Posts Tagged death

Mushroom meditations.

Some emergent mushrooms are pulled up by the moon.

Some by the sun.


Or Mars.

By Venus.


Or by an Angel.

Some tough and chewy, grapple on for the long run.


Some are social, aligned like the seats in the balcony.

Curtain rising, caught between my shadow and the sun.

Death comes, from Pluto, in the end.
But the flies and beetles and the microbes settled in for a week of feasting.

Up for a while, down for a while,
before long, up again.

Transformed, not ever ended.

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Around the house, while the query letters fly, out and away.

Pacing while the internets whirl.

It probably isn’t a good thing that the turkeys let me get this close.
They should flee what I might be.

Willed turkeys.

Two hens and a half-pint.

One hot bush, from the little chilies on the bottom to the thirty jalapenos above.
Wait, that’s two bushes in one cage.

Where it all begins.


Be happy that you’re happy.

Just doing what the bulb said.

Everybody must get glad.

A sucking bee
just like a spelling bee, except stickier.

Not a slut.

Just being available.

The dense wood in the middle was the base of a butterfly bush that stood eight feet tall.
Last year.
This year, the final frost killed it all, except two tiny sprigs.

Remember that last hard frost?

Just a flutter by bush, this year.

After awhile, you don’t see this,
because it would be too weird, if you had to explain.

Got to happen, right here.

It is something, really.

 We’ll die, we will, but it won’t be this pretty.

Looks so natural.

Death be proud.

They come, to astound, and then to die.

Iamb a moth.

Hear me roar.

 Yes, the super moon, two weeks ago.
The camera didn’t know how big it was.

Supposed to be.

Supper moon?

Any bigger and it would be falling,
a spiral exploding death by gravity.

148,000 words, no, you’ve got to be kidding?

Please, ma’am, Ghost Walk is a story that long,
really, it is.
I have already eschewed surplussage.

They all promise to reply,
unless they don’t.

That’s a “no.”

So say “no” to death,
to go back into the human mind again.

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Loitering with intent.

      Really? Just one day? Does it concentrate wonderfully the mind of the swallowtail? One day in the air, in the sun, then eggs under a leaf, your death, then a cocoon and a pupa and a larva, an interval of destructive dining. Eventually, there’s another day, but not yours. You gotta really be hoping it doesn’t rain. On your day.


Flower Power

 A day in the life. The life in a day.

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