Sonnet Sunday: Psilocybin

My depression continus to improve as my weight continues to increase.

I didn't mean to skewer poor 67-yr.-old Roger Dier out of SchadenFreude, I just thought the whole thing worth a dark laugh, although some of you may want to see LKD's comment on that column.

Having only recently learned of "Poetry Thursday" as a blog tradition, I want to challenge other bloggers to join me in "Sonnet Sunday." The sonnets don't have to be that good as long as they fulfill the form. I have noticed, however, among my poetry students, that many have difficulty with traditional form. It is still my antedeluvian contention that no poet should write "free verse" until he has mastered form to some degree. The course I teach (see link left margin below) first forces form upon my students before letting them become "free-range" poets.

Below, one I just wrote, of no particular merit, I suppose, though based on real experiences in Mexico.



Not My Drug of Choice

We walked on Mushroom Mountain and found
Two varieties of psilocybin-
Laced fungi; one was orange and one
Was white, small and bland for toadstools’ kin.
We found the most in cow pies near the shade,
Their pale stalks rising from manure green.
The cows that milled around were unafraid,
Small-brained herbivores, mainly Holstein.
My son collected more and ate a bunch
Without washing; I declined for hygiene’s
Sake (and in order to keep my lunch),
Also because I hate the rainbow sheen
That coats everything when I’m tripping
In an oily film, light prismed and dripping.


--CE