Say Something Simple

photo credit: Alex Hiam MeadowWalk-Barn1 via photopin (license)

Say something simple
In words of one syllable,
Don’t blind me with science
Just tell me the truth.
For this mystery divine
Don’t run around me with rhyme
Just put it simply,
Just tell me the truth.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 21 June 2018

Advertisements

Three Witches

photo credit: chiaralily Bottled via photopin (license)

Scrabbling around,
Scrabbling around for something
Down there in the dirt.
In amongst the entrails and the detritus.
And from nothing creating,
Creating something to hold onto –
Believing in a something.
We are making,
Recreating –
Holding on to something
Drawing shadows out of the night.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 14 May 2018

We Are The Dust

photo credit: by theda in progress2 via photopin (license)

We know our place in the universe
For we named our planet dust.
Rubbing shoulders
With Mars and Orion
In this cosmic show.
Yet we named our home
For the dirt beneath our feet
And that is how we treat it.
A rusting jewel
Decaying like the grave.
With this the last morning,
These the sun’s last rays.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 18 April 2018

Exhalation of Water

photo credit: VinceFL MacroMondays_Bubbles2 001 via photopin (license)

Stillness,
A momentary calm
Like the heart breaths before
The exhalation of water
From the lungs of a drowning man.

A baptism of desire,
Of cold, cold fire.
The absence of touch
In a universe without feeling.
Just the biology of the vacuum
Without emotion only needing,

Then the tsunami.
Colours exploding, overwhelming;
Like a million hands
Reaching out of the darkness
Touching skin, caressing my mind.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 23 March 2018

Take It or Leave It

photo credit: One lucky guy The Burning Fire of Fantasy 1989 via photopin (license)

Cut me to the quick
To the essence of my soul,
And you will find granite
The bedrock of my being.

Lacerate me with words
From your flame-tempered tongue
And you will find me fireproof,
As resilient I stand.

Assault me with slanders,
Attack me with hurricane winds
And you will discover
I’m the survivor of storms.

 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 8 February 2018

Motion/Still

photo credit: mugley wet purple dawn #2 via photopin (license)

The memory fades away like the rain
Or a dream upon waking.
Just a dream, even a dream of pain;
Its shadow will pass
No matter the length of the shadow cast.

It dissipates as the dawn breaks
And the sun rises even against the moon’s will.
Yes the world goes spinning on
Despite all the tears cried against the tide,
Motion wins still.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 10 December 2017

These Ships

photo credit: Immagini 2&3D The Land of the Brian Boru via photopin (license)

These ships are sailing
Leaving behind everything we’ve ever known.
The lights, the familiar sights are receding,
Departures sadness as the horizon
Hides us from home.

These boats,
These boats we are burning.
For these bones will not be buried
Beneath the turf of our island home.

The surf and the waves
And the storms on the seas,
And the funnel cloud of infernal steam.
Take me away,
Borne away from where I long to be.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 23 January 2018

Pulsar

photo credit: KJ Photographie ***** via photopin (license)

Travelling seventy miles a second
As sunlight explodes through the trees.
Wind fire blowing through the neurons
Carried on the autumn breeze.
And it’s good to be alive,
Blood pulsing, raining fire,
As the journey flies beneath the wheels.
With the trees as golden as desire,
Roadside sentinels, as my chariot drives me.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 19 November 2017

I See Dead People

I see ghosts out of the corner of my eye.
Shadows of the past, phantoms long gone,
Haunting me. Sleeping and waking, the dreamers
Creep through the tall grass. Circling my sanity.
Searching for the weaknesses in my reality.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Unravelling Twine

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 worked unravelling a twisted mess of green twine. He never seemed to unravel it, every time you saw him there he seemed to be, starting his own labour of Hercules anew.

I never found out what he was doing it for or if he ever finished, and now I’ve left it too late to ask him.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 October 2017