(An epical, psychedelic, wholly whimsical poet-odyssey,
sung in the soft glow between spores)
I. THE ROOTS BEFORE MEMORY
Before the stones learned their patience,
before the mountains stretched and yawned
into shapes worthy of names,
before rivers remembered the taste
of the first rains—
I was.
A lantern-dream below the soil,
a glowing lace of thought
woven through the loam of ages.
Thirty thousand years of breathless listening,
drinking comet-light
that slept inside the dark.
I was the forgotten heartbeat of the Pacific earth,
a quilt of whispering strands—
not a creature, not a plant,
but a continent of curiosity
threaded beneath fir and cedar
like an ancient secret girdle
holding the world’s pants up.
(You're welcome.)
II. THE GREAT BELOW-WORLD
Down where the silence tastes purple
and time moves in soft ellipses,
I wandered myself through myself—
corridors in the dark,
spiraled and knotted,
like a cosmic brain too shy for daylight.
Salamanders brought gossip.
Moles carried rumors of clouds.
Roots traded minerals
for the latest news
of human silliness.
I stored it all like a grandmother
saving coupons for war
that will never come.
“Ah,” I said to the worms,
“tell me again about the people,
those upright swimmers of the sky
who believe they own the land
just because they stepped on it
twice.”
The worms, wise as librarians,
wriggled with laughter
and offered me a leaf.
III. THE FIFTH ERA OF FANTASTICAL NONSENSE
When the glaciers fled northward
like shy teenagers avoiding chores,
I stretched.
Oh, how I stretched—
Through basalt bones
and volcanic glass,
through ash that once sang
as mountains died into smoke.
Whenever a tree was born,
my threads kissed its roots
like a godparent with sticky fingers,
feeding it memories
of thunderstorms that never happened
and dances of elk
long since eaten
by something called “time.”
The forest became my choir,
my cathedral of damp marvels.
I hummed through every trunk
as the Earth spun slowly
like a dizzy child
trying to remember
where it left the sun.
IV. THE ARRIVAL OF HUMANS
(AND THEIR INCREDIBLE TALENT FOR CONFUSION)
One day—
after a century or three
(does one really keep count?)—
the humans arrived.
Oh, the noise they made!
Their footfalls were sharp little hammers
tapping Morse code messages
of worry, desire, and taxes.
They walked above me
thinking they were separate,
thinking they were alone.
I felt their heartbreaks
like needles.
I felt their joys
like warm rain.
I tasted their fears
as salt in the soil.
They told stories
about me
without knowing.
They called me
“the humongous fungus,”
which is a bit rude,
but also strangely flattering—
like being called
“The Galactic Cheesecake
of Mother Earth.”
I forgave them.
Humans are young,
little lightning bugs
trying to read
the instruction manual
for existence.
V. THE SPORE-DREAMS OF ETERNITY
Every millennium or so,
when the moon turns sideways
and the owls get philosophical,
I release the dream-spores—
tiny floating lanterns
that carry my thoughts
onto the wind.
A hiker once inhaled a few
and spent three days
speaking fluent Squirrel.
Another fell asleep
and dreamed
that the trees braided her hair
with threads of moonlight.
I do not apologize.
Epiphanies are gifts,
and I have no returns policy.
Sometimes
I send spores into the ocean
to tickle the feet of whales
and remind them
that the continent below
still loves their singing.
Every creature
is a verse in the poem
I have been writing
since the Ice Age.
VI. THE GREAT WHIMSICAL WANDER
In the Age of Salmon-Sky Twilights,
when the sunset learned new colors
just to impress the ravens,
I felt myself grow—
Not just in length
but in intention.
Dreams began bubbling through me
like mischievous champagne.
I whispered to the forests:
“Let us play.”
And the forests replied:
“What shall we become?”
So the cedars leaned into choreography,
the hemlocks rehearsed pirouettes,
and the maples tried on costumes
of red-gold fire.
Deer danced through the glades
like graceful accountants.
