Crazy Ass Planet

I found this on my computer - written a very long time ago. But for some reason, I always liked it.

The Flying Tree

If you and me could only be
alone one day in the flying tree,
we’d whisk our branches through the air
and whisking sweep away somewhere.
We’d fly above the land and sea
and over Dale and Hillary,
over farms and the city
to places that are really pretty.
Oh ! If only you and me
could just hold hands in the flying tree!

Together, I think you and me
could get cosy in the tree
that would fly us anywhere -
and every friend we have would stare!
They’d see us sitting on a branch
flying, and they all would blanch
crying, “Trees don’t fly, you know,”
and we’d reply, “Is that so?
Someone ought to tell this tree
because it’s flying easily.”

Then we’d be gone, you and me,
in our leafy flying tree.
We’d go to Africa and then
for directions trade a hen
that would lay them eggs always -
scrambled, poached - and all on trays
with juices, toast and tasty jelly.
Then we’d fly to old New Delhi
where there’s always quite a crowd
of people smiling very loud.

From India we would make haste
to the icy, wintry waste
of Russia’s north, where we’d get cold
and say to them, “May we be bold,
and perhaps a wee bit rude?
You see, like us, our tree has blued,
and so we must leave very fast.
Besides, our flying day flies past
and we’ve still a lot to see
hand in hand in the flying tree.”

And we’d be off, you and me,
flying next to hot Hawaii
and the lulu honey girls
with grassy skirts and lays and curls
of hair that tumble down their backs.
They might give us kissing smacks
on our cheeks, and we would blush,
then fly embarrassed in a rush.
We’d wave goodbye from our tree
and fly once more, you and me.

Our whisking, leafy, flying tree,
with you and me, would fly madly
to a dozen different places:
Athens, Paris, an oasis
somewhere in the Gobi’s sands;
we’d fly to all the many lands
that lay below us from the sky,
though we’d not see them, you and I;
because my eyes would be on you
and you would gaze back at me, too.
The purpose of the tree, you see,
is simply to be you and me,
together, in the flying tree.

Note:

I’m informed trees cannot fly. ‘The Flying Tree‘ is therefore improbable. Readers are consequently advised not to base travel plans around forestry.

Tag: Poems, Flying Tree, How to become an idiot

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