#28 - The Devil's Fingers

 If it seems too good to be true…

After the Devil’s Fingers (Clathrus archeri)

The devil’s fingers play a cheerful tune;
salvation in a lively major key.
“You want to reach the stars, the sun, the moon?
“Then, move your feet and bind yourself to me!”

The devil’s fingers lightly graze your skin – 
he whispers promises, composed of dust.
There’s something shifty in his shiftless grin;
the genesis of arrogant disgust.

A shiver xylophones along your ribs
and plays an anxious rhythm on your spine.
Demonic in his scheming, he ad-libs
an anthem, so bewitching and malign.

The devil chooses victims carefully 
and lures them with deceitful melodies. 

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via wikipedia

#27 – Goblet Parachute

Fay Roberts takes a sip from Marasmiellus vaillantii

My family is huge, a sprawling tribe,
though few of us are colourful or quaint;
we’re mostly just defined by what we ain’t.
(In fact: you might say that’s how we survive…)
We’ve never been afraid of shift or jibe,
just here between the sinners and the saints;
how many of us truly free from taint?
(Mind: some of us are known to take a bribe…)

But every generation has its sport –
the one who stands out taller than the rest
(or sinks so they can creep beyond the pale).
Some branches turn out just as they were taught
(while others are a pestilential guest),
and some a selfless shelter from the gale.

– FR

Photo from this research paper. Description in alt-text.

Marasmiellus vaillantii was incredibly hard to track down (which tracks for such a small part of a massive and widespread genus), so this was pretty much inspired by the family more than the individual.

fayroberts · Goblet Parachute

#26 - Contorted Strangler

 (Elizabeth McGeown)

Squamanita contortipes

This one is not the sonnet I had planned.
It would have been a cautionary tale
of London-based Victoriana and
a gentleman who felt his life was stale.

He thought of it as 'roughing it' when he
performed his daily constitutional
along the alleys and the lanes and breathed
raw sewage mixed with perfume that was all

around. He watched the ladies peddle wares.
He helped one to her feet when drunk, she fell.
He walked her home—I want to shout beware!

But that's not what I'm here tonight to tell.

A man whose gross ambition makes him bold
wants Europe in his frenzied stranglehold.

EM

Image via thetravel.com

#25 - Dead Moll's Fingers

(Russell J Turner)

Xylaria longipes

‘...a 2008 study concluded that the species could improve wood for the purposes of making violins...’

Though none know when the music will begin

a quiet comes unbidden to the crowd,

the lighting fades beneath a breathless shroud

enveloping the hard white ghosts within.

She slides under that scarred and tattooed skin

which speaks of crimes we dare not name aloud,

she rises up in smoke ‒ reborn, unbowed ‒

as dead moll’s fingers pluck the violin.

Her pizzicato stories tell of thieves

who exercise control through misery,

a melody that separates then weaves

those tapestries of dumb complicity ‒

for we must all bear witness to our sin

when dead moll’s fingers pluck the violin.

RJT

#24 - Chicken of the Woods

When I said I wanted to get out of this town, I didn’t mean it like this 

After Chicken of the Woods (Laetiporus sulphureus)

A forest, ominous, beyond the town – 

you can’t recall it being there before.

Its churning gravity, its up and down,

all undulating with forbidden lore.

Of course, you wander forward, through the trees 

half apprehensive, half compelled to try.

The ancient ivy curls in filigrees. 

The undergrowth is filled with glowing eyes. 

A cabin comes towards you, lumbers down;

dodecahedron-shaped, on chicken legs.

You wonder why you ever left the town,

You’ll never eat another sodding egg. 

The hut gives chase – you don’t know what you’ve done. 

No time to ruminate – you have to run! 

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via wikipedia

#23 – Bald Knight

Fay Roberts tells the true Templar tale of a species of Melanoleuca melaleuca

The herald asks for all the kingdom’s news,
and Nigel knows it’s time for him to speak.
No – not for him the silence of the queues;
Sir Nige has never hidden or been meek.

