Fortune Hunter

Day 30 and to round off my review with another tale from On the Broken Road…

On the Broken Road

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She had silver in her hair and when I first saw her they had tied her to a tree and were mining their fortune from her as the metal, the equal of anything you would have found buried in the Mountains of Ahl, grew in shimmering waterfalls that flowed down her back.

I bartered with them for her eventually securing the bargain with aid of cold steel and leaving the five goblins dead, I fled the glade with my hard won prize.

I felt that I had traded the last halfpenny of my humanity in order to possess her.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Mindspace Blown

Day 29 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about the gap between my ears…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Bible Verse Photo Medical Cellblock with Verse (Free HI-RES) via photopin (license) photo credit: Bible Verse Photo Medical Cellblock with Verse (Free HI-RES) via photopin(license)

One must have a mind of spaces.
Imagining windblown silence
In a meadow, summer ripe with butterflies.
In between the hustling tornadoes
Of traffic jams and parking fines.

Or the pin prickle caress of spring rain
Washing skin cleaner than baptism,
One’s soul dancing with the divine.
Between inhale and exhale, seeking
A sanctuary for the urban mind.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

 This poem is the first to come from a series of five prompts from ‘How to Write a Poem’ by Tania Runyan

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Fragile

Day 28 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about the fragility of life …

Made of sticks and stones

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Butterfly flutters
In the early autumn sun,
Holding on to life.

When forever is just a day
Every wingbeat matters.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Consorting with the Enemy

Day 27 of my review of the year and a little piece of fiction

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Lammyman Rita Hayworth via photopin (license) photo credit: Lammyman Rita Hayworth via photopin(license)

‘American girls are not like us.’ Violet said.

She stood at the mirror fixing the suspender to her new stockings.

‘My Davey wouldn’t like me consorting.’ Enid replied, ‘He warned me watch me’self with the Yanks.’

‘So they get a little fresh.’ said Violet, as she smoothed the silk down her leg ‘Wouldn’t be good for morale to say no, not after they’ve taken me to the pictures and everything.’

‘It just seems wrong.’

‘It’s only a kiss and a cuddle, poor ducks might die fighting Hitler tomorrow. I’m only doing my bit for the war effort sending them off with a smile on their faces.

‘Anyway what about your Davey? All alone in a strange port you can’t tell me he wouldn’t?’

‘All the nice girls like a sailor.’ I sang.

Violet smirked at my reflection in the mirror as she…

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Night in Shining Armour

Day 26 of my review of the year and a poem about the moon and the lunacy of love, and getting cocky and trying to write poems in more than one language …

Made of sticks and stones

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The night in shining armour
Rediscovers my moonlit memories.
How the mighty are humbled
When uncovered by the moonbeams.
Treasure of my beating heart
A taste of your honey lips,

The forgetting that happens
When we’re together.
The wasted hours
When we’re apart

And I long for wine and song again.
Safe, with you in my arms.
Sí, mi amor. Sí, mi amor.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Out of Body

Day 25 of the review and a poem about dreams and eternity…

Made of sticks and stones

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I lay on the grass
Looking up at the night sky.
Cut adrift
From earthly worries and concerns
On this summer night.
Time
Has no meaning,
My body
Has no substance,
Only feeling.

Drugged by the moment,
The beating heart of the earth
Pressed up close, embracing me.
Like a lover,
While an arch, a canopy of stars
Offers a window,
A glimpse,
Into eternity.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Hush

Day 24 of my review and a poem about nature and the power of silence…

Made of sticks and stones

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Susurrus,
Wind kisses upon the water.

The breeze stirs the leaves of the willow,
Moving like the fingertips of a dancer would.
Elegant branches,
Limbs of an acrobat, sway
Dipping low agitating the mirror calm
Of the tranquil pool.

Elemental water and sylvan spirit of living wood
Allowed to commune,
Within this companion silence.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Summer Blues

Day 23 of my review of the last twelve months, and a reminder for those in the northern hemisphere that it isn’t always this cold…

Made of sticks and stones

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Blue notes cry
From inside the bar
Out across the bay.
The summer heat
About to break,
As thunder calls
On the rain
To wash the streets.
To sweep away
The worries of the everyday,
That never touch
This foreign shore
This island floating
In impossibility.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Fledgling Moment

Day 22 a poem for the moments when you are standing on the edge…

Made of sticks and stones

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We’ve got a choice,
All of us,
Stood on the precipice
Waiting on the edge of eternity
Ready to step out into the void.
We can choose to fall
Spinning downward at the speed of doubt,
Crashing earthward, accepting the inevitability
Or take a chance
Accept the risk,
Start beating our wings
And try to soar.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Heartstrings

Day 21 of my review and a poem about yearnings

Made of sticks and stones

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Tethered,
A prisoner of your whim,
A bondsman enslaved
To your desire,
As capricious as the tide
That ebbs and flows
About the shores
Of this deserted isle,
My soul …

Around which this tempest roars
The storm waves beating down
Like the whip of your perversion
Upon my tender skin,
While you withhold your lips
The gentle balm of a caress.
Tantalised by the exquisite release
From the bondage
Of my soul …
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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