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Notes In Light of My Grandmother ( A Visitation While At The Foot of Her Grave, )

Cemeteries: I think most people worldwide fail to realize that when we in freedom and real visit a cemetery,
when we take our first actual steps onto that hallowed ground - something happens. We're taken over by active
spirits there. We succumb. I've experienced this when visiting my beloved Bridget.

I Step Beyond The Old Wrought Iron Gates: I suppose the grander experience remains - once inside the old wrought iron
gates, upon our first steps, A warm feeling of calm, of relaxation overcomes us. And I suppose one would articulate that we're
actually letting down our spiritual shields and armour. That which protects us from the deeper spiritual misgivings, the ills
of others while out and about - across our everyday lives. And we relax then and open up like some newborn seal-pup
wallowing in the pure, virginal innocence of infancy. That pure essence. The ocean.

Now Open in Our Hollow Shells: Now, we're open in our hollow shells and not only the spirits of our ancestors, but
those other active spirits there as well, just seem to enter us. They take over. They guide us. You see, they've been waiting
to enter us through - into the gentle garden.

This is My Recollection: I recall now the many visits with my grandmother, Bridget Duignan Moran, there in
the catholic cemetery nearest the townland of Drumgowla, up in the border counties of Ireland. Bridget always greets
me with her deep, quiet glow, and warmth. As I pull up to the old wrought iron gates she welcomes me inside. I enter -
go with her. I can feel her sweet faintness all about me as I walk with her to her resting-side. And once there and stopped,
I always say a quiet prayer. I sometimes put my arms around her gravestone and we communicate. Hushed, we speak in
quiet tones. And I find that as I release my feelings of sadness, and of gladness to her, the winds always seems to kick up
suddenly and blow across my face and body. It’s Bridget and the others hailing, letting me know they’re there with me.
And Bridget? She speaks from inside the body of the cool Irish winds that blow.

In Conclusion: Upon moving here from America back in 2007, I realize that this is what I'm here for. I'm here to share
my heart with her. This is the great ancient calling we, the Irish, seem to know best. And so, I say to you, Bridget
Duignan Moran, " God Bless and be with ye, always. "

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Ladywind7,

No ma'am, no other haunts. Just me here whiling away the hours with loose pen in hand.

Be well, Darlin', and thank ye,

tommo

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The Derelict Poet

Ever the derelict poet, struggling writer in poem-dome,
Limited progressions spoken, made to dance in
Exclusive, unyielding night,

We, made to sing our songs in soft tones,
Beyond the many gifts we've given,
Together and alone,

We of the alligator, we of the gentle butterfly,
We of poem-dome,

There's something lost in this graceful paradise, this dance,
This soft garden where in the gentle moments of our poems,
We stop to glance,

And by chance, oh, I love this poet thing as one loves
The first new fresh breath of Spring,

I am the derelict poet, I own the meaningful depth -
In everything.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Selections in Brief . . .

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The Cat and The Crow ( In Brief, )

The cat ate the lingering black crow on a lonely road, so says the distinguished toad,
Gas expressed, finished, the cat strolled onward toward the cool, long end of morning.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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How Far? ( In Brief, )

How far? Are you housed in a jar? Like a ladybug, or firefly, forced from the sky,
Why? I can see you through the glass moving about on leaves and branches,
What is this, this crazy, crazy malaise?

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Sea Safe ( In Brief, )

Sea safe in the garden of his remembrances, the sailor made his way across wet decks of freedom,
And he sat at the edge of his sadness, vast wealth of sorrow, heavy with his love's last farewell,
Resolute mockery, drip your dark liqueur over the many sailors of wars at sea - and he, of sea-dome,
For when his ship reaches port breaths of his fears and his sorrows will once again cast their sad spell.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Ladywind7,

This brief piece is nothing short of exceptional. Aye, you've done very well. This, among the many others from the many other writers here, was a joy to read.

