in glowing diplomatic words
of gloom and doom
Dust off the portrait of the spinster twins —
Two Japanese widows with the sad eyes,
whose marred skin
bears radioactive disfigurement
Bring in the new year,
set the table ...
spread the feast of the fungi fear
Vegetated negotiations are boiling in the U.N. pot,
and a two-headed swine
is cooking in the military laboratory oven
Each having a rotting truce apple in their mouth,
and lying fumes coming from their snouts
United the nations are not
American host with the most nuclear stockpile,
tells the disgruntled guests
to empty their hidden uranium pantries out
Break the non-negotiable bread,
get the warhead jam and spread the missile dread
Tweet tell the global citizens
to feast on the fungi fear
Taste the tainted undergrowth appetizer ...
savor the heat of the radioactive mushrooms
Finish with a slice of extinction pie,
frosted with fungi cancerous tears
Suffer the awful heartburn gut-feeling
that uncivilized mankind’s end is near
Once an old man described me about a lad
Who, when he ?rst saw was a six year old child
Roaming to get some work to make his tummy fed.
Fed up not able to get work, started searching for a slice of bread
Atleast which was not directly thrown into the dump
Removing the part which is fungi a?ected
Who, doesn’t even know it is fungi that was spread
But just because it was sledge green and tastes odd.
While everyone was looking at him , awkward.
Years gone and the oldman saw the lad in his adulthood
And this time the young man managed
To wrap him up in a dress , but with shabby beard
Still in search of food but being more weird and wild
Until when a police jeep with siren arrived
When he tried to escape but was caught and barred.
That was the last time the old man saw that boy.
But one day , suddenly heard the oldman was murdered
And reached the spot when cops caught the convict and
he was standing beside the dead , cu?-ed .
It was the same boy , the oldman described
And all he did is for a plate of food.
So many mushrooms have sprung up
I’ve never seen before.
My yard is filled with fungi
In varieties galore.
The bright red flat ones you can’t miss,
The tall ones, creamy white;
The brownish kind with puffy tops,
The beige of little height.
Some tiny yellows try to hide
Near coppers like a penny.
In prior years with not much rain,
I don’t remember any.
I wonder if they’re poisonous.
If so, I’ll never know it,
For only store-bought fungi
Will be eaten by this poet.
Moving through tightly woven groves of young, thin, oaks
the air sits heavy on the skin like stepping into a sauna
wet earth mingles with decaying leaves, this odor of familiarity.
Trails walked more than just a time or two
a few look the same while a few testify that time changes all things, eventually.
Sticky sugar sand scatters across leafy debris,
every footstep kicking up more, unavoidable, annoying,
complaining quietly how it sticks to everything,
when a shout of excitement cuts through the air.
"There's one mommy!" My child points to the roots of an old, mossy tree
pointing, popping up from under the ground
splitting the layered blankets of composting leaves
a bright white cap shines brightly.
Snapping a picture, praising a good eye,
spotting orange, brown, white and yellow fungi
forgetting for the moment, the annoying sand sticking to our shoes.
Catching a deer only twenty yards away,
grazing through the leafy limbs
excitement hard to contain for a child of eight.
Quiet innocent whispers of 'Look mommy!'
Cause my chest to swell and my eyes to shine
the deer soon heads on its way
allowing us to continue,
documenting our fungi finds,
on a wet Texas day.
I like my fungi
sauteed in butter
in a pan with a chopped clove
of garlic, parsley and plenty
of salt and pepper.
Or sliced and simmered
in chicken stock
with arborio rice
and topped with parmesan
cheese in a creamy
mushroom risotto.
I like the musty,
earthy smell
that some fungi have,
the exquisite delicacy
of the gills,
the soft, spongy feel,
the variety of shapes
and colours that range
across a pallet
of grays, yellows,
pinks and purples
through to a bleed
of vibrant reds.
Fungi feed
the senses.
But most spectacular
of all is the fungi
that hides beneath my feet
in a buried network
of fibres thinner
than a human hair,
connecting a forest
in one enormous web
carrying nutrients
to hungry roots
and the secret language
of trees. Poetry
is like fungi.