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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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Lovely my friend.
Do you haunt other poetry forums?
You really ought to bless them with your poetry.....

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