He never meant to become a mushroom man
Just a simple guy, our hero, Dan
Fell asleep in the forest, slept fifty-two years
Woke up in the morning, hearing crows' jeers
because he had turned into a shroom, fun they were poking
he was all kinds of morels and round tops, psychedelic smoking
Tried his best to find his relatives, but they were long gone
He went back to the forest and became part of the flora and faun
Content Values
Don’t need much
I can do without
Considerate of others
Open a car door for her
Many have lost their way
Morels don’t mean a thing
Be courteous no matter how your treated
Sometimes we are down in the valley
Take one day at a time
Mentor those to be prepared to fly
I’m just an old soul
Into the gray moving slow
No more weight to carry
No more worries
Retirement ahead
Heaven sent
Just a little bit of patience
With content values
Just living in a small simple house
Don’t need to follow the world
Wise in my old age
Time is passing me by
'Dinner won't be long, Dear.'
Burt puffed up his pillows and squeezed one out.
'Better wash your hands, now'.
The armchair smothered his glee.
Wallaby faggots,
Brown rice juices,
Lentils,
Barley and rye.
Jumbo morels,
Whatever she sells,
Liquid fish stock,
Brussels and hock,
Tranches of offal from Thebes!
Chilly jam and
Fruity brown sauce.
Round and round
The rotten rump,
The rancid ratchet rasped.
'It must've been that onion jus',
Was all that I could gasp.
Round and round
The rotten rump,
The rancid ratchet rasped.
'It must've been that onion jus',
Was all that I could gasp.
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.
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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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
autumn mushroom hunting is natural to elves and gnomes.
they parade out into the wilds, leaving the comfort of their homes.
they sing as they work, collecting morels with haste.
i can smell them sizzling in the pans, remembering the taste.
collecting is in full swing, the fey clean, sort, chop, and can.
nothing is more important than mushroom hunting in faerie land.
this is their staple throughout the winter, hands down.
each tasty morel rolled in crumbs, toasted golden brown.
portal to autumn’s brilliance
promenade of boulevard
crimson, pumpkin, lemon trees
balls of leaves
mynah sings her songs
hidden among the maples
trills of songbirds revive
respectable meditation place
nothing more zen than nature
autumn shows off her prettiness
morels leaning against moss
violets eager to show the way
painted by the ultimate artist
I lean into it and smile
Why did I let him back into my life
When I know it will cause only pain, tears and strife
Perhaps I’m afraid I’ll never have another
Man so attentive as this sexy Latin lover
He blows into town finds a snow shovel
Breaks up the ice from ‘round my tiny hovel
Asks me if I’m hungry and takes me out to eat
Lets me sit down first to get me off tired feet
I found he has a family In another state
A wife and children after several a date
It goes against my principles to date a married man
It goes against my morels that was never the plan
He’s a smooth talker knows just what to say
To make a woman change her mind and come back to play
You picked the wrong woman to run your game on
This rodeo my friend I’ve ridden until dawn
Never will you catch me nor will I change my mind
My morals and principles will always step out from behind.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Under the tower of confiner sisters,
Where the pine needles slide down the breeze,
Spiders become trapeze artists,
While ferns spread their wings,
The midnight rain forms into morels,
Playing hide and seek under the sticks,
Trails leading to empty shells,
From confident snails ready to leave,
Mosquitoes looking for red water,
From intruders of their home,
Worms wriggle in annoyance,
Footsteps echoing them out of sleep,
Wildflowers gather in numbers,
Slowly swaying with every breath,
From caterpillar transformations,
Each stitched by hues of smiles,
Armored beetles thrive to indulge,
Assembled in cafes of redwood bark,
The silence in the forest is blaring,
With bursting images in this realm,
Scents captivating our senses,
Songs breathing into our world,
To get lost in all the beauty,
Many colors and multiple forms,
Of tall towering lofty giants,
Changing colors from green to gold.
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
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