Best Morels Poems
My whole life waits, just this moment, the ink still
wet; for sunrise this clear May morning.
My shaman up already,
hair askance, dancing and trilling his flute
to the crescent moon face,
lit by the blue iron square welcoming
the sun.
The Sun appears now...my expectations grow...
A foray into the secret riverbank forest, hunting
for Morels with my hobo friend ( by choice,
wishing not to support 4 ex-wives) Clark,
he with his walking stick adorned with colorful
talisman ribbons accumulated from a life spent
wandering....me with my crafted Yucca stick
a friend made for me.
Then...off to pick-up heirloom vegetable plants
a master gardener has nurtured for me to
grow in my community plot, where my friends
are happy to see me.
Amidst all, I'll have Ma accompany me,
(not in the woods) but not far away, her
smile always eager to share in my discoveries,
a comfortable sitting bench at the garden awaits
her, the smell of fresh-turned soil enriches her.
Later, I promised her we would grill at one
of her favorite places she remembers going
with Pop, alongside Minnehaha Creek, the
water gently flowing this time of year, birds
singing and Ducks playing,
The Sun is up further now,
this poem must end,
my destiny
awaits
5/2/15
7am
Out in the field is a bed of chicory,
down along the ditch, wild hydrangeas grow.
Dandelions in the yard are quite tasty,
so is the duckweed by the side of the road.
Wild lettuce, lamb’s quarter, and some wild onions,
there’s watercress, fennel, grape leaves, and cherries.
We also have mallow, milkweeds, oxtails, chives,
Chanterelle mushrooms, morels, and blackberries.
Along with sassafras, raspberries, and more,
you’ll have a lunch that will make your stomach sing.
God bless all of nature’s wonderful bounty,
providing an Ozark meal fit for a king.
es
Mushrooms,growing, out of the ground,fleshy
white,stems soft some hard some brittle.blue,
reds and greens,gills, pores.scales,poisonous
some, deadly, medicine, edible, delicious
expensive
mycelium
I love mycology
spores
colorful
helpful
fruitful
Hypha
woods
Magic
bitter
morels
Amanita
puffballs
Oysters
Boletus
psilocybe
psychedelic
Shelf fungi
good food
yuuuuuum
es
Oh, the air’s a little fresher
When we feel that new spring breeze;
And the sun’s a little brighter
When the dogwood paints the trees.
And the redbud comes a blushing
On those ancient Ozark hills;
As we now hunt those ghost morels
In the hollows and the dells.
Oh, the tulip trees come dancing
As squirrels commence to chatter;
Yes, old spring fever’s in our blood
And our troubles just don’t matter.
The bird’s put their hearts in singing
‘Cause just what’s a spring all for?
It’s a celebration living
As our hearts and spirits soar!
Yes, the wind’s a little cleaner
As that old gray winter flees;
And that gold sun lights up our souls
As dogwood resurrects the trees.
A is for anchovies,salty little fishes.
B is for blueberries in muffins and sweet dishes.
C is for cabbage,so good for making slaw.
D is for dragonfruit,you can eat it raw.
E is for eggplant,as parmegan delights.
F is for fritters,deep fried apple bites.
G is for gazpacho,chilled soup from Spain.
H is for honey,so good for throat pain.
I is for Indian foods like spicy curry.
J is for jello,simple desserts in a hurry.
K is for kiwi from the land of the sleeping dragon.
L is for lemon to keep digestive juices from lagging.
M is for mushrooms,shitake and morels.
N is for noodles such as macaroni shells.
O is for onions,yellow and sweet white.
P is for peppers,an Italian delight.
Q is for Quiche,an egg dish so mellow.
R is for raspberries,often used in jello.
S is for shrimp,darlings of the sea.
T is for tomato, a fruit it would be.
U is for Uglifruit,sweeter than it's name.
V is for vinegar,pungent not tame.
W is for waffles,a breakfast treat.
X is for xouba sardines found near Crete.
Y is for yogurt, it's all Greek to me.
Z is for zucchini that will make rattatouille.
Versatility and imagination go a long way.
But the right ingredients keep hunger at bay.
for Cyndi's ABC couplet contest
I just happen to love all these ingredients and have at some or other used or eaten almost all of them! I have a talent for fashioning a grand meal out of only a couple of ingredients...I am a good cook...my boyfriend says I am trying to fatten him up!(nobody ever told him to take seconds and thirds!!)
just bought three bananas from the corner bodega for a dollar
to send on his way the sweat of a kitchen the immigrant
ducks from hudson almost canada we know our plucks
and the foie gras a science
why me as mostly do not eat meat to over feed the liver
but a kidney I will enjoy with cream and morels.
Soft silk
chiffons bare legs crossed,
pressed white linen
hangs cornered over,
hiding black heels
vacated.
Candle flickers in soft sigh
as silver rimmed plates
are masterfully set
at right angles.
Aroma gently tantalizes,
stroking attentive faces
into anticipation.
Delicate amber curls
of carrot crafted into art,
tulle blushing beet batons.
Layered succulent slices linger,
drizzled cranberry port reduction
sweetens breast
of roasted duck.
Wild rice pilaf
infused with woodland morels
softly mound the landscape.
Deep burgundy Merlot
swirls in crystal goblets,
clinking to a toast...
and a fork is lifted.
I meander my way through the hills, noting the pretty violets.
