"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars." - Walt Whitman, Big ole flowery-faced ganger be he - latent mucky sun-worshipper be she, Bring me sunshine in your smile bring me laughter all the while, But every time it rains You're here in my head Like the sun coming out, I feel the earth move under my feet I feel the sky tumbling down, I talk to the trees that's why they put me away, I'm your Venus I'm your fire, If you can't move the earth for me - can you at least carry my shopping home from Aldi, Like Thunder and Lightening the way you weather me is frightening, Mr Blue Sky, Nature boy, she's like the wind - minus the smell
The Country of Your Kind.
I am the country of your kind,
Your kinder country.
I am your land,
Your granite, schist and sand.
Your bound territory,
Your fields of glory.
Your needful prediction,
Your bright-eyed addiction . . .
I was a vast, uncharted plain;
No breeze traced my resolute moraines;
An eternal desert, empiric and latent.
Then you cast your will across a landscape vacant,
Turned your heliotrope face to mine:
Irradiant, your ordo solaris did shine,
Surveying my contours, zaftig and fine . . .
The bows of my bailiwick.
One whose potent blaze,
Twixt those rapacious rays,
Set aflame the heart’s terrain,
Laid down a subliminal legerdemain.
Something nascent, earnest and free;
Something inspiring, a fundamental esprit;
Something impending, still yet to be . . .
For you are:
My elemental element,
My sustenance that’s heaven sent.
You make me lush, my pastures green
Together we eclipse each other, mavourneen,
We, the enablers of animated spirit; those unseen
Catalysts that can whole solar systems topple,
(The perfect gänger to my doppel) . . .
Should we so choose.
Resplendent and dazzling with desire,
Tenacious and scorching, you are my fire.
You lazily lambaste, tear fissures in my hide
Then hold me gently, with compassion and pride
In your savagely doting beam of arcana,
Pledging a cursed, exalted nirvana . . .
A deal-breaker on Cloud 9.
I am at your mercy, indebted to the stars,
Yet I owe you nothing in this chronicle of ours.
I cannot evolve without your grand slam;
Still I bide in repose, content as I am.
Bestow unto me, then . . .
Ambrosial forests, an emerald cavalcade,
Glades of frondescent, elegant shade,
Rivers of unrestrained riotous rapture.
Grant violent seas and my heart you will capture,
Pillars of towering perdurable ice,
Deranged blinding storms that batter my gneiss.
Whirlwind my dust bowls;
Burnish my sink holes;
Caress my curved crevasses;
Mould swift unclad landmasses.
Pocket my light
Like a meteorite.
In your open skies,
If I look into your eyes . . .
I am blinded.
So blind me.
Weather and corrode me.
Manipulate my soils;
Drill my verdant fields for oil;
Tickle my torso with the kiss
Of your drizzling tears of bliss.
Make us resplendent.
You love me
Because you have to.
For we are parcelled together with the glue,
Brown paper, string, and empyrean blue
Of the troposphere, are me and you.
One might say,
Could well foretell,
This curious lovers’ carousel,
Remains untamed, two worlds entwined;
Inspiring a renaissance in . . .
The Country of Your Kind.