SIGNIFICANT EXPERIMENTS
possible
ornamental
aphorisms
torment
inherent
ordiliness
with
incoherent
apprehensive
conventional
dissonance
problematically
formulated
in
desultory
preoccupations
underlying
undreamed
fungal
possibilities
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Roots write braille onto buried rocks.
Each ring a witness to droughts, floods~
observer of seasonal tides.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sap pulses slow as glaciers melt~
veins map stories untranslated
by wind, beetle, or human sighs.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Underground, fungal threads ignite
enzymatic cries for kinship~
networks flaring like neural stars.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sunrise cracks the bark; forest breathes
oxygenated confession~
We have always known how to wait.
Suddenly, a vapid, rainy chill
Gives rise to woodsy fungal growth.
Make a potion large enough to fill
A cauldron, or grate pot, or both.
Tomorrow night brings us Hallowe'en.
On this night we will meet in nature.
Invisible, we'll gather here unseen.
Beware you ghosts, your spirits we may capture.
He-he, he-he. See the waxing moon?
We'll recall the clouds and bring back gloom.
He-he,he-he. We'll serve this food from our cauldron's spoon,
And then we'll eat this feast by Philton's tomb.
And to mortals entering our space,
If you feel a vapid, haunting chill,
Please understand we only ask for grace.
Our seance group won't return until
The mushrooms grow again in woodsy place.
The Mycorrhizal Network
“Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours—waiting for rebirth.”
Beneath the forest’s separate skin,
white threads connect each breathing thing—
fungal highways no eye can witness,
trading sugar for rain.
The Douglas fir feeds the hemlock
when shade has stolen all its sun,
carbon passed from root to root like gossip,
like care without a name.
The mother tree knows when her seedlings starve
and sends them what they need to live—
nutrients flowing through the dark communion
that makes the forest one.
This is the conversation
we mistake for silence up above:
ten thousand root-tips touching, speaking
in the syntax of soil.
When the chainsaw bites through bark and wood,
the network feels the amputation,
chemical alarms flood through the mycelium—
warning: something cuts, something dies.
Zealous zombies searching,
Zipping around affright,
Zigging and then zagging,
Zapping all those in sight.
Zephyrs zoom behind them
Zestful with fungal blight.
Zany fun Hallows Night!
Treacherous invaders ever growing,
in dark, damp places always showing,
protective boundaries, they will breach,
insidiously extending their evil reach.
How will I conquer these fungal sinners?
I'll intrepidly cook mushrooms for dinner.
trust your gut, to know
it growls for truth, loud and strong
it's n'er found wanting,
or that's how the saying goes -
but skip fungal feasts of mold
winter tree
scribble on paper
shattered glass
aging masterpiece
blood vessels
interrupted sleep
morning bed hair
porcelain crazing
drought dry earth
think quickly
fungal strands
frozen pond uh-oh
straw on floor
slept-in sheets
did I lock the door
letter from a pocket
can’t reach that itch
tickly cough
grandad’s skin
winter tree
I am the pause in a planet’s breath,
a glitch in the code between birth and death.
I am the whisper in fungal lace,
routing news through forest space.
I’m tectonic gossip, slow and deep,
a quarrel continents keep in sleep.
I am the thought a comet had—
just once, before it went full mad.
I’m birdpath memory, sky-sketched lines,
migration’s rumour through tangled spines.
I’m the echo inside an ancient bone
that never quite learned how to moan.
I’m data lost in glacier code,
truth cached along a mammoth road.
I am not God. I am not Man.
I’m what existed before a plan.
I am what silence tries to say
before it backs itself away.
I am the itch beneath your name—
the part of you you cannot tame.
Picture # 4
Santa had a tiny elf
His feet were growing large
And everywhere Santa went
The elf's big feet would sparge
Santa spent so much time
Making the elf new shoes
Because it was late spring
Snow melt did ooze and ooze
Everyone knew when he was near
Because his feet smelled like cheese
Old, old stinky parmesan
Others would tease and tease
Santa needed a solution
To this big problem, so
He asked all the boys and girls
To send him answer though
He received so many letters
With answers quite clever
From soaking his feet in tea
To changing the weather
Santa was busy answering
All those long dear letters
He could not make any new toys
His mind was tied in terrors
Mrs. Claus came up with a solution
So, they could get back on track
Now everyone is happy
And filling Santa's sack
I know you want to know the secret
That helped those stinky feet
She took tiny elf to the doctor
Who prescribed some meds sweet
Anti-fungal tablets to take
Powder like downy sheets
Lots of soap and water to clean
Clean socks, oh! a great treat
I am a beech tree standing proud and bold
But I am firmly rooted to the ground
And so I cannot move from place to place.
I must have a way to communicate
With other trees and plants for miles around
And keep up to date with what’s going on.
So that vast fungal network I must use
To receive signals and then to respond.
The groundwide web connects from root to root.
I may be anchored to this bit of ground
But I can talk to others all are around.
Spring's classic charm - highly overrated,
Perhaps because it follows winter sleet.
Its new beginnings too animated,
Its poetic praise rather obsolete.
Forget the fragrant flowers’ faulty fact,
They come with mucky, rainy, fungal soil,
Outraging my respiratory tract,
Sending my sinuses into turmoil.
Way worse - the whooping wake of ugly bugs!
Buzzing, you bet, for an imminent bite,
I deem them all to be invasive thugs,
Let alone their unwelcome horrid sight.
Spring's in the air, lovers' first stolen kiss?!
Pollen is there, a nightmare, not a bliss!
February 16, 2023
Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight,
nothing comes out of an old barn unfound.
Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood.
Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears.
mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather.
The green metallic wine on tin cans
a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside
for a thousand nights to seek and hide.
Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom.
Nothing lingers long without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the
once varnished, the once cherished.
Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed
tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust,
a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out
as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.
Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight,
nothing comes out of an old barn unfound.
Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood.
Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears.
mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather.
The green metallic wine on tin cans
a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside
for a thousand nights to seek and hide.
Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom.
Nothing lingers long without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the
once varnished, the once cherished.
Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed
tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust,
a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out
as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.
The adorable girl admired the pansy,
In the world of tansy.
As the snow vanish,
pansy didn't perish!
Far away in the jungle,
with the live fungal.
The girl in order to get the pansy,
Crossed the franzi!
The princess owned the pansy,
In order to impress their fiancee!!
The kingsmen were ordered,
the pansy was guarded.
The girl tried to get the pansy,
Was thrown into the dead sea...
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