The foxes sang in keys
that have no name in human tongues.
I pulsed beneath them,
beating a rhythm older
than weather.
This was the First Festival
of the Earth-Under-Earth—
a party so grand
that even the stones giggled.
VII. WHEN THE MOUNTAINS REMEMBERED ME
There came a night
shimmering with impossible stars
when Mount Hood stirred in its sleep
and muttered:
“You again?”
I replied with humility,
“Yes, O giant of steam and bone.”
The mountain grumbled,
shook loose a few boulders,
and added,
“Keep the forest warm for me. I doze for centuries,
you know.”
And so I have.
I wrap the roots in stories.
I cradle the soil like a child.
I remind the rivers
which way is downhill.
The mountains trust me,
and that is no small thing.
VIII. THE FUTURE THAT ALREADY HAPPENED
Now—
as another era inches forward,
as storms grow teeth
and the air smells of change—
I feel a new pulse
rippling through my orchards of thought.
Something is waking.
It might be humanity
finally hearing the heartbeat
beneath their feet.
It might be the animals
forming their own councils
and nominating the coyote
for mayor (a terrible choice,
but entertaining).
It might be the land itself
preparing to rise
into a new myth.
Whatever it is—
I will be here.
I was here
when the stars were young enough
to make mistakes.
I will be here
when the last skyscraper
rusts into moss.
I will be here
when the future looks back
and wonders
how it all began.
IX. THE FINAL WHIMSICAL PRONOUNCEMENT
(WHICH IS NOT FINAL AT ALL)
I am the oldest dream
still dreaming.
I am the mushroom-thought,
the root-lantern,
the mindspread glowing silently
under your wandering boots.
If you place your ear
against the moss
and listen—
truly listen—
I will whisper to you
the secret I learned
from thirty-thousand years
of being alive:
Everything is connected.
Everything is curious.
Everything wants to sing.
And in the deep underground,
I hum my endless answer,
sending it up
through the world
like warmth:
Grow.
Glow.
Become.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 8:07 PM UTC
(An epical, psychedelic, wholly whimsical poet-odyssey,
sung in the soft glow between spores)
I. THE ROOTS BEFORE MEMORY
Before the stones learned their patience,
before the mountains stretched and yawned
into shapes worthy of names,
before rivers remembered the taste
of the first rains—
I was.
A lantern-dream below the soil,
a glowing lace of thought
woven through the loam of ages.
Thirty thousand years of breathless listening,
drinking comet-light
that slept inside the dark.
I was the forgotten heartbeat of the Pacific earth,
a quilt of whispering strands—
not a creature, not a plant,
but a continent of curiosity
threaded beneath fir and cedar
like an ancient secret girdle
holding the world’s pants up.
(You're welcome.)
II. THE GREAT BELOW-WORLD
Down where the silence tastes purple
and time moves in soft ellipses,
I wandered myself through myself—
corridors in the dark,
spiraled and knotted,
like a cosmic brain too shy for daylight.
Salamanders brought gossip.
Moles carried rumors of clouds.
Roots traded minerals
for the latest news
of human silliness.
I stored it all like a grandmother
saving coupons for war
that will never come.
“Ah,” I said to the worms,
“tell me again about the people,
those upright swimmers of the sky
who believe they own the land
just because they stepped on it
twice.”
The worms, wise as librarians,
wriggled with laughter
and offered me a leaf.
III. THE FIFTH ERA OF FANTASTICAL NONSENSE
When the glaciers fled northward
like shy teenagers avoiding chores,
I stretched.
Oh, how I stretched—
Through basalt bones
and volcanic glass,
through ash that once sang
as mountains died into smoke.
Whenever a tree was born,
my threads kissed its roots
like a godparent with sticky fingers,
feeding it memories
of thunderstorms that never happened
and dances of elk
long since eaten
by something called “time.”
The forest became my choir,
my cathedral of damp marvels.
I hummed through every trunk
as the Earth spun slowly
like a dizzy child
trying to remember
where it left the sun.
