Sadness (Summertime)

photo credit: dead red via photopin (license)

photo credit: dead red via photopin (license)

Gathering of tears,
Obsidian, shroud of feeling
Keeping us apart,
That sun and I.

In shadow hides the fear.
Scarlet warning
Of the dangers.
Between the sun and I

The weight I bear,
Darkness waiting.
Shunned by the light
In the setting of the sun.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


I travelled the world
But I missed the sights and signs
Outside the window.

Closed my eyes, looked away
And never went back again.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Fledgling Moment

photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin (license)

We’ve got a choice,
All of us,
Stood on the precipice
Waiting on the edge of eternity
Ready to step out into the void.
We can choose to fall
Spinning downward at the speed of doubt,
Crashing earthward, accepting the inevitability
Or take a chance
Accept the risk,
Start beating our wings
And try to soar.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

In Need of a Drink (Diary of a Descent Into Madness and Modern Art)

I’ve bought a colouring book. I hope it’s got join the dots in it, I used to like those as a child.


I think I’m beginning to understand this performance, video art malarkey now, its about showing loads of different vaginas, the odd penis (but then all penises seem pretty odd), wearing fetish clothing, inserting things into places they really, really shouldn’t go and bondage.


Or is that pornography?


Obviously very intellectual whatever it is about. As there are an awful lot of men with hipster beards and constipated expressions, walking around with their hands pushed deep into their pockets.


I’m abnormal I obviously don’t think about sex enough.


Per-vert. Is it even legal to do that in public?


Sigmund Freud was right… you sick twisted puppies


Seriously Rosary Beads and Swastikas!! Yeugh, I’ll be having nightmares for weeks.


Think Damien Hirst’s Pickled Egg was the sanest thing I’ve seen so far.


Now this is better, I like this. No sorry it’s not an exhibit it’s a fire extinguisher.


Seriously, a pile of bricks and a couple of pallets. I could have gone to the DIY store for that!


Why does Andy Warhol make me think of Popeye the Sailor Man?

Sandcastles, yep I am in a DIY store.


Soft furnishings and kitchen utensils now – what fresh hell, I’m in a branch of IKEA.


No scrub that; hell IS a branch of IKEA.


If I don’t make it out alive can someone feed my cat…


Yet more vaginas…


(A note found clutched in the hand of a gibbering wreck, who probably only hours before was a reasonably sane adult, but over indulged on modern art and was found slumped in a stairwell at Tate Modern in London earlier today, sobbing uncontrollably and asking to be taken to the nearest hostelry.

So please kids don’t do modern art, like all drugs it can do serious harm to an impressionable mind. Remember if it starts to make sense or you start speaking French ask a responsible adult to take you to the nearest exit tout suite)

Quote from 'High Rise' by JG Ballard. Art ' The Music from the Balconies' by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

Quote from ‘High Rise’ by JG Ballard. Art ‘ The Music from the Balconies’ by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


The Parting Glass

If angels should pass upon this road
After I’ve long departed.
If you should hear them in the night
In the rustling of the leaves.
If you should speak with one of them,
Its voice, a half-remembered sound.
If they should ask,
What did his days on Earth achieve.
Then raise a glass with the angels
And speak only of the good times.
If after I have gone
You should ever think of me.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 14 September 2015


When I was a child
I moved at the speed of light.
Like the Big Bang packaged into a cowboy costume,
Infinite energy, perpetual motion.

Now that I’m older, I am slower.
Like that mechanical bunny I’m still banging my drum
But with battery running down,
A little tatty and grey at the edges.

Then when I am old, I will just be,
I will stay where you wheel me
As long as you apply the brake.

Until one day I will wind down
To that inevitability
All energy spent, skin paper thin and grey,
Absolute zero, last breath.

photo credit: Sun via photopin (license)

photo credit: Sun via photopin (license)

Between now and then
There’s still a life to be lived
And while I might have put away some childish things
There’s no reason I can’t still laugh;
Enjoy life like a kid.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 August 2015 Edited 16 July 2016


For the writers

I am not a poet

Write for the joy of it.
Simply because the grass is green,
Because the sky is blue,
Because the earth rotates
And you’ve nothing else to do.

Write for the audience,
No matter how big or how small.
Write for the critics
While in Hades they burn.

Write about rivers,
About Noah and floods,
Or write about loss,
Even write about love.

Write about anything
You damn well please.
For while words are flowing
I want to read.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 2 June 2015 Rewritten 13 July 2016