Ladywind,

You remain precious to me.


Thank ye,

tommy boy / Ireland

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http://picosong.com/SFhy/

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Dread,


Well spoken. I enjoyed reading every point you've made here.

Thank ye my friend,

tommo / Ireland

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(I Am) But A Poet, A Man . . .

It��s true, I lack true eloquence and depth in my writings, daily. Eloquence and depth,
That which I've aspired to over these many years. To out-rightly own and thus, to fully embrace
The greater universe of this, my 'feather and parchment' world.

Alone in a shadow wealth of soft, emotional array, moments feed into hours - as I reflect.
Always the Poet. Always this reflection of time in memoriam. Always a bird in flight in my own skin.

Where are the Angels meant to comfort me in among this cold, abject space in time?
Where are the truer keepers of inner wealth and time?

Here, in this middle earth, I do conspire to affix softer pedals of gentleness to everything caught up in this,
My only real parade. This shelter place of my being.

Mother of The Earth, touch and bless me. Reach me here inside. Own my moments of old, leftover grace.
Refresh your Poet, your keep. Bring to me your wealth. Angels of Mercy, I am here.

Heal me. Speak to me.

Now, alone in this self made housed and real shelter depth, I cannot shape that which does not rightfully belong to me.
Free? O' Aye, I am that. Free to self absorb. Free to write. After-all, I Do shape words.

I am but a Poet, A Man.


Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland, ( During The Month of My Birth, on that day, Nov.30th, 2013. )




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" I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. "

Abraham Lincoln
Gardening, Best, Knew




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" Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you. "

Walt Whitman




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Tul,

Thank you so very much. I appreciate ye.

tommy boy moran / Ireland

Ladywind

Ladywind,

Ye have my vote, Ladywind.

Woz,

Thank ye kind Sir. Glad it reached ye.

Be well and again, thanks so much,

tommy boy moran / Ireland

Ladywind,

Yes, please do boot me accordingly. Boot me anytime. Just send one northbound from the tip of that shoe of yours. A no doubt deserving boot. Aye, give me your best shot. Always the reminder.

And as that shoe tip implants, finds home nearest, abupting me shivering keester, one can only imagine I shall be found as if leaning forward respectfully o'er a desk like some small frightened school-child in the Principal's office, afraid, awaiting his fate. His punishment for being caught and found too overly obnoxious in class. A deserving punishment no doubt.

Yes, and as for the here and now - these are just some of the fears of men. Men way back then, when we were as the child.

tommo / Ireland

Dread, my warm, kind friend,

Thank ye so much. You give me strength as much as anyone could in here. And coming from such an educated, well bred valedictorian. One whom we all admire to the fullest here in this slender graceland. You are kind.

My friend, thank you,

tommy boy moran / Ireland

" . . . The chosen valedictorian is usually the student with the highest ranking among his/her graduating class. "

I like this, Woz. Here, toss this around with me a bit. This suited me as I broke it down . . .

Let Fly

What i touch i feel, my fingers move, but my torso stays still - feet clamor,
As they hold me up,

Eyes move looking up, mouth shouts as you leave, hands clenched tight, palms wet,
As I start to believe - your back looking at me your hair blowing in the breeze,

As your feet move further away my tears run as my hand moves to stop this one,
I stand alone as you get further away - let the bird fly . . .

It may just return one day.

woznotwoz1

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https://picosong.com/JTdw

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Go here to listen to "Sailors - Ancient Wanderers" . . .

http://picosong.com/JTdw

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Sailors - Ancient Wanderers

Sailors, ancient wanderers - souls of the fair and gracious departed,
Clamber in gentle night in fields of spatial promise, they talk to us all -
Whispering. Whispering.

Sterile gentle creatures crawl beneath rainbows - in the wet kingdom of
Mountainous sprawl,

No scorning - just the wet promise of waterfall,

Pasture's promise in the morning conspire - lighting the holy fire,
With calming resilience and in the spatial realm of those of us found,
Deeply entranced. Higher,

Where kings are born and soldiers armoured speak in lament - greater
Days of vast glorious feasts are spent, by the villagers, the herders,
The farmers,

All seeking peace in the narrow confines of life's promise.

Thom Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland