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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
There was an old man of Three Bridges,
Whose mind was distracted by midges,
He saate on a wheel,
Eating underdone veal,
Which relieved that old man of Three Bridges.
Leira Oct 2013
The men and women in various colors had left the room
Something about coming back later
The crying woman left too, talking to the man in white
Leaving the girl alone with the man
Who could barely glance her way
Could-d I-I h-have a-a mirror?
Her words came out stammered
Voice rough, raspy, and cracked
Dried up from hardly any use
He looked at her shocked
Whether from the request
Or the fact that she spoke
Finally processing the question, he reached into the woman’s purse
Grabbed a mirror and brought it to her
Along with a cup of water
She smiled softly in reply, took a sip of the water
Then flipped the mirror over and took in the image
More scars
Bandages around her head
Cracked and dried lips
Bruises fading
No stitches, just tape and glue
But what caught the most attention was her brown eyes
They stared back at her
Empty
Blank
No reminiscence of who that was in the reflection
Just a broken girl with no recollection
She stared for several minutes
Trying to figure out the equation
The solution, the answers to all the questions
She needed to remember
Who it was in the mirror
The brown-eyed girl
Lost to this world
She felt a rising emotion swell within her
She saw glazed eyes beginning to shine
As tears spilled out of her eyes
The watery imprints left on her face
As disappointment rang
A stranger gazed back

She set the mirror down, clenched her eyes tight
Wanting to erase the image from her mind
Because it was now a memory
A full-fledged memory
Something to recall
Something to remember
And it was of a stranger
Who felt distant and intrusive
Because this girl had a life
And it wasn’t hers anymore
It was someone else’s
Someone who forgot all that made her—her
She had a face, arms, legs, a beating heart
A life that was taken and vanished from sight
In one instant in time
Gone in the blink of an eye
All the memories, the past
Something so vital that made this girl who she was
No longer belonged to her
But to a stranger
Who remembered nothing of the kind

Suddenly she felt someone wiping her face and eyes
Dabbing the tears away
She opened her eyes and looked to see the tall man
Standing very close with a tissue in hand
One look into the man eyes and she saw a rawness that tore her apart
Brokenness, so clear and underdone in dark orbs
Tears streamed down his long face
She felt an unfamiliar tug in her heart
On instinct, she gently grabbed his wrist
Took the tissue from his shaking hand
And began to wipe his tears away
He closed his eyes at the gesture
Beginning to sob
As she continued to dab his face
I know who you are
His eyes shot open at the admission
Shock and surprise filled those brown orbs
Followed by hope
You do?
He whispered
Still in shock
She nodded
As more tears sprang to her eyes
*I just don’t remember
Part II
this is how I imagined something like this, and I hope I have not offended anyone by touching on this, I know people go through this and my prayers go out to those families. It's just fiction, an idea.  I was listening to Coldplay's song "Fix You" and the one line that resonated the most was, "tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace." I would imagine how hard that would be, because I don't think you can ever replace memories only create new ones. So this is how I sort of dealt with the sudden inspiration to write this. Thanks for reading :)
Snoozing quietly on a sunny day,
with eyes half closed, breathing relaxed,
listening to the sounds the sun brings out.
Children screaming with play, lawn mowers cutting,
bees buzzing and singing birds.

Languidly lost in time bemused at the thoughts
running free in my mind. I start to muse on
ridiculous things:
Why liquid soap?
Why a date of birth but no date of death? (That would be helpful like a use by date on food, fit in that bucket list or miss your deadline)

Why do ice lollies only come in packs of three like condoms?
Why are children so ultimately free?
Why does the sun make us feel so safe?
Why does road rage come out in the sun?
Why do we insist on eating burnt carcasses and underdone chicken?
At barbecues that take forever to organise with people you'd rather flail alive?
© JLB
Deep in thought; contemplative.

Contemplation; meditation. A product of contemplation; a thought. "an elegant tapestry of quotations, musings, aphorisms, and autobiographical reflections" (James Atlas).
Claire Bircher Dec 2010
I’m summer.