He thus abandons bar and new-found friends,
and barrels to the front to take the mic.
The herald looks bemused! His words will mend
her of her worries, banish fears alike.

He reads compassion in her eyes as she
bears witness to his truth then tells him, soft,
that further down he will more easeful be
than prisoned thus (again) in bardic loft.

No armour, lance, or steed of any kind;
true knightliness is just a state of mind.

– FR

A little paler, and this image from The Ultimate Mushroom Guide would truly resemble the top of Sir Nigel’s shiny dome. As it is, it’s a near-perfect match for his cricket kit bag, bulging with letters from the Queen from his time inside. Trust me: that wasn’t even the weirdest thing that happened that night.
Description in alt-text.

fayroberts · Bald Knight (A true story)

#22 - Purple Jellydisc

 (Elizabeth McGeown)

Ascocoryne sarcoides

The film where Yul Brynner plays the King,
has at its start a woman and her son
who, moving to a strange place start to sing
about the power whistling gives to one.

When Jessie saw this film she'd found the key.
She'd whistle! Purse her lips together, blow
and make a noise so shrill that she'd be free

from all that made her scared. But lips said no.

No sound came out however hard she blew.
She reasoned that a mantra was as good.
A nonsense string of words—and it was true!
It gave her strength when she began to brood.

She whispered these words when she felt at risk;
made braver by the 'purple jellydisc'.

EM

Image via The Movie Database

#21 - Drab Tooth

 (Russell J Turner)

Bankera fuligineoalba

...based on the legend of Mael Brigte and Sigurd Eysteinsson, as retold in ‘Storyland’ by Amy Jeffs...

A field is chosen, forty men are set

on each side to conclude a murderous moot ‒

the Bucktoothed and the Mighty will be met

to settle some obscure and dark dispute.

Yet Sigurd, sly, brings eighty to the fray ‒

all Pictish heads soon severed by the Norse ‒

as Eysteinsson, triumphant, claims the day,

he ties Mael Brigte’s skull upon his horse.

But galloping, victorious, with his kin,

his victim draws a last ironic breath

and teeth dig deep into deceitful skin ‒

infection follows, fever, pain and death.

The moral, for a cheat who claims the prize ‒

don’t let your foe’s incisors near your thighs.

RJT

#20 - Barometer Earthstar

Storm Glass

After Barometer Earthstar (Astraeus hygrometricus)

prognostication is a fickle art

conjecture testing truth when runes are cast

the future lurks alive in mortal hearts

mercurial predictions cloud the glass

but there are those who think they know the lore

the sacred rites to quell the brewing storm

and they absorb the lightning and so cause 

a rift that alters tempo, tide and form 

it manifests as aching in the bones

nostalgia for an unknown time or place

a low-grade tinnitus, a rising tone

a yearning sharp as knives or fine as lace

prognostication is a fickle art

the future lurks alive in mortal hearts

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via unsplash.com 

#19 – Vampires Bane

Fay Roberts stakes out mycetinis scorodonius

Now, there’s a sight these old eyes long to see:
a tiny thing, yet mighty, so they say,
the woods support its frailty with ease.
(So small and pale, yet it belongs to Day.)

Do you catch its scent? It can’t be far.
You’ll have to help me, though the incline’s slight.
Yes, through the trees I’ve seen the twilight star.
(If we hurry, we’ll be home at night)

My cousins used to use it for a dare;
see who could taste the most and not be sick.
We could try it, if you’d like to share…
(Yes, you go first, while I hold this old stick.)

It’s as I thought: the curse has caught you too.
(Well, fear not, child, I know just what to do.)

