Best Mushrooming Poems
The Silent Village
In a silent, cool and quiet village I used to stay
Life was sweet, enjoyable and never in a hurry
Taking animals to graze, playing with other kids and swimming daily
Walking by clean and silent rivers where water was flowing freely
But if one doesn’t complete duties and chores, parents punished us dearly
Those days, life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Schools were miles away, but we were never late
We wore no shoes, blazers and modern bags, but we looked great
In that village the dress code was simple but everybody was neat
Mothers bought cheap “mtumba” clothes in the nearest market
Men going to hunt and slaughter animals to balance the diet
Shopping list was a self-composed song to the shop when a child was sent
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Everything was communal and batter trade was the affair
Cases of incitement, corruption and theft were not there
Discipline and correction of children was a community affair
To correct and punish any wrong child, every parent could dare
Scent of traditional food, honey and wild fruits used to fill the air
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Sadly I sit today, I watch the world escalating
Skyscrapers mushrooming where the silent village used to be lying
Digital marketing replacing the sweet batter trading
Gated communities, where children do not know those neighboring
Good morals and behaviors in young ones diminishing
Pollution everywhere and Mother Nature wailing
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
(By Waweru Ngugi)
Marsh sticks and pepper
in the wind, in the blown sun
mushrooming with life.
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
The ancestral house seemed smaller, today seen with eye glasses
The pathway seemed shorter, the mangoes grow loftier
It was once open field across the hill
Mushrooming subdivisions had blossomed
The little flower orchard had vanished
But anyhow we felt it would still be remembered
Harrowingly different, but pretty much the same
There was an unfamiliar children’s “bahay-bahayan”
On that path that we arranged
In front of that sagging waiting shed that stands
Beside the curve, where the old Mango tree grew
Surprisingly, forty years folded one summer day
And hurriedly become a springtime of our memory
of many growing trees, of many festivities
a spot where I wept one night after my mother died
and spent longer, in starry-starry nights holding newborn offspring
Yes....it is all there, in that small ancestral home
Facetious, but I'm glad they kept the wooden parrot
It has the same green eyes
That big black statue of St. Roque, along a stony pathway that we laid
still sits behind the curve, where the old mango tree grew
I
Throw myself into my poetry
Fling myself until I bleed
Until I'm knee deep in similes
Until from my eyes seep seas of salty seeds
Spiraling in the double helix of hyperboles
Hyper..
Hy..per..ven..
Hyperventilating
I Am the paint
I Am the poetry
I'm abstract and multi-hued
With 60 shades of blue
My imagery is true
I have no apologies for you
Just a PSA
You may leave with paint splatters on your brain
That's the vice of a voyeur
That's the limerick liquor
My paint doesn't fit quietly in the canvas corners
I careen violently across the borders
I will not be quartered
I cannot be contained
My greens blast from my being
Shooting my stanzas
Crashing the canvas
Like a smoothie gone loony
My reds are marooning
Crooning, in crimson
Til they collide into the vision
My metaphors are mushrooming into magentas
Bursting through a plethora of placentas
Just ta'
Just ta'
Just to permeate my purple
Sending me in circles
Now my symbols are cyphering
Cyphering...
Cyphering...
Cyphering...
Glimpses of gold rings
Grinning at gravity
The effervescence of my espresso
Drinks in drops of yellow
Jupiter is live tonight
Poetry personified
I am She and She is I
And my black is my pride
And my black is my flight
The Raven Always Flies
STILL, I rise
That's the rhythm of my reprise
And the juxtaposition
Of my purpose and my passion
Equals ascending acceleration
So my colors burst through the prism
Because the light is right
And the tide is high
The moon is in my eyes
The sun is on my side
And I, am Flight
My bloodshot mind sees all,
screaming from the center
of my personal hell.
The cloud keeps raining
black and blue,
mixing tears with blood-
both shed over you.
And the pain keeps mushrooming
out and away;
scars of ebony flames
seal over my way out.
But still I see the black stars
spreading hopeless over
the midnight-white
and the blossoming flower
rooted in my heart.
I don’t know why crowd cover this,
Atmosphere full of air pollution
River full of chemist contamination
I don’t know why seedy cover this.
There are buildings stand sturdy
As the inner of economic
As the base of legality
As the nodal of metropolitan cosmic
But slumber still mushrooming
They have and they haven’t contrast
Too hard they are still humming
Scavenged in every time on trust
Clouds stretching above craggy peaks gracefully
Mushrooming ever higher with each hour.
A vision beguiling across the speckled slate valley,
The distant rumbles echo compelling power.
Lured towards the storm where my love awaits
As I approach, gray-white canopy growing
Amplifying charge drawn towards its mate,
Breathless need for the deeper knowing.
Thunderhead’s navy blue underside deepens
The verdant forest below infinitely attractive.
Inside, a growing lightning bolt quickens
To your approach, I become reactive.
Charges arc together as my lips touch yours
The golden crescendo, our currents unite.
Timeless infinity of the union pure
Rattling windows, the thunder’s might.
Damp sagebrush scent lilts on the breeze
Deep electric blue sky, gone is the weather
Sunlight refracts through dripping trees,
Current dissipated, hearts nestled together.
3/14/16
while brushing my teeth …
tragedies occur worldwide
clashing ideologies
iron mixed with clay
stoking all my fears
while brushing my teeth …
railroad crossing warning lights
ignored by mankind
choosing to beat the turnstile
Russian roulette on steroids
while brushing my teeth …
greenhouse gasses mushrooming
fossil fuel burning
weather patterns alarming
what of our children?
while brushing my teeth …
our friend Time becomes our foe
what’s wrong becomes right
heads buried in sand
darkness perverts civility
while brushing our teeth …
who will rescue us?
creation or Creator?