Thank ye for sharing,Ladywind7,

tommo / Ireland

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Gathered On The Decks of Our Longships

In the broadest of circumstance we all fall limp in the waves of life's inevitable tide,
Sheltered below the mainsails, we crouch hidden and faint against pools and night winds,
And the wet salt ladened deck and a blue hued night, as we fight, whip we mariners on our ride,
" Give us the freedom of the sails! " we lament, " Break us free from where dark night begins! "

There inside the waves and the foam lay our home, broadly outlined in our cool visual perspective,
We're all sailors you see, drunk on freedoms, dancing across this night of a more golden, wicked moon,
Voluminous, elicit derision. After all who can fool anyone while crawling toward a marked tomorrow's objective?
Punished sailors all, we're fighting roaring winds on salt ladened ships, trading rancors for a cool golden doubloon.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Kaustuv1,

Thank ye so much for viewing this piece.

tommo / Ireland

simpltim,

I agree wholly. Thanks Tim.

tommy boy moran / Ireland

2KidsMom,


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Ladywind7,

This was simply, in my mind, a deeper sense of self. It was in fact meant to bring forth the ghostly intent. And so, I believe ye got that one.

Be well, and, thanks for that kick in the keester, Ladywind7. I needed that. I 'winked' back. Glad we're Mingle2 friends. Thanks for your request toward that end.

tommo / Ireland

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All My Friends ( Who've Come To Visit Me This Year )


All the many friends who've come to visit with me this year,
Who've shared their warmth, have touched the sun, they and I,
And we've recalled our slower summer Sundays - and a year,
Those many closer, dearer moments in memories fleeting by,

I Am the closer friend to the fallen Saints and the Angels they say,
Those aglow who've cast their spells to shadow crawlers in their wells,
Those who've enslaved whole civilizations in a day - where they pray,
Those gasping, living wasps in fearful flight where the darker wolf dwells,

All the many friends who've come to visit me this year -
Own my undying honor and my deepest respect,
Set against the warmth of the sun, without provision to endear,
without the need for sadness nor fear, that untimely, hurtful neglect.


Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Big Joe, ( thebricky, )

Sounds as though you're travels as a wee young seal-pup found ye with a cool semblance of grace. And your very vividness has not gone unnoticed, my good friend. Thank ye for your kindness in sharing your views - and remembrances. I enjoyed the reading. Nice comment, Big Joe!

tommy boy moran / Ireland

Ladywind7,

You are precious!

tommy boy moran / Ireland

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All Ye Pagan Clans Make Prayers for Me

Spiritual whispers of solitude sound, sufficiently formed,
Born out of the mists and the grace of this my forest place,
Where I have come to be with ye now, in the faint of your storms,
And your dreams and mine as well, will be those that we chase,

Lo, I cannot see there in the far forest that which shackles me endlessly,
Tho I love the smell of rotting brush below my feet as I walk, it arouses me,
Tainted rotting leaves and twigs, tree branches emanating nearest the sea,

All ye pagan clans come forth and sit at my side and make prayers for me.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland


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The Young Seal Pup

A seal pup washes up on the jagged rocks wet with salt and foam, and it hobbles ashore in time for feeding,
Crying out in a bastard clutch of adults all mingling, fighting and breeding, it makes it's way through the sand,
Soon through the yelping a large cumbersome shadow arrives, hovering over the young one, throated, pleading,
It's the mother who nudges the young one away from the herd - off to another hot patch of white, soiled land,

Meanwhile, a rather snouty male, large, fat, tough skinned and scarred, chasing the herd to own and overcome,
Stops occasionally to roll back and forth, smelling of raunch and sea sweat smeared with foul mammal stool,
Rocks back and forth, snorting, slobbering, exercising his manhood - as he lay wallowing under the hot sun,
Making his way near toward the young 'sealer', now at the side of it's mother, frightened in a landscape so cruel,

Sensing immediate danger the mother waddles around in front of the pup, and raises up her large body defiantly,
As the male stops - looking sideways at her, shouting an angry growl, she thrusts at him with her barrelous chest,
A violent warning to the big bull to fight or relent, a message meant to single him out from their ocean going society,
And all the while this precious young seal pup just sits nearby against a large rock watching, praying for the best.

Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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IamwhoIam1,

Your so very welcome. I hope your birthday went exactly as planned and ye had a wonderful, very special day. You deserve it.

I'm here, Princess,

tommy boy / Ireland

mig25,

Thank ye, kind Sir. Glad ye tapped into this piece.

Be well,

tommy boy moran / Ireland