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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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