I know this because my feet are heat swollen
and my wedding ring doesn’t fit. Pushing sausage
fingers through a listless fringe, careful to avoid streaking
the melting liner on lower lids. The magnified sun radiates
an inch from my elbow and though summer’s intensity
bullies my strength, I can’t fall asleep,
I'm too busy.

I want to be the Autumn Ladies
sat at the front, gradually turning a shade
of burnt orange, accustomed to long and fruitful
summers.  They giggle in linen as the driver takes
bumps at speed, shaking their hair and dishevelling
leaves.  They’ve nurtured their seeds and are watching them
fall, their branches are freeing from burdens.

Winter sits near the stairs, cool and serene,
******* on travel sweets secreted in tins.
They watch Autumns’ laughter and smile,
remembering the fun after studious graft;  their seeds
are now trees in a burgeoning forest. At ease with their
future and legacy’s passed, their season is long and
peaceful.

Spring lies at the back, the most to prove, planting
to do, troughs to plough.  She looks to thinning out,
the culling of friends; only the strong will
survive the gardener’s hand.  Much expectations
are placed on her future, her bark underdone,
colours unknown against seedling green.  She strives
for sun in the shadow of elders, wild growing
weeds threaten her path.

I’m glad I’m not Spring anymore.
Richard j Heby Sep 2015
Bluntly, you
are country-
bumpkin,
eat a pumpkin,

yams, and an
order of deli hams,
underdone just for fun.

Afterwards, give the
rats the words to
eat the leftovers.

Ask me about my

conch shell, go to hell,
unless of course that suits you well.
Never mind, now it's
time to quiet down.
Robyn Kekacs Apr 2013
Push back the gag reflex for this capsule
Blue as pooling engine coolant
Reached for some water, made it faster
Or it will be stuck in my chest all day

How not to let delusion
Elude your feeling for his grasp
Keep you unglued in solitude
To watch your own collapse

Bereft of arms that hold you still
When scrambled minds go underdone
Your their's to pick apart
And some
Your timeline half erased will mill

Perfect as you've made it, you're never far apart
From a brick wall crack
From another attack
In a circle, pass the start.
They built us towns,
a place for cannibals and clowns,
for chuggers,muggers and tree huggers,
junkies,flunkies and we became
performing monkeys.

Along the red brick,
between the Kellogs cornflakes,
on council house estates, where dreams are
killed at birth and the milk of humankind is soured and hard to find,
the thick end,dog end,dead end day begins,
spliff smoke curls into malevolence and grins,  the
sugar brown goes down a treat as bags are sought and
bought behind the houses on dirt street.

Wake each day to find another way to waste it all
the clock invents a time and we in time will fall,have fell,
have scrambled up and found it was much better down below and
so we go back down,spliffs and brown below the scratchings
of the town above.

What I love the most is when the Mayor of this shitville hosts a party for some fat slob,who comes from down along some south coast town,who hasn't got a clue as to who we are,
and he rattles on and on until I think someone should drop a bomb on him.
Chances here are very slim
the people thin
hope is thinner still.
I wonder if and when or will it change and could it be much worse,I wonder which witch placed a curse on us and why.

When we die from overdose, being underdone and done out of any hint of fun,the sun will still shine in the sky
the estate continuing to grate upon the nerves
the monkeys still performing getting ****** upon the morning,laughing 'til there is no more,
the empty box of Kellogs by
the open door.
Carmine J Scarpa Oct 2016
What Asian delicacies
have you set forth upon my table?
Free range birds; smooth yellow-brown skin;
perhaps slightly underdone.
Oh, the fragrance spewing!

Such an arresting presence;
surely good enough, if not too good, to eat;
tender curves and dainty features
quietly portraying a most honorable lineage;
lean legs supportive of finely trimmed thighs;
firm yet supple *******.

