Day 24 — homage + origins

Yesterday I read the whacky American children’s poet, Shel Silverstein; today English playful prince poet [shouldbe] laureate, Brian Bilston. So I was tempted to try a silly poem that played with language the way both of those extraordinarily witty gentleman do. It’s not as good as either of theirs, but I had fun with it. And perhaps with tweaking & more time I could tighten it up a bit.

The Factoid is a simple one as I’m proper tired & it’s almost midnight.

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homage (to the room of mush)

grow in spaces where there’s no         mushrooms

burst out of the earth with lotsa          rushzooms
last night nothing suddenly the           brushbooms

whole forest floor covered in              plushplumes
a multitude of life bursts from            gushwombs

delicate apparatus make you            blushblooms
admiring the mad variety of            slushspumes

weaving life from decay on                lushlooms
recycling matter via their               flushfumes

then nothing almost as suddenly        crushdooms
seemingly returning to their              gloomtombs

truly wonderful things are these        mushrooms

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Day 24 Factoid — The Origin of the Word Mushroom is as Mysterious as they themselves are

Etymology

there is no clear consensus 
on what mushroom might mean
perhaps comes from the Old French
for moss but it hardly seems
definitive 
                  but feels appropriate
the origin of the word
is as mysterious
as they themselves

Day 4 – Cave at Sunset + baby porcupine poem

Day 4’s challenge was to write a Triolet: rhyme scheme ABaAabAB (where capital letters represent lines repeated verbatim). Such formal structure poetry is always a challenge until you find the right line to serve as the spine. I’m not sure I quite have yet, but it’s a darn sight better than the original version.

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Excerpt from Cave at Sunset

From dark within the cave breathes earth
And the wild fireflies all fail to shine
Leaving every heart bereft of mirth

Funfact Day 4 – a baby porcupine poem

baby porcupines are called 
quite rightly & quite cutely
porcupettes/

{& nothing more of this poem was written
as the poet spent the reminder of his time
absolutely & overwhelmingly smitten
watching videos & googling porcupics online}