How I Wish You Were Here

Day 29 of the last 12 months and a poem about longing …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Natalia Medd Summer Camouflage via photopin(license)

Wish you happiness,
Wish you content,
I wish you everything you’ve ever wished for.
But I wish, how I wish,

Wish you luck and joy,
Wish you success,
More of everything your heart desires.
So many wishes for more.

Wish you no more tears
To cry. No sorrows;
And I wish, how I wish, to protect you from harm.
I’m wishing you were near…

But instead
I’m wishing you goodbye…
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Bone Envy

Day 28 and a poem addressed to that little green monster envy …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: fabioomero HIRST, Skull Star Diamond via photopin(license)

I cannot feel jealous of your success
There is no spark of resentment in my soul.
Others may whisper the triumph is undeserved
But I cannot feel envy of you in my bones.
Because I’ve seen how it looks on you
It suits you fine, but I know

I would feel unnatural in your clothes.
For they would itch and scratch, not fit my skin.
Your Master’s robe would hang upon my bones, but not shine within.
The seeds of triumph, would be stolen not rightly sown.
So I will wait, grow a glory of my own.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Black Rose Inkings

Day 27 and a poem about the image we hold of ourselves and the image others see …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: freestock.ca ♡ dare to share beauty Purple Rose Macro – HDR via photopin(license)

Black rose inked on lily-white skin
Can’t hide your translucent soul.
I see through the façade
To the petals within, petals
Blowing in the wind. Transitory,
Illusory, your beauty
Something you don’t believe in.
Something you don’t realise
Is carried within.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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End of Season

Day 25 and a poem for the changing seasons

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Charlie.Wales Time out via photopin(license)

This is the forgotten time
Before the fall
That solemn quietude
After the revellers have returned
To their homes.
Before autumn blazes
In a cavalcade of colours
That signify a multitude
Of tiny silent deaths.
This forgotten time
Of the first chill,
Before the real chill
Envelops us in its breath.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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In the Pit of My Stomach

Day 24 and a poem for that uneasy feeling …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Anskit Stessi via photopin(license)

In the dark of the night time
In the cold of my bed
In the moments in between
When the feelings are raw.
When my mouth is slowly drying
And the words rot in my throat.
And the dreams are dying
Like autumn leaves falling in the breeze.
And I can’t unfeel what I’ve felt before.
And my belief is crumbling,
Oh so many nights of tears and dust.
Then there’s this feeling I get
In the pit of my stomach.
A chill like a knife blade
Twisting within my spirit and guts.
When I’d scream

If screaming counted for much.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Turn

Day 23 and a poem about the times in life when you want time to stop and go back the other way …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Stefano Montagner – The life around me Venice Carnival via photopin(license)

I wish I could have held you there
Half way down the stair
When you turned back and looked my way.
Captured your likeness in the fleeting moment
When the dawn light shone upon your hair
And the dust motes danced a halo about your silhouette.
For you’ve never looked more wonderful
Than on the day you went away.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Commedia Dell’Arte (A Play of Masks)

Day 22 of my review of the last 12 months and a poem about the games people play …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Stefano Montagner – The life around me Venice Carnival via photopin(license)

Forgive me,
Forgive me I did not mean to fall.
I played at being indestructible
But it was illusory, imaginary
And not the role I was suited for.
It was a game,
A game of rough and tumble physicality.
Of interchangeable masks and quick change personalities.
And beneath this surface warpaint
I was not sure
I had the fight in me
Or the stomach strong enough for the duplicity.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Pauper’s Grave

Day 21 of my review of the last 12 months and a poem about perspectives …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Mabacam What’s My Next Move? via photopin(license)

Can you hear me?
Does this emotion make a sound.
If I drop a pebble in the ocean
Will it make my father proud?
Is this disconnectedness
Our common ground.
Is this losing streak
The change in luck we need.
Is this the seed, the beginning
Of the final act, my friend.
Will I get the signal through
The interference. Will the DJ play
My dedication across the dying ground today.
What if the perspective shifts
And what was hidden
Becomes plain to see,
And what was visible
Starts to disappear,
Drowning beneath the waves.
Rifle loaded, target acquired
In the crosshairs for a headshot again
And only those from the dead ground will be saved.
Can you hear me?
Does this emotion make a sound.
Is all that remains just shadow
And dust and memory.
With every heartbeat counting…

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Lover’s Steps

Day 18 of my review of the last 12 months and we have a poem about moments …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: ulisse albiati A picture of Dorian Gray via photopin(license)

Belly laughs and lover’s steps
Upon the stairs,
Emotional devotion.
Sentences intertwined like limbs,
In the chaos of calming breath;
The aftermath.
Stillness
Conspires with the electricity
Of touch.
This aftermath
With sheets disarranged, soliloquy of destruction –
Is this the scene of crime or a passion play,
Where husks of human flesh lay spent.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Waiting for The Elation

Day 16 and here is today’s contribution “Waiting For The Elation”

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Silentmind8 _D3S9110-2 via photopin(license)

Waiting,
Forever waiting
For the elation
You promised to bring.
The promise you made
To pay the bearer
Of this broken heart.
I didn’t want diamonds,
Never asked for money or gold
For they won’t keep me safe from the cold,
But you promised a kiss.

But you left me
Waiting,
Forever waiting
For the elation
You promised to bring.
Waiting for you
To pay the bearer
Of this broken heart
With a kiss.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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