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  • Images
    Images are what come to mind when we hear music and remember past times.  I know how strongly images influence me when I'm playing music. Celtic music usually brings up fleeting mental glimpses of seagulls, windswept coastlines and weather; crystal clear snowy days with blue skys or steady drizzel on a soggy landscape.
    People always come to mind. People whom I have met over the years at fiddle camps and teachers who have taught me particular tunes. I always...
  • Remembrance
    I would like to thank Marinda Freeman   for giving me the idea of this memorial. I went into this with a lot of trepidation. Remembering Tom was painful. Why would I want to inflict more pain on myself? But from listening to Marinda I also realized how little he'd been remembered, inspite of the fact that he had a really amazing life. He churned out creative projects constantly. I couldn't really share his computer genius. I did have his...
  • Writing Progress

    I'm making real progress on my Celtic fantasy novel. My main characters are really developing, well...character. I have to admit that the temptation to make my evil sorceress the defining theme of my book was hindering my plot line development. I was going places I just didn't want to go. So I have toned her down. Now she is merely a clumsy dabbler in the dark arts. My four main characters are now really shining.
    The sequel that I'm...

  • Anniversary of Tom's Death

    Today is the anniversary of Tom's death.  I think I will make this post the culmination of a season of grieving. With candles and poems and pictures, I have spent the months of June and July memorializing Tom's brief life. Thomas Albert Fynan passed away July 24, 2008. May all have the hope and courage to go on living.

  • What It Is Not About
    Blue Hummingbird
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    This poem's 'bout nothing
    Not anything
    Not bees that buzz
    Or birds that sing
    It's not about barbers
    Or beekeepers, too
    It's not about goo geese
    The geese that eat goo
    It's not about mopeds
    Tricycles, bikes
    It's not about five Wheelers
    Or even the likes
    It's not about Phil traps
    Or buckets of mud
    It's not about trash cans
    Or a firework dud
  • Thinga ma jiggers
    Image on Mac Moniter
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    The TV is a thingy
    That plugs into the wall
    It babbles junk from morn till night
    Or any time at all
    The chair is a bunch of wood
    It sits right on the floor
    If it is soft and rubs your back
    Then you stay there for more
    The topsheet is a bunch of cloth
    That lounges on your bed
    It turns red when you spill your juice
    Or when your nose has...
  • Nothing Poem
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    This is a poem
    Read it some other day
    If you're reading it now
    You had better not stay
    For the words in this poem
    Are so jumbled and crossed
    That your head will feel queasy
    And your eyes will be lost
    In thousands of letters
    And hundreds of words
    In billions of pumpkins
    And trillions of gourds
    This poem is about nothing
    'bout nothing at all
    After the summer
    Is known as...
  • The Face
    Happy Kids Huddle
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    My ears are like a microphone
    With a drum set too.
    I think there was - no it couldn't -
    Maybe a horsehoe?
    My nose is like a big sniffer
    What else could it be?
    Although it knows, the nose
    It certainly does not see
    My tongue is red
    It's in my head
    Not in my bed
    Not made of lead
    My mouth is like a speaker
    That dearly loves to shout
  • Stinkweed and the Rose
    Field of Chrysanthemums
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    The stinkweed and the rose
    Were sitting down
    The rose was walloped
    With fluffy down
    The rose exclaims
    What meaneth this?
    I was sitting here
    In perfect bliss
    I'm not that bad
    Don't get me wrong
    But your smell it seems
    To be too strong
    My smell too strong?
    To you I stink?
    Why this is more
    Than I dare to think
    I'm not that bad
    Don't think I'm mean
    But the...
  • Rain Days
    Water Droplets
    Tom Fynan
    Age 12
    The thunder goes boom
    The rain comes down
    The lighning reveals
    Its' golden gown
    The sewers are flooded
    The sidewalks awash
    The water slops into
    My mackintosh
    My umbrella is shredded
    My fingers are numb
    Pinkie, ringfinger
    And also my thumb
    School has let out
    It's rain days again
    And I hope that someday
    It again will rain.

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