Knowhere

Day eighteen of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about life and the changes it can bring …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Marco Ascrizzi P1070949 via photopin(license)

A man took a bus
Went searching for his heart.
He’d left his home of forty years,
Packed a bag – filled it with memories
And assorted other dusts.
He watched as the driver pulled out into traffic
And joined the motorway.
He watched as everything he’d ever believed
Dwindled through the window
Of a bus bound to nowhere. Until all that was left
Was a collection of smudges on the glass.
Like a dim, shadowed, constellation of stars.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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These Truths Are Mine

photo credit: jeri leandera gazing through time via photopin (license)

An invention,
A creation,
Nothing to see.
An enigma,
An illusion,
A fantasy.
Something
And nothing
A mystery.

The mask
Behind which I hide;
The smile
Behind which I hide;
The wall
I’ve built and
Behind which I hide.

The truth
That cannot be denied.
These lies are mine;
Yes, this is me.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Where I Begin

Day seventeen of my review of the last year and a poem from may musing on the nature of existence …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Isengardt Sleet via photopin(license)

The chill shock of the spring rain
Soaks me to the skin.
To the bones of me;
The place where the I begins.

Rooted in this barren ground
Petrified by the memories,
And the past I have buried within.
For I prayed to hold my mysteries

And take them to my grave.
For what does man have but his sins.
His secret companions in the dark
With the fatal poison of their sting.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Flight of the Moon

Day sixteen of my review of the last twelve months and a poem from May about what is probably my all time favourite subject for poetry, that draws me back time after time …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Luz Adriana Villa A. Noche de luna llena – Full moon night via photopin(license)

Shimmering satellites
Sleep in an unwoken sky.
While primitive thought creeps
Through shattered streets.

Slithering dreams and unkempt memory
Disappear from sight.
Take to the wing.
When at dawn night withers and dies.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Missing Pieces

Day fifteen and a poem for the missing pieces …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Vortexas32 IMG_2625 via photopin(license)

The silhouette still hides the soul.
The target can blind you
To the meaning of the goal.
And the missing pieces make you forget
How complete is your imperfect whole.

Though you may shatter, curse yourself
With seven years of bad luck
Pick yourself up. Ask for a little help.
Remember riches are weighed
In more than just their value as wealth.

All blessings glitter, not only silver and gold.
What is the day, without the night.
What is the warmth, without some cold.
What is the smile if not watered by a single tear.
What am I if separated from this troubled soul.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Clay

Day fourteen of my review of the last twelve months and a poem from April about human potential and adaptability …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: eleda 1 Guess the movie???? via photopin(license)

I cannot contain this existence
Within a single soul
A unified whole
When I do not know
Where these wings will take me
Or if the footsteps of the future
Will shake the ground from beneath my feet
If the environment will force me to transform
Into something different
Shocking
Luminous
Brand new
So do not ask me
Where I have come from
For how can I know
For the past has changed me
I am different than I was then
And I may change once again

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Signal Fires

Day 13 and a poem about the bonds of desire …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Fan.D & Dav.C Photgraphy The eyes are the windows of the soul. via photopin(license)

Your deepest desires
Have undressed me,
Brought me here.
They’ve tied me to your soul
With an ache that won’t let me go.
Restrained by emotions that flame
Eternal, a flame that’ll never be consumed;
Forever burning, on and on.
An inferno dressed in velvet, draped with silk.
Lips parting; tongues of flame.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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I’ll Do the Same for You

For day twelve of my annual review we have a poem about trust and love …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: clabudak 22Sept(1d)Otnaydr via photopin(license)

If I should fall will you catch me.
In your arms will you hold me
Until the morning, through the night.
Will you see me through the hard times.
Will you see that everything’s alright.
Will you walk with me through the storm, stay
By my side.
Will you reach out when I’m not talking,
Will you speak for me if I lose my voice.
Will you soothe my troubled tides.
Will you be my bridge to peace.
Will you stay here until forever
By my side.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Walking On

Day 11 of my annual review and an encouragement to keep moving on, no matter what …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: h.koppdelaney The only Reality via photopin(license)

Don’t stop, or look around
Don’t let emotion slow you down.
Keep moving honey,
Ignore the laughter of the clowns.

Don’t let the distractions
Distract you from your goal
Or break the rhythm of your steps.
For you’ve come so far

But there is still so far to go.
Don’t let the headwinds
Cry havoc with your mind
And never stop being kind to yourself.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Unknown

Today is Remembrance Sunday here in the UK when we remember those who have died in conflicts during the twentieth and twenty-first century. Here is a poem from last November about the importance of remembrance …

Made of sticks and stones

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.

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