Tul,


Thanks Tul, honey.

tulip,

Thanks for listening. I appreciate it.

tommy boy moran / Ireland

Evie,

Thanks so much.

tommy boy moran / Ireland

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The Recorded Version at . . .

http://picosong.com/JTdw/

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In Indian Summer ( I Am Blessed )



Born in Indian Summer, amid the gales and the storms, and the consequent thunder,
From October into November, these blowing winds, their cold harshness as I remember,

I have no answer for this pale night I find myself enmeshed in, that which I now give to thee,
For words that are elected, erected, were meant to be - by us all, in order that we be free . . .

Here where words, pearls, drops of gold, all that pour from the breathing of this beast I am told,
Were formed in the very least, found haunting, left wandering, wondering, hidden in days of old,

No answer, No! Nothing left here but to alight in night upon the thin branches of freedom's song,
For freedom is the mainsail to all that is given us, all we delve into, whether we be right or wrong,

And as we perch here we find our freedom is but a song sung long into darkness and the night,
As we chirp like crickets, rubbing our legs t'gether, fondly seeking life's truer moments in flight,

But here in Indian Summer I write best, the deepest, knowing and finding my freedom wings,
Will one day be blessed.



Thom Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

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Ladywind,


Unique.

Pansytilly,

I agree with your comments here. thank ye for sharing.


tommy boy / Ireland

Thanks, I rather promote poetics here and wasn't sure if I'd read right, but in review I found this piece a bit lacking. In need of work.

Thanks for your level comments. They are appreciated.

tommo / Ireland

Everybody has their own opinions and I have mine. I've read this piece and pardon me but I find it lacking. I'm so very sorry to advance this rhetoric, but 'tis true. I read into this and looked for flow, but found very little. Aside from the rhyming on the end of each line, when I looked - and read further, little was gained here. Whomever the writer was - I think he/she should go back to the drawing board. Reconstruct and edit. Lend us flavor and the necessary happenstance so that we may accrue depth. I seek this.

Forgive my appearing harshness here, my good people.

tommy boy moran / Ireland

Tul,


Yes, always be with me here nearest the fire. And mayhaps I'll record this piece one day.

Either way, I'm so very glad ye liked it, Tul. Thank you,

tommo / Ireland

Tul,

I always appreciate your words. They lift me up. Thank ye, Tul.

tommo / Ireland

tul,

You're very welcome. Thanks for reading.

tommo / Ireland

tul,

You're so very welcome and thank you.

tommo / Ireland

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Ships That Sail ( The Great Storm )

No! There is no one there on the other side of the seventh door. No one!
Nothing exists palpable, no drifting wisdom found out and about o’er,
And through the mists, the rich fields which lay softly blanketing there,
In the maw and in the holy grace of my celestial morning garden - unfolding,

No, there are no welcoming Angels this day here in my green, rich meadow,
Across the many vistas where I have summoned all faithful departed to my lair,
Gathered where In the calculus and presence of my mystical whimsy I repair,
. . . But there is nothing left there! Nothing that I may've in heaven declared,


On this day the rain fell hard o'er my head and in that very grip,
In its semblance, piercing cold gales blew fiercely through the darkening,
Angered skies above,

And upon the old etched gravestones there scattered across the damply gray,
Marked landscape, earthen, murmuring,
Words with their soft impressions, bent and leaning, across the faces - wept,

For this is the ground where many alive o'er the centuries have lain and slept,

And as the moon shone bold yellow inside it’s globe, there wet in shadowy squalls,
The great storm came.

Thom Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland


===

Ships That Sail ( The Great Storm )

No! There is no one there on the other side of the seventh door. No one!
Nothing exists palpable, no drifting wisdom found out and about o-��er,
And through the mists, the rich fields which lay softly blanketing there,
In the maw and in the holy grace of my celestial morning garden - unfolding,

No, there are no welcoming Angels this day here in my green, rich meadow,
Across the many vistas where I have summoned all faithful departed to my lair,
Gathered where In the calculus and presence of my mystical whimsy I repair,
. . . But there is nothing left there! Nothing that I may've in heaven declared,


On this day the rain fell hard o'er my head and in that very grip,
In its semblance, piercing cold gales blew fiercely through the darkening,
Angered skies above,

And upon the old etched gravestones there scattered across the damply gray,
Marked landscape, earthen, murmuring,
Words with their soft impressions, bent and leaning, across the faces - wept,

For this is the ground where many alive o'er the centuries have lain and slept,

And as the moon shone bold yellow inside it��s globe, there wet in shadowy squalls,
The great storm came.

Thom Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

Ladywind,

Wow, that i spectacularly beautiful my friend. Nice stuff pal. Deep and meaningful.

Nice, Ladywind.

tommo / Ireland

SitkaRains,

I am so very thankful for your visits. Thank ye for sharing your views. These mean alot to me. They, as with you, are very valuable to your poet.

Thank ye, SitkaRains,

tommy boy moran / Ireland