Falling Apples |
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| Author:
| Mooney, Matt |
| ISBN: | 978-1-908024-89-3 |
| Publisher: | originalwriting
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| Book Format: | Ebook |
| List Price: | USD $8.40 |
Book Description:
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Poems I have penned from dreams I have dreamt And love that I meant, From faraway places away over the foam, Of some unforgettable people I have known. I have written of waltzing at Fleadhs and the dancing of sets, Of people and of places that I won't ever forget.There are poems about tunes and of being over the moon; Of the pain of your love for your own gone from home. Sometimes one comes close to wild life and its place in creation, It's witness for nature and its...
More DescriptionPoems I have penned from dreams I have dreamt And love that I meant, From faraway places away over the foam, Of some unforgettable people I have known. I have written of waltzing at Fleadhs and the dancing of sets, Of people and of places that I won't ever forget.There are poems about tunes and of being over the moon; Of the pain of your love for your own gone from home. Sometimes one comes close to wild life and its place in creation, It's witness for nature and its dislocation.Stargazing and glass blowing in France are featured in here And there is an experience in air with a hint of real fear. There are men in meadows making hay while it's fine And news of a bog slide that has hit Derrybrien.I'm a Galway man in Kerry and only the Banner divides us- If you travel by the ferry: From the maroon and white of Galway to the green and gold of Kerry.I travel on a silent new train and the Luas is its name; You'll hear of a boy on his bike who died tragically young And there are others as well whose praises are sung.You are taken from Eastern Europe to the Indian Ocean; From a Bosnian hill of Marian devotion To a blazing inferno by man's hand ignited; You are dropped off in a war zone and you are not going to like it.Some poems are in Irish and some are in French – Written like that to suit my mind's set; There are ones about hurlers I couldn't forget.In the garden of life when the apples fall down They are there on the ground for the king or the clown; These poems are all gathered and between you and me If they were all pictures it's a painter I'd be.