"spores" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
cusp a dandelion in your hands.....
close your eyes.....
and blow the spores away.....
make a wish....
and believe it will come true one day......
coz when you look at me you can either see hundreds of spores .....
OR MANY DORMANT WISHES WAITING TO SPROUT....
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
One early morning along the quiet forest floor, a little mushroom popped it's head out of the ground. Looking in wonder, he pushed passed the dead leaves and dirt to reach for sunlight below the canopy.
"STOP!" said the forest. "You have been unruly. We have seen you try to grow with discord and disregard, denying the order. And what are you, alien? Identify as plant or animal!"
The little mushroom responded, "But I only did as you did; made a home. Like the rooted trees pillar in our leafy halls, as the moss nestles among the rocks, or how the birds nest in their hollows, why am I so different? I am both you and me."
The forest inhabitants pondered. In this time the mushroom grew and died. It took too long for the trees and the birds and the moss to agree by the time their fellow forest friend had passed.
The trees, too slow to interrupt, cried out to all, "What have we done?! we may not have thought him as beautiful as the rest of us, but the mushroom was a part of this forest!"
As a parting token, the little fungi grew a network of strands below the trees roots to support them all, feeding and protecting them even in death.
With it's dying breath, it dropped it's spores, to which would grow bountiful among the forest floor, among the trees and the rocks and moss. They had not known it, but the little mushroom was a part of a greater fungi, miles across. It had been there as long as the forest, keeping the trees company since time began, before humans, before us.
Only the trees had the knowledge to understand the little mushroom, but their voices were too quiet, too slow. So the trees let the mushrooms grow in their branches and on their logs to give them a home.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Behold,
The embers of the sky,
Telling myths, a winters night,
Winds blowing, trees bowing,
Often, they whispered a voice,
Warming toes, a freezing nose,
An aurora, a sight out of coast.
Behold,
Each glory of design,
Sparkles wooingly outshine,
An epitome of colors playing,
Often seeking its own grand,
Forming from an artist hand,
Someone will but no one can.
Behold,
As memories out spores,
Bound of keys, tied with thee,
A Moet of an enduring heart,
Sprung out of an idled dream,
A man-woman of abstract art,
Weaving as embers sky depart.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
Sometimes I watch
the man in the benign pastel shirt
and the drab khakis
with the receding hairline
and the thick glasses
cross the street
with a package in his arms;
And I think to myself,
"There goes a good dad,
mild mannered, loving -
trying to make his way
in this savage world."
Then, almost instantaneously,
the doubt creeps in:
"Or, he could be a monster,
who beats his kids,
or his wife,
or sets fire to homes,
or has adolescent prisoners in his basement."
From then on I question everyone I see.
That lovable looking old lady
with her sun hat
and disabled parking pass
might shout racist obscenities
from her balcony
at poor black kids
playing in the park across the street.
The clean-cut young man
in the shirt and tie
with the papers in his hands
may spend his weekends
filling envelopes with anthrax spores -
one for each name on his list.
I can no longer see
the father whose arrival from work
is anticipated by a loving family,
or the grandmother who delights in
handing out the most Halloween candy
to every kid in the neighborhood,
or the industrious young professional
striving to make a meaningful contribution
to society.
I wonder if the darkness I see in them
is a magnified reflection
of the darkness I know
that lurks inside of me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC
fragile umbrellas are strewn
across the cluttered forest floor,
nourishing strong connections
from all over the world.
their gills are loaded weapons
that fire spores into the air
at the speed of light.
if we blink, we miss it -
and the umbrellas multiply.
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 12:50 AM UTC
-10-
Regular Albert Whisker,
FE Squadron,
born 1939,
joined up at 18.
First time away from home and loving it, sir!
-9-
One day,
I’m just minding my own
at the airbase in Stranraer
when two officers appear
out of nowhere
and they ask
they ask if I’d fancy a long weekend?
Why not? I say.
Why not?
-8-
We’re staying at the Governor Clinton Hotel,
It's in New York.