– FR

Picture from The Ultimate Mushroom Guide. Description in alt-text.

fayroberts · Vampires Bane

#18 - Destroying Angel

 (Elizabeth McGeown)

Amanita virosa

They say that living well’s considered best. A dish tastiest cold, and all that jazz. There’s idioms and proverbs and the rest,  but that’s not how she operates. She has

a body that's a circle blazing fire, embedded with a thousand eyes that stare and never blink, that never sleep, or tire, remaining open even when in prayer.

It's little things at first: his job, his car. A trickle of bad luck becomes a wave. His card declined when shopping at the Spar, his laptop dies before he presses save.

She starts off small. He wakes at the sunrise. Below his feet a piece of Lego lies.

EM

Image via Wikipedia

#17 - Hotlips

(Russell J Turner)

Octospora humosa

...the subject of a naming competition in The Guardian in 2011 ‒ I may have read the comments section...

The Merry Archer grins and draws his bow

as Jagger’s Choir sings devil songs for fun,

a Shooting Star lights up the sky to show

the Rusty Sniper where to aim his gun.

There’s Carrot Blast and Orange Bombadier,

and plenty more with colours in their name ‒

Exploding Red Ears is just shit-hot gear,

Vermilion Pucker sounds like quite the game.

The winning epithet evokes for me

a fixture of the weekly viewing guide,

a half-forgotten childhood memory,

a painless televisual suicide.

So ‘Hot Lips’ Houlihan, please take the stage ‒

your humble sonneteer has shown his age.

RJT

#16 - Bitter Poisonpie

Warning 

After Bitter Poisonpie (Hebeloma sinapizans)

 

All parts are poisonous. The stem and root,

the toxic leaves and flowers, blushing red.

The faint outline of skulls on every fruit;

inviting you to taste and be misled. 

These fatal blossoms, gathered from the verge

are willing you to eat and meet your end.

Your heart will quicken and your blood will surge;

you might not even last till next weekend.

What hurt could come from eating foraged food?

How can the woodland seek to cause us harm? 

Yes, nature can be fierce and cruel and shrewd –

this greenery is dangerously armed.

Don’t mess with toxic flowers, blushing red;

just spring for fish and chips for tea instead. 

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via unsplash.com 

#15 – The Flirt

 Fay Roberts dallies diligently (if belatedly) with Russula vesca

You walk downstairs then pause, and all talk stops;
it’s clear to see who’s in command round here.
The chatter rises, hotter than before –
in its own way, it’s almost like a cheer.

No music moves your hips from left to right,
but somehow all our chests reflect the beat,
and though no word is said, we know whose night
this is, and whose command instructs our heat.

“So, Happy Birthday, Chris,” you purr at last;
the lucky target swallows, breathes your scent,
and no-one thinks to wonder how you’re cast
as benefactor, or from where you’re sent.

Though edible, there’s no-one dares to touch,
in case one taste of you is one too much.

– FR

Close-up of Russula vesca from The Ultimate Mushroom Guide

fayroberts · The Flirt

#14 - The Pretender

 (Elizabeth McGeown)

Boletus pseudoregius

Oh yes! We are the great pretenders. We
pretend from dawn of day to setting sun.
We wake, we fake, we make our way, slowly
to our workplaces 'til our work is done.

And only then can we begin to thaw.
A strange word, you may think, what does a melt
mean to a human? There's no frozen, raw,
frostbitten digits here. There are no welts

caused by some burning coals. But burning words
can feel as blistering, can scar, can leave
a mark to most unseen. Give us the birds.
Give us the forests. We have ceased to grieve

and made our peace with those who find us strange.
Appreciate us for our acting range!

EM

Image via Discogs.com

#13 - Tiger's Eye

(Russell J Turner)

Coltricia perennis

...with apologies to William Blake...

Hey Tiger! Will you burn on through the trees,

igniting brush and coppice with your roar,

to drive the timid to some stony shore,

destroying meek creation by degrees?

Hey Tiger! Will you bring us to our knees,

refashion us in red with tooth and claw?

Or are you framed within a metaphor

that whispers down the centuries on the breeze?

