Kabuki

photo credit: Oliver Thompson Photography Ghost 3 via photopin (license)

I picked a face,
Chose an image from the shelf.
These emotions are not my own
But a homage to the human race.
My pretence.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Over You

And here to wrap up this month of looking back with a poem about not being able to leave the past behind …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Giuseppe Milo (www.pixael.com) Staring at sunset – Skerries, Ireland – Color street photography via photopin(license)

I cannot cry no more
Because of all the tears
I’ve cried before,
Because of the oceans I’ve wept
Down to the very depths.
I can’t spend any more time,
Pennies or heartbeats
Over you.
Because that will leave me bankrupt
And I can’t risk another heartbreak
Just yet
When I’m not ready to be
Over you.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Gold Season

Day 29 and a poem looking on the bright side of cooler days and inclement weather …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Natalia Medd It’s getting cooler every day ) via photopin(license)

The rustle of leaves beneath my feet,
The soft pitter-pat of raindrops on the window.
The post-equinox sun who can barely bother to rise
But dazzles so bright that her light leaves me blind.
The chill of the evening that means I reach for a sweater,
The inclement weather that forces me home
To curl up with you.
This is the glory that comes with the fall
This is the song sung by sweet autumn.
These are the memories I hold in my heart
When winter takes hold and extinguishes the light.
Not of your ending, but how you blazed
With unique beauty and life.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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In Time and Space

For Day 28 a little time travel …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: torbakhopper detail from toulouse lautrec : san francisco (2013) via photopin(license)

As I watch the world pass by

While I sit here at this pavement cafe,

It is hard to believe

The universe does not rotate about me.

For I could imagine

That this could be anywhere,

Montmartre at the dawning of the Belle Époque

Or a Martian thoroughfare in twenty-nine fifty-three.

For as I sit here a cup of coffee

Cradled gently in my hands

Snatches of human drama

Are carried to me on the breeze.

While I contemplate what comes next

I realise I’m like the wise man

That sits under the tree,

While I cannot see it all from here

I understand what I need from the universe will come to me.

 

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Phase Shift

photo credit: Kevin Rheese Shadows in my nightmare via photopin (license)

Subtle change,
A shift in perception,

The ultra-violet waves
Wash over me.
The innocent skin
Of my naked soul

Coils snake-like
About this un-original sin.
And I’m lost,
Adrift –

Within an ocean
Of my own making
Within the tidal forces
Of my deceits.

Burning within the cauldron
Consumed by the fire of my ghosts.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Game is Life

Day 27 and a poem about being small and inconsequential …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: translator, artist, Renaissance scholar The Baroque poet G. B. Marino as Dorian Gray via photopin(license)

The wheel is set spinning
And the future becomes the past.
The fates have decided blindly
If destiny should treat you kindly,

If your innocence should last.
But if the universe has an underpinning,
If there is but one golden rule,
It is that the gods play dice with you.

In the end you can never win
Because whatever strategy you choose
They’ve seen it all before
They’ve predicted every score.

Because heads they win, tails you lose.
The scales of justice have weighed your every sin.
For the gods take pleasure in being cruel.
Beware for the game is rigged when the gods play dice with you.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Raindance

For the 26 November here’s a poem of rebirth …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: chiaralily Wet City Nightscape via photopin(license)

The return of the rain
Brings me to life again.

The touch of this holy water
Upon my skin
Washes me clean
Lets me begin once more.

The passion of the raindrops
Freefalling to the ground
Is the baptism of hope I need
So that I feel born again.

It resurrects a faith
That had all but died.

I feel rain, I feel alive.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Phoenix

Day 25 and a poem about a (lost?) soul …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Stuck in Customs The temple burns the past away as they embrace. via photopin(license)

This feeling,
This searching for a meaning.
This constant yearning, the burden
That I carry around.
This whole in my heart,
This other me that I dare not speak of,
The soulfire being
That threatens to burn me to the ground.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Beyond

Day 24 and a rumination on existence …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: artberri Tanta via photopin(license)

There is no horizon only now.
No future, no past
Only the moment while it lasts.
Then forgotten,
Like dust dancing in the sunlight
With no memory of how
It came to be there.
Like raindrops
That fall earthwards
Hurtling down towards the embrace of the ground
Not knowing if there is a purpose
To existence.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Dive

photo credit: Ukelens Mermaid via photopin (license)

I write what I cannot say.

I drink the potion,

Of what I dare not dream;

That prevents me sharing

The maelstrom of emotion

Swirling around my heart.

With only the want

Of courage preventing me from diving in

And being consumed by my desire for you.

 

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.