Chiaroscuro

And so I reach the last day of my review of the last twelve months, ending with a poem about desires that go bump in the dark …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: The Manic Macrographer Low Key Portrait via photopin(license)

Your light and dark plays with me.
Essence of night is the fragrance you wear.
Silence is the word on your lips
As with a gaze unwavering you stare
Succeeding again at unmanning me.

Twilight and rain clouds wrapped about you
Like a mantle of darkness
You are shadows, a certain chill in the air.
An absence, a sickness,
An addiction I keep on returning to.

You are the bones, the secret within.
The whisper deep underground
Forever echoing in the dark.
You are the fatal cry. The final sound.
I am your victim. You are my sin.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Headstone

Day twenty-nine and a poem about shouting out loud …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Dru! Sloppy Plodding via photopin(license)

Scream
At the top of your lungs.
Scream
Out loud
Let your voice be heard.
Make a noise,
Make a racket,
Make the words on the page rattle.
Do not go gentle,
Do not go quiet,
Do not let them forget
What they’ll be missing.
Curse loudly,
Love louder.
Live with passion.
Do it all with the whole
Of your heart.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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I Will Not Go Down

Day twenty-eight of my annual review and a reminder never to give up …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Mat Che DIAPOSITIVE 1.2 (CHILDREN OF THE LIGHT) via photopin(license)

“there is a crack in everything,

that is how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

I will not go down,
These depths must be the deepest.
While this darkness is at its completest
I will hold fast. I will make a spark.
I will last out until dawn.
Until I can feel the warmth and the light
And this body becomes real to me again.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Time Lies

Day twenty-seven of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about time …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: lightfetcher dandelion via photopin(license)

The clock ticks,
Time passes at a steady rate.
The Past wanders from sight,
Disappears quietly from the cavalcade
Into the shadows to die.

The Present crawls like a caterpillar
Consuming everything that it can.
Unaware of all, except now –
Secure in its form.

While Future promises
That it will turn unseen,
Like a confidence trick
Into a wondrous butterfly.
That flutters transcendent, glorious for a day…

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Intimate

Day twenty-six of my review of the last twelve months and a poem from last December about snuggling up – after all that’s what winter was designed for …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Lauren via photopin(license)

Let’s get intimate me and you.
Sit down in some comfy nook
Snuggle down before a fire
And talk about the stars and our favourite books.
Let us talk for hours and hours
About autumn leaves and summer showers.
Until the candle’s burned to darkness;
Holding hands becomes as natural
As breathing out, as breathing in.
Until we share our thoughts of a secret kind.
Let us get intimate me and you
Until daylight has replaced the dark of night.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Speak No Evil

Day twenty-five and a poem about speaking up and making a stand …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: micadew Kitty Denied via photopin(license)

The rich man, the preacher,
The politician, the teacher,
Took my language away.

The treaty, the hungers,
Your lusts, this destruction
Is to blame –
For taking my language away.

The lights in the darkness.
The fires on the horizon,
The burning ice; age returning
Is the grave,
That took my language away.

Weaknesses, baseless fears,
Crying crocodile tears.
Drowning in mutually assured destruction,
While waiting for our software to update
Is the reason
They took my language away.

It was brains, it was beauty,
An oath sworn. Duty.
It was valour, it was pride.
The truth smothering me with lies;
Betrayal with a kiss.
The sinking ship,
The lion’s roar
And all of this and more.

Yet it was my silence
That let them take
My language away.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Summer Loves

Day twenty-five of my review of the year and a poem from the end of summer and a reminder that even though the days may shorten in length the light will always return …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Edward Zulawski Wet Ballet via photopin(license)

This summer romance. This dance of light.
Must cease with the approach of night.
With the music of the seasons’ subtle change,
We must take the hand of a different lover
For the rhythm insists that our partner changes.
For while the wind does rage
And skies hang heavy with autumn rains
We will remember that this music will come again.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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I See Dead People

Day twenty-four of my review of the last twelve months and here is a poem from the shadows …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Stefans02 The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt / Underground via photopin(license)

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.

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The Deaths

Day twenty-two of my annual review of the year and a poem about … well sometimes you just need an opportunity to scream out loud

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Tortured Mind Dark alleys of Xibalba via photopin(license)

Plumbing the deaths

Falling to pieces,

This virus

Infecting us all.

This entropy

Interconnectivity

Escaping my soul.

This sickness

Modern madness

Crime waves

Pandemic

In the DNA

Of society –

About to tumble

And fall.

The faceless

And the faithless,

Mood music

To soundtrack

The riot.

Choreographing the violence

Over and over

Until we get it right.

Or we forget what’s right,

Loosening our grip on reality

The will to fight.

To all that is left is this decay,

Neurons misfiring

And demons crying

Over and over,

Until you get on your knees and pray.

For the seizures to free your soul

Or the inevitability;

The deaths to conquer us all.

 

Quote from ‘High Rise’ by JG Ballard. Art ‘ The Music from the Balconies’ by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights…

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Hiraeth

Day twenty-one of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about an unsettling feeling of longing …

Made of sticks and stones

hiraeth:
(n) A deep, wistful, nostalgic sense of longing for home;
a home that is no longer or perhaps never was.

photo credit: Silent House via photopin (license) photo credit: Silent House via photopin(license)

This is not the place
Where the river flows
Rerouted to a moment of déjà vu
Over some other town.
Where the leaves were a different green
Growing on different trees.
The past was another shape to this
And the stranger I ran into
Had eyes a different shade of blue.

This is not the room, back then
The sun shone in a different light
With windows on a different view.
There were more reds in the sunsets
Back in that other place.
When it shone on lazy summer paths
Wandering through those dragonfly lanes.
And that stranger I ran into
I remember eyes a different shade of blue.

This is not the skin, the feeling is not the same.
The fields…

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