Everything laid on.
Trip to Broadway and all.
Three whole days of paradise
All on the MOD.
-7-
Oh Gor Blimey!
What a sight when we stepped off the flight
onto Christmas Island for the first time.
Crushed white coral dust.
Like nothing I’d ever seen.
-6-
Our job is mainly to just do our job
which is mainly just military driving.
Land-rovers, lorries, tankers and that.
And avoiding the island ***** -
three times a day, they'd all crawl up the beach -
but they didn’t pay us for that.
-5-
Someone showed me their diary today
and it had a letter ‘H’ under today’s date.
So I’m working on the beach
when the tannoi sounds:
“Sit down and cover your eyes.
Testing will begin in five, four…”
-4-
And there was light.
A flash right through your skin and hands.
The biggest bang I’ve ever heard.
A flash.
Through your skin and bones and hands.
The biggest bang I’ve ever heard in all my life.
-3-
Then it was over.
Nothing much changed.
-2-
Except the mushroom cloud was there for quite a time.
And the Canberra bombers, the white ones, they flew through the cloud like little spores.
-1-
Then one day they just said “You’re done”
and we queued up to fly home to England.
Saw the new ones, the ‘moonies’, getting off the plane.
Sad to leave I was, yeah.
It was a good posting.
And nice weather, never rained,
Not rain at any rate.
Then, not long after, I was sent home for good.
They said I’d caught a cancer off a someone and
for me own good
I had to be discharged.
-0-
Sad really.
It was a good posting.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
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
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
*see me fly close to the sun
watch my feathers trail and hopes plummet
all round the air
falling through the sky*
evening pond..
cranes' beaks probe
last of daylight melts in rosemary-blue
lunar-moult occurs once
fins have fill of lacrymal-oceans
pedestal left behind when raiment-sown
into the slow-weave tapestry of awakening
sweeping over this landscape with seminal-flow
changing forever its inside-face
hear the unsignalled-whispers of the moon-child
it all lies in that feathered-hope
squiggle.. squiggle.. this message portent
on the palm of your sentry-pod
rustic purple on wheat-coloured earth
green-eyes smite the clouds its freedom
moving.. ever-moving.. then dissipate
into brilliant air
temporarily changing the sky's face
as the sun's eyelashes slowly meet
crawling onward
on the surface
of never
edging slowly to the sides now..veering
wait to fall..
can't ignore the ever-giving spores
lithe stems in a trance-like dance
yes, there is beauty in this non-stop dispersing
of that which asks
nothing in return
*somewhere
there must still be
a massive glitch
in the time-score*
st - 9 oct
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
I bent my toes over the tub
like talons on a sunbaked branch
and clenched the curtain
in my gloved hands.
I sprayed Tilex on a scouring
pad and scrubbed the black mold
riddling the ceiling and caulked
edges of the shower like leprosy.
My lungs filled with nitrogen,
oxygen, and argon as well as
sodium hypochlorite and hydroxide,
spores, and mycotoxins.
I staggered backwards, trying
to find solid ground but found
only a dazed, curtain-wrapped
fall to the cold linoleum below.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.
The pure-light pin-prick stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.
The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
We put on snow-white dress
and camouflage blacks inside
Best friend is the worst enemy of man!
Leaving with a lot of do's and don'ts;
Deformed envious man pluck blooming flowers
to pollute the blue sky!
Though viruses fly around like fern spores
How orchids can bloom without care?
Poem 24
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
I think with my heart;
not my head
in my hand
or buried deep under the sand.
Because when everything comes from the core,
i don’t need to wonder any more.
Thinking is not a chore:
like folding laundry into a tidy drawer.
But that’s what draws our glass floor,
and causes us to continully snore.
But what we chose to ignore,
should be infact, exactly what we adore.
Then maybe we’d ask for an encore
instead of a 24/7 drug store.
________________________
To you, i may be a boar,
but we must bust down the door.
Stop fighting the war!