Master Potter’s loving touch
coils of clay willing to yield?
I didn't run out of words
My tongue is too heavy to utter
These that are mushrooming out like fungi
So when you see me silent
And you flowing
Just know
I am too noisy than you at the moment
Little Boy – so small and yet so deadly
Exploding into a beautiful bell of sunlight
Clouds boiling up, mushrooming into a
Cloak of destruction.
Dissolving flesh, leaving only the shadows
Of history imprinted on the walls.
They turned back to look but
All they did was taste
The lead of atomic fission
Radiation, generated by
Gamma ray and ray neutrons while in flight
Causing genetic malformation
Fat Man - a hollow pumpkin-like shell
Surrounded by explosions
Sides permitted it to be
Armed while in flight
Cloak of destruction
Covered two square miles.
The only thing that could survive
The deadly bombs was
The cockroach.
Splinters and Beams
Stream of consciousness gleams under stark cover
Agents of psychotropic delusion blur and distort
White dust perforating a septum’s divide
Snuffed cuffed to addiction and stuffed
‘You are your downfall as you trip on your ride’
Little pinpricks endorsing a festering skin
Blisters of sinister conscience molested
‘Told you so that heroin sucks into abuse’
Meth crystals inhaled from a broken light bulb
Reignited beaming gleaming from splinters
‘Serves you right you are the scum of the earth’
Magic fungus mushrooming the doomed mind
From a domed cap on a stalk deluding insight
‘You deserve no better procured your decline’
Mary Jane weeding abysmal sativa salivating
with pleasure bleeding a buzz stoned for the thrill
‘All that hippie stuff why don’t you get real’
Flawed dust - broken needle - splintered neon -
Mouldy ingestion – disjointed joint - slushed drink
I never chased the dragon but fell of the wagon
Quite often imbibed left my shame bashed trashed
Befuddled and resolved against judgement when I now
Tend to sweep my side of the street sober and clean
Your splinter is your chip your own fragmentation
My beam is my joist my scaffold and my crossbar to level
15th April 2018
Our stay in the
mushrooming subdivision
Ashley Springs
can achieve full ownership only
by meeting the developer’s
latest requirements...
six bushes and two deciduous trees,
keep your garbage can in the garage.
Such restrictions have put the whole
neighborhood in the throes of unrest.
Gears are clashing even as I write.
To sully the community spirit
in this way evokes emotions which
attempt to sidestep legality.
We more flexible newbies,
about thirty in number now
are pitted against
the established oldies
who could grandfather out of some of
the constraints based on length of residence.
Solution? It’s our property now!
Mr. Developer. Your raw power gains nothing
by the forcing of personal preference.
written May 27, 2018
Pile drivers have replaced gandy dancers
And Mayflower trucks the circus, open-cage parades
Horse drawn down Main Street U.S.A.,
But overnight canvas bosses still command
Roust abouts to raise big top sails,
Over decks of prairie dogs and tumbleweeds.
There are gaudily painted juggernaut ride machines.
Smells of grease, heated white from oozing knuckle joints,
Calliopian music and rounds of happy screams.
A carney operator offers two a Scrambler car,
Teases riders with the tip of his bitten off cigar
A flick on your nose and ash that crashes to the circus grounds.
Jukebox music by Wurlitzer gets tinny with distance
On both sides of musty tented, kid show exhibitions
Mushrooming quiet translucent, sideshow shadow lands.
One sign says:
A WOMAN’S LIVING HEAD!
And inside there is a severed head up on a tabletop.
She answers questions easily, smiles and winks.
A kid shill says she’s doubled up
Inside a box affixed with mirrors.
Our cheeks redden more for her
Than the fact that we are led astray ourselves.
We leave to let more unenlightened in.
That day, I left forever past free throws
To win erstwhile girlfriends
By shooting hoops too narrow to be made. (4/4/21)
my heart withers within me
swamped by my fancies for thee
longing to hold thee as mine in a caressing embrace,
long awaiting from thee a telling smile.
maybe from it i shall gather courage to give free reign
to my tongue to sing the urges of the heart.
each day a part of me fall and withers
and light from mine eyes fade,
at night rest eludes me,
though my eyes fall heavy with sleep
in my mind dwells a constant strife,
the fracas i meet at the fading of the light
thoughts of you caressed by another.....
lives to haunt my dreams and i shan't find a peace of mind.
my love for thee blosoms,
mushrooming in my mind,
my heart and soul 'till all i think of is ye
with neither little hopes of telling thee my urgies
nor do i seek redemption by purging my fancies
Lest what i hoped will ensnare thy heart,
only frightens thee and grant me only heartache
and yet another day passes and my heart withers from the pain in desolation
nobody knows what gnaws me within
nor shall any ever learn the source of my agony
i hope to learn to curb my urges and cloak them with friendliness
but shall i trust myself to one day watch you walk way from me,
embracing another whispering to another, caressed and loved before my famished soul
your fading scent lingering still, to cut through my heart and remind me of my fading sanity
that alas ye! was surely not a dream my mind forged,
but a beauty i beheld and let slip through the cowering heart
that strained to curb what was a gift of the heart with hopes to ensnare a free spirit
this consuming passion shan't deminish, it enspires within me soul abandonment
how can i hope to walk away, when you weave for me this sensual leash
my heart is ensnared, my passion curbed, my tongue tied
all wrapped in together as a gift to my heart mate.....