Unravelling Twine

Day 30 and to end my review of the year we have a story about missed opportunities …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Piyushgiri Revagar Centre via photopin(license)

I never knew my father. I recognised him of course, I’d see him every morning silently cutting up his bacon rashers and sausages before forking them into his mouth; while us kids bickered and fought using our cereal spoons as make-believe swords. Then in the evening he would be found hiding in the dark shadows of the living room while the rest of us hovered like a family of moths in adoration around the flickering light of the television screen.

The rest of the time he seemed invisible, apart from the odd glimpse of him sat on the old wooden bench in the shade of the crab apple tree at the bottom of the garden. Mum used to send him there as she hated the smell of his tobacco. There he would sit his pipe gripped between his teeth while his hands…

View original post 64 more words

Advertisements

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

Horizontal

Day 26 of my review of the last 12 months and a poem about searching your way through the ups and downs of life …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: d6v1d Tiger & Turtle via photopin(license)

I want to be in a steady state
Once in a while.
To take a break from the up and down,
The rollercoaster of fear and forgotten dreams
And shattered plans. Once in a while.

Not taking it all lying down.
Not a unicycle loop the loop
But a steady state at a steady rate
Not speeding up and slowing down
On a steep incline through life.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

View original post

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

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…

View original post 31 more words