Live for evermore(
if we wish to soar).
_____________________
But today our biggest sore
may be the us marine corp.
i hurt for their souls, scattered galore.
it is i who they fend for,
it is why their blood continues to pour.
But that doesn’t effect you,
because it happens on another shore.
Your questions? i have answer for,
but please don’t ask me the baseball score.
Those fact are not in my houses’ decor,
all forms of politics, i choose to ignore.
__________________________________
You can call me a dinosaur,
regardless, I am not a cannibalistic carnivore.
_______________________________
I know you may ridicule,
but i prefer to be the recluse,
only coming out, when looking for a spruce.
So, when i do explore,
you will not find me with the busy bodies,
you will find me with the mircoscopic spores.
After all, it's we they provide for.
After this adventure, i know they swore,
they could create me a commodore.
On our yaht, somewhere offshore.
There would be no more war.
just hugs, tugs, and kisses galore.
Before, I was a skeptic, ********
i now believe holeheartedly in folklore.
My faith in prewar,
is now eternally restored.
Because mother against man always out scores,
that is why i look no more.
Nature is my only mentor.
___________________________
now, i see myself as a matador.
i can be anything,
that is the underscore.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
losing my mind like before
my heart's going blind to mourn
no room for more!
closing its door,
filled with fear and horror
sounds in my head ashore?
not my voice but yours?
as every part of me sores
making its way to my core
ruining my spores
my insanity roars!
and the madness pours!
and the pain explores!
stop! i can't take it anymore!
i promised i'll be fine, i swore
to you over and over some more
but what can i do it's uncalled for?
my sickness takes the score
i'm destroyed and unhappy and more!
what is there to adore?
-djs
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
---
on a hill stood wicked tree
a single root, branches three
one branch was war
one branch was want
one branch was greed
horrid haunt
its root was pride
its power great
acid soil of perfect hate
its bark like scabs
sulfuric green
a stunted growth
twisted . mean
lichen of ignorance
crusted there
on the north side
of despair
black mushrooms
sprouted from its pores
growing from
starvation's spores
and yet it thrived and gave its fruit
they were put forth by the root
these carried seeds to plant in season
they want it growing for some reason
they plant it lone upon a hill
where it can grow
it's growing
still
it grows from you
it grows from me
we feed that hateful
wicked tree
soulsurvivor
rewritten
(c) 6/13/2015
first draft 2014
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
***** of echoes, the virile resonance quaking lust -
Throbbing caverns shudder to ****** inciting vestal musk
Entranced of nocturnal bedevilment - barefaced in galactic greens,
Spores ethereal yet concealed to the Queen
Sumptuous omphalos; her ecstatic womb engulfing the bloom,
Carnal reckonings devoid of Mosaic release as panting creatures swoon
Vigorous pollination morphing the nectarean sheath
Roused stamen shrivel in an animus induced retreat
Again we'll rise to salute our idol
In burning continuance:
Fertility extolled
With pleasure recompensed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
When I reached in to clean off the glitter on your face,
Did your throat ache because of the unheard voice?
When I said: relax I won't kiss you
did the unheard voice say: "I wish you would!"?
This then music that was denied
All the times I didn't touch you,
did you shiver and get chills?
Did my wondrous breath caress your hairs then?
Did your follicles once wake?
Leading to yawning pores
Inviting the warmth,
of a touch, and the moist excretion of the connection
thereof
And your dry lips with lines dividing symbolizing the walls of your soul yet to be broken
and your bright eyes when the right words are spoken
Or the nerve-wrecking look that had me choking
I was myself and I truly was, maybe you thought I was joking
Was it the distance or questionable persistence?
The fear maybe, that had you critical of what you should feel
Perhaps the vicissitudes of fate that have a stationary couple reel
Or the gravity of occurrences, where I had to keep up appearances
Maybe just you. Maybe just me. Or the doubtful We.