Shall I feel guilt or remorse
if these striking beauties were to succumb
to my gluttonous comportment? Undoubtedly.
Do I have the strength and resolve
to do what is right? Most certainly.
Chopsticks, please,
before they take flight.
Cibo Matto is an eclectic music group formed in 1994 by
two Japanese women. The band performs songs of food and love.
Cibo Matto means "food madness" in Italian. The poem, "Know
Your Chicken," is a reference to the song of that name found on
the group's "Viva! La Woman" CD.
Kelly Dickson Dec 2015
i am stability. i am happiness. even better i had only ever dreamed of contentedness. what is stability? without its counter? a rigid line. a frozen mind. stuck in its parameter. lungs that inflate. exhale too late. thumbs are good for things. like ******* on and pointing blame. i blame you. for all the things ill never do. my clothes were full of mud. fingernails and blood. i thought to take them off. throw them in the wash. soap would turn them clean. i lay down to dream. now that ive awaken seems that ive mistakenly forgot to hang them out. to dry. to whither and to crack apart. to decompose back to the start. plant toadstools on my grave. i am chaos. i am despair. restlessness was that which only ever brought me anywhere. what is chaos? with no weapon to wield? a seed tossed on wet winds may germinate. never to yield. the fruit i bear is underdone. worm hole ridden. weakly hung. ill go back to bleaching my bones.
lyrics from one of my banjo tunes.
Safana Jan 2
In the quiet dawn,
the earth does speak,
A whispering voice,
both wise and meek.
“Look to the skies,”
she gently pleads,
“See the signs, heed my needs.”

The glaciers weep,
their tears run free,
Rivers swell,
reaching the sea.
Forests whisper secrets old,
Of times when winters bit with cold.

The sun now blazes, fierce and bright,
Turning day into endless light.
Oceans rise with a mighty roar,
Encroaching ever on the shore.

Yet in the chaos, wisdom lies,
Nature’s intelligence, a vast surprise.
She adapts, evolves, finds a way,
To survive another day.

But heed her warnings, clear and true,
For she depends on me and you.
To mend the wounds, to heal the scars,
To cool the earth, to dim the stars.

Together we can turn the tide,
With nature’s wisdom as our guide.
For in her heart, she holds the key,
To a future where all can be free.


In the dance of seasons, life renews,
With every dawn, a chance to choose.
To cherish, protect, and understand,
The wisdom held in nature’s hand.

With gentle whispers, trees do sway,
Guiding us along the way.
Mountains stand, ancient and wise,
Guardians of the earth and skies.

The winds carry tales of old,
Of harmony, both brave and bold.
Creatures great and small unite,
In nature’s grand and wondrous light.

So let us heed her silent plea,
To live in balance, wild and free.
For in her heart, she holds the key,
To a future where all can be free.

This is a poem that intertwines the themes of global warming and "Nature Being Intelligence". Dr. Carol Natasha Diviney, a project designer, came up with t he idea.
Cyclone Dec 2019
I Outdone the underdone
then I redone the overdone,
underlying was an underdog,
underachieving after overpaid,
overloads I underestimate,
now understanding the overkill,
overall I uncover,
being underhanded had the upper hand.


That's the complex actualized. I watch my back 24/7. The biggest enemy was myself but I keep my enemies closer than my friends. Leave no one behind unless they don't want to be saved. I was searching for some closure. Once I made peace with myself past and present, I was closer to my future...
I got a chicken sandwich,
I was hungry as a witch,
But how I was disappointed,
It was so underdone I was plucking feathers out it!
Protein Protein Protein
Ami Mathur Jun 16
What is love?
It is not a mere word.
It is a mystery; not understood by any nerd.
Is it just a word, an emotion or just sensation?
I would say it is an impression of the world.
An irrelevant stance.
A silly dance on your chance.
It's like water — it flow, it stays.
It adapts to shapes, it shifts with phase.
Yet, stays the same.
Cool, calm and clear—
Like a thought of my poetic peer.
What is love?—
my long-standing fear.
Overdone is a sin;
Underdone is a grief.
Hanging in the middle of mischief.
I only know this much and that's all my brief.

— The End —