Destination Unknown

For November 18 here’s a poem about distance and ever increasing silences

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: One Candle Photos Time Portal Watercolor via photopin(license)

How did we end up with so much distance
Between you and I? Between what we were
And what we’ve become. Gaping silences
Now divide us, where once laughter united.

There was a time I’d have driven for miles
To bask in the glory of a half-smile.
Now I just wonder, how did we end up
With so much distance between you and I?
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Bliss

Day 17 … because sometimes all it takes is a kiss

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: zubrow Red Cushions via photopin(license)

Bliss,
The one word
For the feeling.
Electrical dreaming,
The motion picture of colours
Exploding in my mind.

Bliss,
The one word
When my head’s spinning
Because our lips are touching.
We’re so close
I feel your heart beating.
Rhythm coalescing, realities colliding
In this mystery, in this kiss.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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I Spy (An Optimist)

Day 16 and a reminder to look on the bright side …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: David Sedlmayer Sun and Clouds via photopin(license)

Twelve months of summer,
Chasing sunshine the whole of your life.
Everyday a battle against
The drab monochrome
That your parents brought you into.
Seeing silver linings even there in the gutter;
Sensing the stars when lost in the clouds.
Never closing your mind to the hope in their eyes
And never shutting out their ray of light.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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We Are The Dust

Day 15 of my November review and a poem about what the human race is doing to the only planet we have to live on.

Made of sticks and stones

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.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Dorian Gray

There’s no portrait in my attic,
Only this sickness in my soul.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Lorelei

For 14 November we have a poem about how some people remain enigmatic and unknowable …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Pat McDonald Deep Thoughts via photopin(license)

Everything about you is secrets,
Night flights and summer rain.
Everything is motion,
Fleeting notions and make-believe.
From the beguiling beginnings
To the moment you slip away,

For you were there and then you were gone.
For one moment you were golden,
Wrapped in a silken web.
I watched you sleep

Your head resting beside me on this pillow,
Until I blinked. Then like night you dissolved
Leaving only the bitter magics in your wake
And the loneliness of the cold light of day.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Unresolved

For Day 13 we have a late entry, a poem about unanswered questions

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: chiaralily Falling via photopin(license)

This tension isn’t tension anymore.
The moment remains a moment nothing more
Not static electricity but stasis.
The erotic drift stalled by the current,
Yet life goes on. Living out our loves
In isolation, suspended animation.
Living life each of us, you and I,
Within an impregnable dome.
A force field created to keep the pain out
That only succeeds in keeping love at bay.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Exhalation of Water

For the 12 November I’m sharing a poem about moments

Made of sticks and stones

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.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Unknown

photo credit: Richard Walker Photography Poppy Field via photopin (license)

Will it be remembered?
In a hundred years more.
Will my grave have fallen
Into despair.
Will they remember how I left
With hope in my eyes, shouting
“I’ll be home for Christmas”.

Will they remember
The mud,
The shrapnel,
The blood
And the cries.
Will they remember the fallen,
The pointless waste of young lives.
Will you remember the place where I died?
 

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Crossing the Rubicon (Small Mercy)

Here’s the offering for Day 11

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: eduardomineo 26/7/2009 via photopin(license)

Mercy.

Pleading to be heard
Within these four walls,
Outside in the world.

Senses
Overloaded,
Hiatus
Deserved.

Searching for the right words,
In these pages
Reaching out to the world.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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