Short Fungal Poems

Consuming brain waves from plentiful touch
Exchange of sorrow, mirth, and incredulous dirges
Following the sign of the times
Discourse as it reeks from chest cavities
Angsting bloated bodies barrelled into walking murmur
You sleepy disease fungal fortunes run amiss
Runinous with divisive claims...

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 UNSUPPORTED CODE RELICS OF GRACE

to have been on this
planet prolonged time
and still discern naught,
distinguish… all the pain,
the ebb of dirt, and the
coffers stronghold pull;
observe no grace relics
of buoyant youth;
where perchance all that
now is fungal was filled with
hopeful hues of honey



© Kim van Breda—25 June 2014...

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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




...

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The Immigrant


Seeking solace. 
Seeking a home.

The immigrant finds, 

rotten prejudice. 
Fungal anger. 

The immigrant, 

alone, hoping for, 

A solitary chance. 

To belong. 

The immigrant, 
alone, always, 

an outside entity. 
Eternal outcast. 

A viral threat. 
A reeking odour. 


The immigrant, 

ever alone, 
and alone knowing, 
that no place exists, 
but that lost home....

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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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On cloud-pressed evenings
you hear them being delivered
when the choral earth
is soft and swelling.


A creaking growth
a crèche of mycelia
confined in dark dilations.

Together hydrous hyphae hum
while fungal buds umbrella
shaping wet white moons
from a spore bearing fusion.

They appear, glowing-
fat with light, new babies,
each button a bombshell
of umami

in the endless labor
of a birthing mud....

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I know what winter is 
More than snow, and slow business: 
How potatoes grow rotten in the ground 
And what wheat wears a fungal dark gown, 
Or birds falling from the sky. 
The sun is shivering bright, 
And earth is stark and white 
With hunger sunken in an empty eye. 
I know what winter is 
The long migration of frozen seas 
The shivering in the bone 
The great man dying, scared and alone; 
The coming change 
Of water gushing from the frigid stone....

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The more you ignore the less the words turn towards the poem
Whatever care you offer at the rehab as a show of the charity
The leaves and stems keep suffering from the fungal infection 
The birds keep clear of the wrinkled shadows of the trees
Can't you have a few hearts of the morning dew

___________________________________________.________________________
22 May, 2018  
Rehabilitation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward...

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Would not stay put with tether cut,
would leave its corrugated hut
to feed on berries and the nut ;
all mackintosh with string waist,
split boot on the open road,
worn leather from the tarmac's goad,
lover of the aimless fork
and the wayward milestone ;
drawn on by life, surpassing
as the sky-line constantly recedes,
supine in a fungal dell,
high on cloudless night,
receiving there through venal wires
tomorrow's bearing from the stars.

(From mysticseed)...

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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.  




 

...

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In the electric room in Melancholia Europe
Alone in the dark an old man sits stark naked
To be born alive this time is what it takes
When reality knocks at a door that is not there

Mushrooms have it spongy easy quiet
Damp soil is all they require 
You have no walls, floors or ceilings
When old men are set in their place

Do not be afraid of him in his innocence
Europe is a far away place with trash bags
To take him out in morning
Plenty of space remains for fungal growth...

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