For as above, and so below, the songs

of innocence, experience and death

all talk of ways to liberate or damn.

And what is weak may overcome the strong,

deciding with eternal final breath

to lie down like the lion with the lamb.

RJT

#12 - Golden Navel

 Pygmalion  

After Golden Navel (Chrysomphalina chrysophylla)

Resenting that which once seemed beautiful,

I split the band inscribed with both our names.

A broken ring committed to the flames;

mistakes, made molten, in the crucible. 

While mortal creatures have their mortal needs

this new wife – cast from gold – won’t nag or rage.

She’ll never falter, or grow worn from age.

This gilded Venus loves me: guaranteed. 

But, what’s that look that plays around her eyes?

A golden smirk, her silence, an attack?

To forge a lover is a heinous act; 

our partner’s traits cannot be customised.

Relationships are built on mutual trust.

Inanimate, the statue gathers dust.

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via unsplash.com 

#11 – Dark Crazed Cap (or: A Gill of Brittle Courage)

Fay Roberts dashing in late with coffee and Dermoloma cuneifolium

For all his efforts, still he turns up late.
He cringes, helpless, fears his chance has passed.
She lifts her cup, observes his crumpled state.
“This just won’t do at all,” she sighs at last.

“If you mean to impress, then think again:
“The image you project is far from chic.
“Less sweaty hands must capture that sweet wren…
“And don’t forget: we only have a week.”

But she’s done more with less she tells him, calm
And walks him through the steps to win the race.
So by week’s end he’s radiating charm –
enough to cover up his lack of grace.

When entering this kind of toxic pact,
you’d best go armed with all the salient facts.

– FR

The "brittle gills" of this poisonous organism that inspired the piece. Image from First Nature.

(A gill is an old-fashioned measurement of volume, generally of liquid, and nowadays only used for spirits.)

fayroberts · Dark Crazed Cap or: A Brittle Gill of Courage

#10 - Bonfire Cauliflower

 (Elizabeth McGeown)

Peziza proteana f. sparassoides

It always happens in the dead of night.
The designated time is 3:01.
A crackle, then the branches catch alight.
The mummers dance in circles. Is this fun?

Or is this something else? A desperate plea
to ancients who have something in their grasp:
A spark of something that resembles She
who gave the Earth its bounty, aeons past.

The sweat pours down the faces of the men
who cry impossible dreams to the sky.
When they catch sight of it they shout Amen!
The cauliflower, launched, begins to fly

towards the bonfire, thrown by hope and hands.
Their last meal burns, around them famine stands.

EM

Image via Flickr

#9 - Powdery Piggyback

(Russell J Turner)

Asterophora lycoperdoides

...in memoriam AM...

A credit card, a razorblade, a spoon,

a crowed toilet cutting out the white.

A flame, a mirror holding back the night,

a crumpled square, a final afternoon.

As late spring sunlight faded through the room

we laughed at memories of fields and fights ‒

then wept for fate, still making plans despite

the certainty that you would leave us soon.

But once we prowled like wolves and shone like stars

and marvelled at the ways the world could teach.

Beyond the bright cacophony of bars

we went our ways ‒ yet still not out of reach.

Another final moment is all ours

with ashes blown across a Norfolk beach.

RJT

#8 - Snakeskin Grisette

Ecdysis

After Snakeskin Grisette (Amanita ceciliae) 

Tonight, I feel compelled to shed my skin

and hurl this tarnished outer self aside.

I ask you for relief and you provide.

You tranquillise me with your liar’s grin.

A schism of the body and the mind – 

like exorcising every anxious thought.

We can’t always unlearn the things we’re taught.

Tonight, I want to leave myself behind.

Another drink, and all the layers shift – 

my outline fractures, leaves a perfect shell.

She looks just like me, eyes as dark as hell.

This hollow shadow woman is a gift. 

Irresolute, her name dies in my throat; 

the empty bottle makes the lowest note.

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via Unsplash