For Pennies and Passion

photo credit: keith ellwood Limoges Busker via photopin (license)

Old man sits on the corner
Accordion strapped to his being.
Fingers dancing lightly upon the keys
The squeeze box sings,
The bellows pumping.
As if for the old man
Without the music
He would not be breathing.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Monday

For six days I will live,
Just not today
If that’s okay.
On other days I will thrive,
Rise and shine
Give my best,
But not today.
I need to rest

Escape the rat race.
Engines, raw,
The blood and thunder
Carnivores.
The fight to survive
This urban wasteland
From dawn to dusk
Until this day is
… Laid to rest.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Hungers

photo credit: Tortured Mind Broken Soldier 1 via photopin (license)

The forces
Beyond your view,
In another consciousness
Sat in another room.

The pilot of other ships,
Soldiers on the other side;
Non-combatants have no choice,
All are part of this war.

All looking for new sadnesses,
While still waiting for old tears to dry.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Curriculum Vitae

photo credit: Magdalena Roeseler via photopin (license)

I’m a nice guy in a quiet way,
Unshowy, without being grey.
I’m a star in the daytime
Outshone by other lights in the sky.
I’m not a saint or a sinner
Just average Joe muddling things up
But aiming to get the big things right.
I’m looking for happiness,
Contentment? Whatever that means.
A dreamer, searching for something
And somewhere to realise my dreams.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Now Lost

Grey eyes, all grey-eyed,
The will-o’-the-wisp
Inhabitants of the sepia past.
Yet these phantom,
Long-forgotten footnotes in history,
Are the foundation stones
Of how I have come to be.
The desertions, the petty cruelties,
That gold coin flung afar
To sink forever within the mire.
All just threads and plots passed on
To become mythology.
Like the tortures
Of inferno, and Iron Lung –
All have played their part
In my neuroses and minor crimes.
And yet my hopes, my dreams…
Or call it what you will
My native gift, my elemental spark –
Something
Recognises as the source
That same grey-eyed river,
Which I can glimpse,
Through maelstrom mist sometime
Out of the corner of my eye,
Like reflections in the mirror.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

These Dark Days

photo credit: vwcampin Sunrise Through The Window via photopin (license)

These dark days weigh on my mind,
Hang heavy upon my shoulders.
My back bent, head bowed
Against wind and rain
Which battle violently with me,
Bring me low. Would break me
If not for hope
That the sun will shine again.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.