Raven King’s Mushrooms
Upon the bovines’ backs the birds do ride.
Most often color of their feathers: white.
Once, I did look to fields and saw him ride.
Black feathers, Raven King on Brahman’s back.
Wings folded and I knew him well enough.
Could see his smirk despite his rigid beak.
Born on a cow, I knew he carried news:
“Man, look to ground, from feces, dung, they grow.
I know revolting, dig in shit of cow.
With practice deft, from patty, you may pluck.
Small, brown, their caps do have distinctive shape.
Blue, white stems, color change when they are bruised.
Remember flower once carried in my beak?
Plants, sacred, healing, gifts of gods bestowed.
This mushroom on top shelf of pharmacy.”
Before I heard his words in croaking voice,
the fungus camouflaged from casual view.
Now that he noted, millions evident.
Picked bushels, would bear back to my abode.
When I ingest they disconnect that node
that frames my world, and helps me orient.
Some grooves in my brain worn by frequent use,
those paths would take me to a spiral down.
Re-frame perspective and would gain new view.
Let loose the story that you tell yourself.
You must release the narrative that binds.
For freedom, you re-frame with nature’s drug.
My friend, with feathers black, does minister.
Gods’ agent, to discharge his faithful call.
T.H. Chalm 