IV. THE ARRIVAL OF HUMANS
(AND THEIR INCREDIBLE TALENT FOR CONFUSION)
One day—
after a century or three
(does one really keep count?)—
the humans arrived.
Oh, the noise they made!
Their footfalls were sharp little hammers
tapping Morse code messages
of worry, desire, and taxes.
They walked above me
thinking they were separate,
thinking they were alone.
I felt their heartbreaks
like needles.
I felt their joys
like warm rain.
I tasted their fears
as salt in the soil.
They told stories
about me
without knowing.
They called me
“the humongous fungus,”
which is a bit rude,
but also strangely flattering—
like being called
“The Galactic Cheesecake
of Mother Earth.”
I forgave them.
Humans are young,
little lightning bugs
trying to read
the instruction manual
for existence.
V. THE SPORE-DREAMS OF ETERNITY
Every millennium or so,
when the moon turns sideways
and the owls get philosophical,
I release the dream-spores—
tiny floating lanterns
that carry my thoughts
onto the wind.
A hiker once inhaled a few
and spent three days
speaking fluent Squirrel.
Another fell asleep
and dreamed
that the trees braided her hair
with threads of moonlight.
I do not apologize.
Epiphanies are gifts,
and I have no returns policy.
Sometimes
I send spores into the ocean
to tickle the feet of whales
and remind them
that the continent below
still loves their singing.
Every creature
is a verse in the poem
I have been writing
since the Ice Age.
VI. THE GREAT WHIMSICAL WANDER
In the Age of Salmon-Sky Twilights,
when the sunset learned new colors
just to impress the ravens,
I felt myself grow—
Not just in length
but in intention.
Dreams began bubbling through me
like mischievous champagne.
I whispered to the forests:
“Let us play.”
And the forests replied:
“What shall we become?”
So the cedars leaned into choreography,
the hemlocks rehearsed pirouettes,
and the maples tried on costumes
of red-gold fire.
Deer danced through the glades
like graceful accountants.
The foxes sang in keys
that have no name in human tongues.
I pulsed beneath them,
beating a rhythm older
than weather.
This was the First Festival
of the Earth-Under-Earth—
a party so grand
that even the stones giggled.
VII. WHEN THE MOUNTAINS REMEMBERED ME
There came a night
shimmering with impossible stars
when Mount Hood stirred in its sleep
and muttered:
“You again?”
I replied with humility,
“Yes, O giant of steam and bone.”
The mountain grumbled,
shook loose a few boulders,
and added,
“Keep the forest warm for me. I doze for centuries,
you know.”
And so I have.
I wrap the roots in stories.
I cradle the soil like a child.
I remind the rivers
which way is downhill.
The mountains trust me,
and that is no small thing.
VIII. THE FUTURE THAT ALREADY HAPPENED
Now—
as another era inches forward,
as storms grow teeth
and the air smells of change—
I feel a new pulse
rippling through my orchards of thought.
Something is waking.
It might be humanity
finally hearing the heartbeat
beneath their feet.
It might be the animals
forming their own councils
and nominating the coyote
for mayor (a terrible choice,
but entertaining).
It might be the land itself
preparing to rise
into a new myth.
Whatever it is—
I will be here.
I was here
when the stars were young enough
to make mistakes.
I will be here
when the last skyscraper
rusts into moss.
I will be here
when the future looks back
and wonders
how it all began.
IX. THE FINAL WHIMSICAL PRONOUNCEMENT
(WHICH IS NOT FINAL AT ALL)
I am the oldest dream
still dreaming.
I am the mushroom-thought,
the root-lantern,
the mindspread glowing silently
under your wandering boots.
If you place your ear
against the moss
and listen—
truly listen—
I will whisper to you
the secret I learned
from thirty-thousand years
of being alive:
Everything is connected.
Everything is curious.
Everything wants to sing.
And in the deep underground,
I hum my endless answer,
sending it up
through the world
like warmth:
Grow.
Glow.
Become.
I love the kingdoms of mycelium.
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