"morel" poems
I cast the muse into the sea
to wake her from a peaceful sleep.
This poet’s quill is void of ink;
it needs her words to strike the page.
She’ll fight the waves Poseidon sends
til Sirens drive her back to shore
to sip an oleander brew
and hoist the cup of Socrates.
Bring wolfsbane and a death morel!
Bring nightshade and curare too!
We’ll fatten her with woe and pain!
We’ll ready her for war and hate!
She’ll writhe and quiver, seethe and foam
until she spews her putrid verse
upon the blackened sands of time
from which men’s darkest dreams are built.
And when the gods are satisfied,
when Ares’ sword has slashed and burned,
this poisoned pen will rest at last.
Calliope shall sleep once more.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:23 PM UTC
Distasted disaster dooms
Truehoods falsely spoken
Falsehood & true galoshes
Numbrella mousetrap
****** void twice
And More And Morel eels
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
Again today
I hunted the wily morel, armed
with little knowledge
and dulling eyes.
I sought in vain through gooseberry
thicket, pucker brush,
cedar, tripping
on fox-grape vines, finding only box
tortoises and one sad
reminder of
an autumn pastime: the picked-
over carcass of a young
buck, bones and hide
scattered at the foot of a stately white oak.
I claimed the skull.
On the drive home
I collected six morels from a high bank
roadside. I took
them, leaving
the skull and rack of the buck. Balance
is important.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Let me walk with no agenda
to where the failed days are still rewarding.
No judgment,
no burden, no façade.
Let me take off all that is me
and become what is meant to be,
Who is meant to be.
Let me drop what is now and
run to the woods,
my solace, my love.
Let me rise with the sun and let it warm my heart
like you never could.
Let me sing with the barred owl at dawn,
and let me scream my lament with the crows.
Let the dew upon my feet be the tears
that wouldn’t fall.
I wipe them off so easily.
I am the moon, I am the sun,
the displaying turkey, the loping deer.
I am the morel living with the dead.
Let me be the maple,
the bramble, the peat.
Oh just let me be.
Let me be me.
In my home.
In the woods.
With the answer.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
there's a man on a chair in top of a tower
and he sits and he waits as the bricks turn to powder
and he's waiting for a time when its safe to come down
his life and his mind resonates with the sound
of the people blasted people with there hate and there fear
telling him the his brilliance is the devils ways quite clear
and they chase him and they tell him that he'll never get away
but he's hiding in the tower and he needs to find a way
and the chalk on the floor from the equations wiped in vain
make a circle round the tower and it keeps the crowed at bay
so he works to find a meaning and he needs another wake
but the message is priori and the morel is at stake
so he toils on the formula to silence sin and saint
he must prove that there is nothing so that he can see the fate
and as he does the sounds of screaming up and deafen to a raise
and he proves the world is nothing but wave in mind of sage
and he makes a few revisions to the book and sines the page
it was done and he concluded that the world will cleanse in blaze
and proclaims let there be light and then book burns in to place
and to find out what's in side it is the challenge that we face
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance
And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks
I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons
There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek
Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush
It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.
We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost
An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate
But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular
nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through
though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"
to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered
But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears
Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood
And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
We kept it light
You and I
Wrapped friendship around moments
Of lavender and tea roses
Treasures unearthed in lazy afternoons
Morel s and the damp lull of pines wafting through
An open window
Trading simple things
You were light
Filtered through antique lace curtains
Thoughts of you melt sweet
Chocolate chips held tight in small hands
Smiling for the moment
Until the residue is wiped clean
You are gone
But never forgotten
I will see you in sunsets and surf
And the way the rain falls steady
In late spring
When the light is soft behind the clouds
You never shied from the rumbling storm
When I raged and railed against the breaker walls
You were the calm
You held the tide
Even when the deluge started to take you
I could sense it in the pull of deeper moments
You said we’re all on a journey
And you left your legacy etched in my soul
Open the window a little wider
And embrace the sky
I will think of you always
And treasures
And the sea
Conch shells and mermaids
Surf against the sand
I will keep the light
March 2013
For Pat Brodniak-Carbonaro “ Seanymph”
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC