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Thom Moore: Blog

TOM-FOOL
Here's what to do: if you
think you're a fool—keep rolling;
God loves the fool, they say,
so keep on rolling…
Roll till the break of dawn;
roll till you can't roll on.
Winning is what you want, so roll on.
The Fool's going to roll away,
he thinks it's his lucky day;
his mind was never strong, anyway.
Mind was never strong, anyway.
 
Bring on the night,
throw down the fool his lifeline.
It's the full of the moon, and the
mountain is there for climbing.
At the top of the hill she waits,
the queen of love and fate; he's
bound to find out in spades
where he's wrong.
Yes: the Fool's going to climb that hill,
do what a tom-fool will,
maybe he won't be long on the hill.
Maybe he won't be long,
maybe he won't be long on the hill.
 
Fool with a tune: he's
caught by the moon and crying.
Fool with a sigh: he
probably thinks he's dying.
But that plaint will turn around:
funny old thing, that sound:
blues bring love to town, after all.
Yes, the Fool's going to sing along:
he [...]
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BIG LOVE
 
What every mummy knows
is where the big love goes:
and when the cold winds blow,
that's time to let it show.
 
'Cause when the north wind blows
it's when the birds fly home, you know:
and any freeze or snow
is when the north wind blows.
 
Even when it's hard to sleep,
and storms outside will make you weep:
you're where the big love goes,
and that's what every mummy knows.
 
And when the south wind blows,
they say it comes from France, although
what every mummy knows is
that's the time to dance.
 
When winds come from the west
and time has come to rest a bit,
our mummy always knows
what time for that is best.
 
Even when it's hard to sleep,
and storms outside can make you weep:
you're where the big love goes,
and that's what every mummy knows.
 
When winds come from the east,
and smell like stormy seas,
we're tucked in tight, at least,
and mummy stays to read.
 
Even when it's hard to sleep,
and storms outside can make you weep:
you're where [...]
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No Arrow
 
1.
No arrow, but some kind of dove
is targeting hearts just for love.
 
O people, shout for the prize
that comes when this dove takes the sky.
 
In the aether of all, where no wall stops her flight,
no banner or cloud here can hide you from sight.
 
Your heart is her bead, and it goes on the string
that's fashioned for love as the greatest thing.
 
2.
No arrow, but some kind of dove,
come target my heart just for love.
 
I need it, I shout for the prize
that comes with this dove on the rise.
 
Our hearts are her bead, and they go on the string
that's fashioned for love as the greatest thing.
 
But, if we block her art with closed mind or cold heart,
she won't thread the bead and the chain will part.
 
3.
No arrow, but lashings of doves
are targeting hearts just for love.
 
No eagle, no raptor of skies,
can capture these doves where they fly:
 
In the aether of all, where no wall stops their flight,
no banners or clouds here [...]
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Alana in the Lane
 
Alana goes her way,
down Ballybrooney Lane,
and back again.
She walks me slowly now,
always the same thing:
my mind is on the day,
and Alana in the lane.
 
To the Manor House we go:
a field of cows up there
all stop and stare.
They scare this tiny thing
who clings so close to me –
all hides and horns and eyes!
– but Alana doesn't cry.
 
The future's full of questions now,
all of them with rain.
The farmer and his famous cows,
and Ballybrooney Lane.
 
No need to cast around:
a grown-up holds her hand,
she's safe and sound.
To make her feel at ease
I laugh out loud, so proud
to be the great big man [alt: ‘the one to stand’
with Alana by the hand.
 
Then somehow comes the day
that nothing in the world
can keep away.
And all that's left to do,
as much for me as you,
is to hold the mem'ry plain
of Alana in the lane.
 
The future's full of questions now,
all of them with rain.
The farmer and his famous cows,
and Ballybrooney [...]
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Cavan Girl
 
As I walk the road from Killeshandra,
weary, I sit down,
for it's twelve long miles around the lake
to get to Cavan town.
Though Oughter and the road I go
once seemed beyond compare,
now I curse the time it takes to reach
my Cavan girl so fair.
 
Now autumn shades are on the leaves,
the trees will soon be bare;
each red-gold leaf around me seems
the colour of her hair.
My gaze retreats to find my feet,
and once again I sigh,
for the broken pools of sky remind
the colour of her eyes.
 
At the Cavan cross each Sunday morning,
there she can be found,
and she seems to have the eye
of every boy in Cavan town.
If my luck will hold, I'll have
the golden summer of her smile,
and, to break the hearts of Cavan men,
she'll talk to me awhile.
 
So Sunday evening finds me, homeward,
Killeshandra bound,
to work the week, till I return
and court in Cavan town:
when asked if she would be my wife,
at least she'd not said no,
so, next Sunday morning, rouse myself
and back [...]
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