Do Not Trip Me Into That Ancient Well


Spurious, serpentine sentence, defined Self,
Shall I be like a long unread book upon your shelf?

( Ambassador, Ambassador, do not trip me into that Ancient Well. )��

Owner of my Soul, Love's cool grace, what higher order speaks to forgiveness
In the sacred shallows of this, my more personal embrace?

May I share with all now this body of my verse? This common issuance of
Momentous, meaningful, and otherwise golden, given worth?

A word play issued from back there, in The shallow pools of my birth?

And, what of Grace?

A rainbow cadence of all of this wealth, this tenderest of moments bred of self worth,
Nowhere to be found embracing darker night,

(�� No place but here - beyond the holy womb from which I now do fully recite. )��

I remain lost in a cold cave, help me to find myself in remnants of time, impassioned,
In among soft falling, gentle ribbons at rest in place, here upon my face.

Ambassador to my Soul, help me now to earn this, your warmth and grace.

Do not trip me into that ancient well.


Thom Douglas Carlisle ( Irish Tommy Moran ) - Ireland

Tommy, this really speaks volume. I find myself reading it over and over again. It reaches into a recessed darkness that I want to leave in my past.

mo, I get it. I understand what your alluding to, that of a dark place. It finds us one and all, doesn't it? Yes, I do feel seated there.

Thank you so much for your critique. I find it worthy and so very real. And I am encumbered as I dance these keys. You make sense of things and open a poor poet's mind - is what ye do alright.

Thanks, mo.

tomo " Ireland "

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