"morels" poems
In the woods walking,
early morning cool,
one eye on the ground
for snakes otherwise
empty-headed not looking
for anything;
over a rise and down,
a rotten chestnut stump
probably 100 years old
and at its roots
twenty-three Morels.
Instant hunger:
the smell of frying
butter, salt and
tender mushrooms.
I lust for them.
Take off my shirt
to carry them home.
Real desire often
takes us by surprise;
pure delight
of the unsought.
~mce
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Brown oak leaves underfoot, last year's sodden
reminders that newness always ends. But
not today
while the creek, silent in summer, chortles
about last night's rain, full of spring vigor
far below
the limestone bluff edge where
I stand, chert nodules and fractals
peeking through
springy new undergrowth, broke down
limbs, leaf litter and dark soil. I came
for morels
but it's too early, too chill yet. Tomorrow's
predicted sun may bring them out. Early
mayapple
sprouts fool me, draw me to admire other
understory plants: trillium, maidenhair fern,
spring beauty,
johnny jump-up and more whose names
I knew once but forgot. I came alone and
I don't need
names. Names mean nothing without
voices and other ears. I love the silence
I bring here.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:54 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
“Love animals…Don’t eat them”
On the back of the truck
Do they really think that we give a ****
As far as I’m concerned they are there to be eaten
Does it matter so much if there battered and beaten?
The food chain is there for a reason my friend
Lentils and rice don’t appeal
Why pretend?
Morels and ethics
You use as your source
So neatly nurtured from your feminist course
Stroking your egos with ignorant bliss
Never to experience that succulent kiss
Steak starts to sizzle
Smell starts to ensnare
With wild abandonment
I really don’t care
Juices cascading
Rivers of fun
Full and content now
Deliciously done
So take your morels and give them a poke
And as you swallow your ethics
Try not to choke.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC
These blue walls have been everything
Soon to be nothing
My possessions stay whole in my life
My persona is (mostly) intact
I still have the love of my cat
The feel of my soft blanket
The comfort of my books
And I can't comprehend why this doesn't give me strength
These grounds
O, the beautiful trees, planted by hands of the family
The flowers, the precious flowers
The graves of my protectors
Mikey
Jeffy
Chipper
The time capsule, planted for my enjoyment upon the day of graduation must now be prematurely returned to society
And it
Hurts
To hear my loved ones tell me this is petty, this is minute
Let me remind you of the gentle breeze on your cheek as you read a novel on the hammock
The crick that runs through our woods, the deer and morels that reside
The blackberry bushes on our hill, the view of the sunset few experience but us
Every night
The immaculate view of the heavens from our front porch
The sound of cicadas in mid June
The aroma of pine trees
The vibrations of frogs congregating in our swamp
The swamp itself, two to be exact
Have you even seen the second swamp?
I have
In fact, I've witnessed our slice of heaven repeatedly, I appreciate it
I love it
I live it
This is my ohm
This is my sanctuary
This is my religion
And like a conversion, this will be difficult
New rituals
New systems
New life
It's hard to respect the fact that this is necessary
In a way, it just feels
Frankly, unnecessary
As I lie in bed and think of all that I am about to
Lose
These blue walls feel constricting under the green roof, inside our barn shaped home
They feel sad for you, because
You will never understand the beauty within these 17 acres
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
No one can recuperate the ideas that swim
in these stagnant moments of my mind.
I am a great white that hungers for those
elusive moments that are needy morels on
my lingering refection's fishing for evidence.
Evidence of the nature of why these moments
congeal into these corporal instances that needed
to be expelled into the reality of that which I
need to express me feelings that are stagnant.
Stagnant melodies are deaf to the whispers that
need to be expelled unto my reality of this reckoning.
In this exact moment for without it I neither would
be conjoined, all would be a fluid thought draining.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC