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Lucky Queue Oct 2012
Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.

Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.
Only half finished, so I'll write more later, perhaps in a different poem, perhaps not.
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’

They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.

He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.

He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.

The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.

I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.

The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.

David Lewis Paget
This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, ****** sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
This rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spining man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage read, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
Over the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The ****** furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
in the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooning the woods' praise,
who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
**, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On atounged puffball)
But animals thick as theives
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms ina throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbors finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,
Tom *** and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.
mumu Jun 2018
I have a secret
Told by my mother
The one I will not forget
I have the universe's character

I loved the stars, moon and sun
She knows it very well
Will have it even if I run
Or contract a demon in hell

"If you want it on hand" she said
"plant a Dandelion"
And I laughed at her instead
But she's serious like a *****

Mother have it on hand
A yellow flower with white puffball
And in my palm it land
I'm too afraid to let it fall

"The flower represent the sun"
"White puffball is the moon"
Slowly she blew it with fun
"These floating seeds are the stars this noon"

My gaze follow the seed
As it falls like shooting star
It is my universe indeed
A dream I've reached so far.
Okay, this was the longest piece I posted so far ( I actually have long poems but I found it so boring) and I loved because I used to share with you the secret of Dandelions. I really loved how it represents the three celestial bodies. I remember the time I have a Dandelion in my hand I really said in my mind: "What the ****, the universe is in my hand!" Lols.
P.S. I really wished that the next time you saw a Dandelion, you will not see it as a ordinary flower but a beautiful celestial being.
Smoking smouldering chimneys
Like old steam engines
Seemingly chugging along
Through the windswept, and whistling
Squally, stormy skies
Is it the trees brushing the clouds?
Or have the houses
Uprooted from their foundations
As they glide along
Aided by the sweeping wind
As a stream of smoke
Billows behind
No choo choo
Just the howling gusts
Like ghosts
Of the dying wolf moon
The steam engine'd houses
Are soon stationary
As the wind dies down
The smoke from the chimneys
Now swirls upwards
Blending
With the grey puffball
Shrouded clouds
The houses
Their facades
Like glowing faces
Widowed windows
Mellowed, yellowed eyes
Light up
As the mouth like door
Closes out the night
Like a secret kiss

by Jemia
Sam Temple May 2016
puffball cotton swab
clouds hung low
looking like I could reach out
***** them with a fingernail
and send a deluge
crashing through the valley below –
littered across the misty green valley
large black-bodied cows
exhaling steaming tendrils
one long bawl travels
the length of the meadow
her rumbling song
inspires a smallish brown thrush –
fir trees set along side
creating a border of mystery
from in-between
a slight and leaning maple sapling
and a large dominant fir grandfather
a tan doe steps out
tentatively
behind her two speckled fawns
their long ears
turning and twisting with each pasture sound
they step into the clearing slowly
and begin to pull the dew drops
off the grass blades….
morning ritual of the farmland –
size of a football
biggest edible fungus
the giant puffball
Nathan MacKrith Apr 2019
We met when you were small
a tiny white puffball
I placed a band blue
round your neck to
show you were my kitty

I knew so exactly
what you should be
good, kind, lovely, sweet
smart, fun, strong, complete
the package with loyal

and you were, so royal
without blemish or soil
upon your pure white fur
heart free of smudge or blur
your name was Snowbell

you grew to know it well
from birth to when you fell
crimson mottled splotch mess
stained your angelic dress
a broken vessel as am I

speaking of how you did die
your life story in my eye
tale of cuddles, head rubbed
rolling joyful in the mud
you spirit confined

by man’s wall defined
freedom’s what you pined
for ever gazing at door
shut stuck wanting outside

Petite Cherie, where now you reside
may sweet freedom fully abide
may you live without doors
fields of grass be your floors
enjoy them, please, it is your right

for this world which held tight
to be lost in pursuit
finally allowed to be you
I let go the band blue
but never my love for you

Petite Cherie, run, be free—
please wait patiently
for the time when we
both have naught but grass floor
no remnants of that shut door.
~
NM
04/06/19
In memoriam of Snowbell (2005-2019)
She was the best feline companion this fellow has ever been blessed to have.
RequiesCAT In Pace, Petite Cherie
Slur pee Apr 2021
Er.. Which is it? Monster or man?
Who cares?! He’ll slay the gorgon, ****!
His eyes cast a fierce light,
His hair scared into white,
And for the right price he wields death in his hands.

---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

There’s a pink puffball with quite the appetite,
Doesn’t chew food, he inhales it with all his might.
He can’t fly very far,
So he likes to ride on stars.
Defeating evil as he goes, with every bite.

----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------

Test tube mutant cursed with the stupid
N. Sane in the brain, heart shot by cupid
Breaks boxes with a twist
Helpless without his sis,
Won’t stop ‘til Cortex has been uprooted.

-SLuR
Limericks based off videogames.

(The Witcher, Kirby, and Crash Bandicoot.)
I once ate
A wolf ****
Cooked in butter
And garlic
Served on toast
With egg
And beans
It evolved
Around cow pats
Not surprised really...
by Jemia a fun gi rl
SkinlessFrank Sep 2016
another birthday
and as usual
he awoke
thinking
about the
three dead mice
and how the poor things
must have
fallen into the can
and starved to death

one
had probably survived
a bit longer
for it found
salvation
in the tissues
of the others

and when
he cradled it
in his hand
the creature
broke apart like
a puffball and
the brown spores
living smoke
filled his nostril
and went about
their important
business
Evan Stephens Jun 2019
You fill the world
with secret meaning -

for example,
these small wisps,

these puffballs
that meadow to

dandelions,
Once they carried

my wishes.
They would scatter

on their strange
sails and raise

the yellow brightest.
But then,

you and I
we watched Amarcord

where puffball
swing seasons

into town,
salt a wedding,

mark the limits
of memory,

of childhood.
Now I see them,

gracing across
the fields

& yards
& I think

automatically
of you.
Another shrouded Moon of despair
Both glowering, and glowing
As darkened, shadowed Harebells
Await the coming dawn
They flounce, and swoon
At a tender zephyr breeze
As if to awaken
Their moist innocence
Emitting gentle sprays of water
To the sleeping green grass
Growing at their stem
Drops of dew delicately drip down
Tinkling the Harebells
That pout, and kiss the naked air
As the nature of the day
Slowly awakens
Puffball eyes
Soon there are flutterings
As wings of insect life
Venture forth
To quaff the moistened pollen
Of the now invigorated beauty
I arrive upon this scene
Every day, like a ghost
I float, and hover around
This enchanted paradise
As a new pure tranquillity
Caresses my heart
As my eyes bleed tears
At the wonder of it all
I then awaken from a rare dream
by Jemia
Universe Poems Jan 2022
Long tall
Swaying yellow breeze
White globes
Dandelions,
your seeds exposed
Now close your eyes
make a wish,
and, blow
Puffball,
growth, hope,
and healing,
that is sunny for all

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
Evan Stephens Jul 2019
A valiant cloud
defers a shouting sun.
My puffball proud,
a valiant cloud
has been our shroud
against this fire spun.
A valiant cloud
defers a shouting sun.
It's a place and a moment
It's where I saw an otter
After I had swum in the shallows
Of the Findhorn river
Knees knocking the rocks.

I take you there
Tell you of the moment.
We quieten and wander apart.
You would have swum in deeper waters
You say.
We come together, drinking tea.
You talk of The river
Being sured up and undercut.

On the grass bank
2 puffball mushrooms
White against green.
One each.
With reverence you cut them .
And pull jet black coiled worms
From holes in their flanks.
They are like brains I say.

We walk through a meadow.
You throw your bike to the ground
As if your feet already know where to go.
I struggle with my bike for a while
And then I copy you.
We stand and look at a wire fence
Some grasses
We wonder if they really look like that.
Or is it consensual reality.
So we can feel sured up.
Not undercut.

In your garden, later
You stand like a love
Salute.
Meeting my eyes.
I know what it is to be seen.
I trust you beyond measure.

— The End —