In all reason; logical to think that perhaps the feel
that keeps me away from you
and you feeling like a slave when with me
if you believed and trusted, we could have eloped
Escaped the prison of doubt and insecurity, uplift the hope
Use the ladder of surrender
climb down the 'chance' rope
and then we'd elope
But you stayed with the other guy who says what you want to hear
who drives the car that has them cheer
who sports a profile that gives him credit
Never minding your heart's merit
I leave and enter the wild
I am a wolf from afar
And a die-hard romantic at heart
These are the melodies that live on
Unsung hymns of love lore
May they be heard deeply and penetrate as the sound of spores.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
U for Unilateralis Cordyceps. The fungus enters an ant's body through its respiration. It invades it's brain and changes how it perceives smell, because ants do everything they do from their smell of pheromones, right? So this microscopic little fungal spore, then makes the ant climb up the stem of a plant and bite hard on a leaf, with an abnormal force. The fungus then kills the ant, and continues to grow, leaving the ant's exoskeleton intact. So, a small fungus drives an ant around as a vehicle, uses it as food and shelter and then as the ultimate monument to itself. And when the fungus is ready to reproduce, its fruiting bodies grow from the ant's head and rupture releasing the spores, letting the wind carry them to more unsuspecting food. There, our entire idea of free will down the bin.
One single small fungus spore does that to an ant. You have trillions of bacteria in your body. How do you know where you end, and where your environment begins.
We invent God, soul... heaven, afterlife...even life-imitating technology, all sorts of transcendence to cope with the idea of an absolute end. And then, we die for an idea that promises us some sort of immortality.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
spores! spores!
fluttering demon spawn everywhere!
fluffy white bleached miniscule chimney sweep umbrellas
cascading down like so many newly born spiders
on their silky web shoots
coming over the hill and roof to attack
traversing miles to my nose
which weeps
in sneezes so magnificent
they'd frighten off an elephant
I tell you, for every reproductive winged plant seedling I will counter with fifteen crumpled white tissues
evil evil pollen, the curse, the allergy, which trapped me in the castle in my youth, on many a lovely spring day
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
When I was younger, I thought my sign was a water sign; Aquarius - aqua - water. Water. Water which must be contained, restricted to the shape of its container. Cool and calm. But Aquarius is not a water sign; it is an air sign. I am not restricted like water. I am unable to be contained, as the wind. I can be a gentle breeze on a warm day, cooling your dampened cheeks. I can carry plant spores to grow new life in new lands. I can run through your hair, refreshing your soul and mind. I can power wind farms and provide electricity for mankind.
Or
I can whip the seas into fury. I can down the world's largest ships. I can uproot trees and destroy any home. I can blow down buildings, and turn sand into tiny, stinging bullets. I can force tears from your eyes. I can move earth. I can carry airplanes...or drop them. I can bring warmth or coolness.
I am ageless and forever. I have no end or beginning; I simply am.
The fate of nations is at my whim. I am not water. I am the wind. I am unstoppable.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen between the green-green of expected. My decisions grow, as moss grows. Quietly wild. Shallow threads clutched tight at the sheerness of possible- drinking light from the dark in order to thrive.
My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen. No branches, no forks, no watch-wait-and-see, just spores caught on a breeze when I need them.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
I'm a Pattern Breaker
Pass the soul shaker
Rather be a maker
Then meet the undertaker
Study if you want to
Patterns we all go through
Taught false is true
Truth is in what we do
We all have answers
Still we get cancers
Create ribbons and banners
Get upset lose our manners
Soldiers take tours die in religious wars
Truth main battle fought behind closed doors
Toxic hatred spreading mental spores
Pollution melting ice raising ocean shores
Continue the pattern to **** is to win
Method is this madness our greatest sin
Each loss there's a cost animosity begins
An explosion of souls losing their skin
Governments construction to help us function
Built in corruption seeds of self destruction
Laws punish choices creating junctions
Living Hells..Prison cells youth feel the suction
Hmm now what's a Pattern breaker?
Funky new thought creator
Already know the later
Break the pattern of the hater..♏
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC