Long Morels Poems
Long Morels Poems. Below are the most popular long Morels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Morels poems by poem length and keyword.
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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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.
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
We faeries were a twitter for our houses were under attack in the crags.
Giant hunters had been capturing them, shoving them into bags.
Heard scared faeries screaming for help as they were carted off sore.
Mushrooms, toadstools, morels and truffles were not safe anymore.
Latest house taken was house of Faerie McFriggle Feister Forlorning.
Frankly we did not know the old bat was gone until six in the morning.
What do they do with our faerie dwellings? We asked each other.
Let us not think about it, cautioned Rip, my honorary faerie brother.
At noon Faerie McFriggle Feister Forlorning returned hot and mad.
They are cannibals! She said. We surrounded her, feeling glad.
Fried up my kitchen in a giant skillet, my living room and bedroom too.
Then they gobbled it all up, those giants, and I am not lying to you!
They ate your HOUSE! We faeries could not believe this story bold.
Some snickered behind her back for she is certainly senile and old.
I saw one cram my entire legacy into his giant ugly gulping mouth!
We committed her to a sanatorium past the meadow to the south.
Amazon sent us a hundred and seventeen dollars’ worth of vitamins
For women over fifty; which I most certainly am.
I took them yesterday, and they perked me up.
I thought I was already perky, but I was wrong.
I was flying around as if I had taken speed.
Speedy Gonzales, except in Irish mode.
My red hair is no proof; I dye it this color.
No one has burgundy hair naturally.
But back to the original thought.
Amazon thought it had sent us puppy chow.
The invoice said fifteen dollars’ worth of puppy chow.
My husband called them; they told us to keep the vitamins.
Good thing, as I had taken several of them.
I am still hesitating about the mushroom extract.
I despise mushrooms except morels fried by my mother.
And she is dead, so this is not happening.
Someone else is probably furious
with their fifteen dollars’ worth of puppy chow.
Not my problem.
Wild as ivy vines climbing up pines,
in the outskirts of nature
where mountain lions purr,
my lungs expand like the open land.
Breathing in peace, as rippling as a creek,
watching an eagle snatch up salmon,
I witness the cycle of life: unkind but providing.
Abiding upon a log bench, quenched
with dampened sun, dappled by branch shadows,
trickled with yesterday's torrential rain drench,
I bathe in thankfulness for abundance.
Smoked venison smothered with forged morels
satisfies my wild senses, with plenty to share.
Cares become lost in uncharted territory,
flung to the wild winds, blown like dust
settling upon lawn-like leaves
where fungi's forestry teeth eat them like treats.
3-21-2020
Wild Country Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
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.
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