Their daintiness delights me, so I sit, trying not to crush any.
An impossible task. While I am down here, I notice the morels.
My hand reaches past them to feel the bumpiness of the tree moss.
The sun has greeted me; I see a diagonal sun stream lighting the meadow.
I lean against the trunk of the oak and study the prettiness of this valley.
Since I was a child I always wanted to be a grandma and live in the country.
I never wanted to cook or bake, so I don’t.
I sit here, loving the sound of crickets.
Was that a frog? I get up to wander to the pond. There are minnows there.
I can practically feel the cool water on my fingers; I stare at my age spots.
When did I grow my grandmother’s hands? I wonder if I still have my freckles.
The ones grandpa used to tease me about when I was nine. I will look later.
On a damp Sunday, where the grass and earth
Call my name, out from the tangle of covers
On the humid wind, the forest beckons
With her arms of fallen leaves, twigs
Ferns uncurl
My heart is pounding in my black sweatshirt,
I unzip it and touch my collar bone, and then
The rough arm of a sycamore
Just when I thought I was King
She sways in the wind and wrestles me down
Just when I thought I was good at letting
Soft earth mend my brow, just like the worry doll
The white lilies and morels fade away
I know the moment when my heart pounds
And refuses to drive to work, to go back
And I scream silently, but I’m reflected in the lake
Lines and red rimmed eyes, but, something else
I spread my arms and look up, in time to see a Red Tail
Following along, parallel in the grey sky
Let’s let that be enough, crown of feathers
Enough, gentle lake wind
To dream another day to a close
A sure shot, he sets up a can, and digs his heels in the sand
feet spread, a hat on his head, a gun in his hand: he looks grand.
Cloudy skies shade the sun from his eyes, letting him aim as planned:
and that can, flew apart, just like he knew it would, beforehand.
His friend wants to end their partnership, he said as much, offhand:
a showdown’s coming; it'll all come down to who's quick of hand.
Their morels a hoax: they rob folks and sell stolen contraband
and hide their cash in the wetlands, stashing their loot in quicksand.
Two of the roughest, toughest gringos north of the Rio Grande
stand ready to test how much pain the other man can withstand.
Their shared desire to fire... will send one man to the promised land:
this is life and death, final breath, well beyond a reprimand.
They're fighting for reasons neither man can quite understand:
it's all about ego, and which gunslinger is in command.
Maybe, if everyone behaves themselves,
If the snowpack is deep and thick around elm and maple,
And the tourists didn't stay away for lack of snow.
If the temperatures stay cold at night, and warm in the day,
So the Sugarers stand a chance to break even.
And if the river is especially good,
And doesn't heave up pack ice,
Doesn't burst its banks,
And doesn't scour the topsoil from the lower fields.
Then we'll go out past where we found the Fiddleheads popping up.
We'll sidle past the poison ivy.
We'll poke tenderly underneath the blackberry bushes.
We'll feel the warmth on our backs and the old, dark coolness on our faces.
And we'll look, eyes squinting, for the honeycomb pattern.
Delicate like lace, golden and glowing.
They would tell us that the winter was hard, cruel and unfair.
But the spore survived.
The intricate network courses to life.
The promise was kept again.
Soft sands caress my feet, a comforting touch,
The waves crash ashore, in ways I love so much,
Washing my footprints away, leaving no trace.
The beach cleanses its face with its embrace.
As the waves run out they trace a veil of lace
Respecting the grace of this sacred space.
The home of mater mare, where all life began
Within the warm primordial soup sea scan.
Children build castles with buckets and spades,
Lovers stroll along, hand in hand, playing charades,
The gulls pitter patter, squabbling and cawing
Pecking up morels and scraps, with their marauding.
The seashore beach is a place of solitude and peace
Where all your toils and troubles, for a time, cease.
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19 May 2023
For: Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
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Hey Hey Hey Hey
Come Listen to what I say.
Listen to my Cacophony of truths that burns even the roots of foundation.
From our Nations Heart we wish for a different part.
Let's give this a kick start.
You know your part yea you play the shark.
preying on the weak.
With a global Policy that lets you police the world instead of your own country.
While the rich get richer and the poor poorer.
The ladder of social status and "Proper" morels will no longer hem us in.
No more reform only reduction and subjugation of rules that all men can be Prevalent to.
Take a step back and take a hit while your at it.
Don't forget to inhale.
Don't check the mail wait a while to confer with those important to you in this world.
You Chaste men Speak the word but I know few that live humble.
You persecute the unpretentious and crush the Taxpayers that you are sworn to uphold.
Those you slight and scorn will grab you by the horns and slay you.
Dreams,
There you were again
in front of me, or was it behind
pressing in, I pressing back
no drifting off this time
we were still but still not still
I stirred, you drank
we bled, then sank
me into to you
a kaleidescope of colour
caressing each tiny bit
you bit and I chewed
on ever daring thought
I pressed deeper and pursued
you whispered
I love you
there was no need to go much further
for we were here
not frightened by the bear
or by the wolf
thru the forest we disappeared
eating morels and making love
The Mushroom Witch had a flair of her own
She Spun her spells around a mythical throne
Morels who knew her stayed out of her way
She was intense, she did not play.
The Mushroom Witch had a style unique.
Even the brave did not dare take a peek.
She took the names of those whom she suspected of double-cross.
And turned most of them into severe apple sauce.