I've become a vegetable
not in the whoops that was an especially bad fall
down those apartment stairs
quasi paraplegic kind of sense--
I am spry and sprouting
blushing with energetic vibrance.

I am so fluorescent
that my own aptitude of radiation
could be consider toxic--
if you had to stand beside me
on an extended elevator ride
rising too high
above our natural destinations down low;
I'd be inclined to warn you
to lean a few more feet to the otherside.

It's that I am blessed with an enchanting
of endless blossoms of hopefulness
as the mills of life
work to grain down my wheatfulness.

Before my journey
I bloomed in the small countrysides of Central California
a place the Northern and Southern side don't even realize exist--
coming from simple towns with simple names
with a simple way of life.

How can a boy from Strawberry
step into the roots of a decaying tree of spruce
when the hearty oak woods of home
are calling his name.

Steinbeck wrote of a restlessness many feel.
The urge to run away and find adventure.
To travel, wander, discover, and be free.
Every person has this feeling inside of them, pushing them to escape the boredom of reality.
To roam the countryside.
Surviving with nothing but the clothes on your back and the cash in your pocket.
Is this not living?

A gardner altogether today
when inhibitions do vividly flower
any indecision of late.
Then the time only to browse let her see again
in her topiary again
she's mine forever as our love shall grow

if a candy onion too
with parsley on her new potato
has sprinkled together with her multitude
the logic in esprit today
and music that lingers on the terrace
will ensue any treasure in her soul
and though a flux of recent time.

Harsh wind screaming
moaning
with the crisp bite of Autumn night

Dark shadows dancing
tossing
with the branches of bare grey Elms

The lanes are winding
uncurling
in the pale orange glow of headlights

Sudden hedgerows
green
edging the limits of the night

Power-cut darkness all around
silhouettes
strange in the headlight beam

No farm lights distant on the Tor
guiding
beacons of open field and place

Cottages shuddering their thatching
thrilled
chimneys smoking message-morse

Pub signs banging wildly
flapping
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
distorted
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass

Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
catching
a ride on the wind to the copse

And still the lanes thread out
beam-born
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.

Back on the countryside,
Just for a day,
Seeing far,
Real darkness,
without street lights,
blurring the stars away.
Less people,
more animals,
feeling the wind,
grass underneath my shoes,
It feels more like home,
than the city,
I've been staying in,
for the last months.
The feeling of home,
I still can't distinguish,
What it is exactly,
But it makes me feel happy.
I would be even more happy,
If you, my love,
would be there,
Just your presence,
gives a warm golden edge,
To everything I do,
Everything I experience.
Being happy,
in a happy place,
with you.
That's what I want

it's better when the lights are off,
you shine brighter like the stars.
i feel you nearer, i see you clearer,
when we close our eyes in the dark.
to breathe in the scent of you and the countryside,
to leave our fears in the metropolis and city lights,
makes me love you and nature in its simplest form,
from it you came, that i could have sworn.