Commedia Dell’Arte (A Play of Masks)

Day 22 of my review of the last 12 months and a poem about the games people play …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Stefano Montagner – The life around me Venice Carnival via photopin(license)

Forgive me,
Forgive me I did not mean to fall.
I played at being indestructible
But it was illusory, imaginary
And not the role I was suited for.
It was a game,
A game of rough and tumble physicality.
Of interchangeable masks and quick change personalities.
And beneath this surface warpaint
I was not sure
I had the fight in me
Or the stomach strong enough for the duplicity.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Pauper’s Grave

Day 21 of my review of the last 12 months and a poem about perspectives …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Mabacam What’s My Next Move? via photopin(license)

Can you hear me?
Does this emotion make a sound.
If I drop a pebble in the ocean
Will it make my father proud?
Is this disconnectedness
Our common ground.
Is this losing streak
The change in luck we need.
Is this the seed, the beginning
Of the final act, my friend.
Will I get the signal through
The interference. Will the DJ play
My dedication across the dying ground today.
What if the perspective shifts
And what was hidden
Becomes plain to see,
And what was visible
Starts to disappear,
Drowning beneath the waves.
Rifle loaded, target acquired
In the crosshairs for a headshot again
And only those from the dead ground will be saved.
Can you hear me?
Does this emotion make a sound.
Is all that remains just shadow
And dust and memory.
With every heartbeat counting…

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Nothing to Declare

Day 20 and a poem about perception …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: h.koppdelaney Observer via photopin(license)

Reaching out for something
As if it might be
Poisoned, the antidote
Is not getting you through.
Just tied up in the wires
As they tighten the screw.
No one is fighting for you.
The desires are passion crimes
And nothing will get you through.

Searching for anything;
Most holy last orders
With spirits at the bar.
Making confessions
As fast as you can
But it won’t save you.
Reality is bruising,
The ghost don’t believe in you,
And nothing is an illusion.

Holding on to nothing
As if it’s a lifebelt,
That’s going to save
You from calling out –
But nobody’s listening,
It’s a pointless wish list.
Nobody is breaking through.
The mirrors are all one way,
Nothing is echoing back to you.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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All is Well

Day 14 and a contribution from my storytelling blog. That particular blog On The Broken Road has been rather quiet over the last year as most of my story rather than poetry efforts have been focused on a larger fiction project. This is in addition to battling to complete my poetry collection Wreckage and my academic endeavours. This is why I really admire all of you attempting NaPoWriMo (and succeeding I hope) for not only having the belief in your ability to write that number of words but also sticking to the one project. Because while I am getting much better at completing drafts of stories and poems, I can never guarantee I’ll be working on the same thing two days in a row. To prove it here is a poem based on a character and location from a story.

On the Broken Road

photo credit: Michelle Hebert | Art & Fashion 2008. Menacing Garden via photopin(license)

I’m a coffee addict and a guilty pleasure for me is to sit in a coffee shop relaxing. I usually try to justify this downtime by doing some work while I’m there.

Today I was actually meant to be revising for an exam though (which is another story). I could not settle though, perhaps I was too much on tenterhooks waiting for an expected phone call to concentrate but the study juices were not flowing. So I put down my text book and picked up the story that began here as Watchers. I have written before about the combination of caffeine and creativity (Misbehaving) but today for some reason I could not seem to get up and running.

When Watchers first started it came over to me at least that the writing was direct and…

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Make-Believers

Day 13 and a poem of thanks to all the wonderful creative people out there …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: donnierayjones Thinking Inside the Box via photopin(license)

To the pretenders,
The make-believers,
The dresser-uppers,
The dreamers,
This goes out to you.
The singers,
The poets,
The actors,
The writers,
For making dreams come true.
Those artists
And dancers
Making it up,
Making believe it’s come true.
To everyone out there, thank you.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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South Bank

Here is something short and sweet, an ode to London for Day 12 …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: MartynllPhotography Looking towards the City of London via photopin(license)

Shining portals, pools of light
Let loose upon the night.
Kaleidoscope of colours
Hand-in-hand with lovers,
Breathing-in the city bright.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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This Rain

Day 11 of my review and a poem about endings; or beginnings …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: kevin dooley Rain bytes via photopin (license) photo credit: kevin dooley Rain bytes via photopin(license)

This rain
Seems permanent
The way it is clinging to me,
Like sin.

As guilty
As drab Sundays
In a Suburban town,
When the weekend
Has run out of time.
And though you’d prayed
In your dirty subterranean soul
That Monday would never come,
It looms like storm clouds over you.

And this rain
Is hanging on,
Soaking me through.
Tell-tale mark
Like the blood and gut stain
Of the week to come.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Democracy of One

Here we are with Day 10 of my review of the last 12 months and here we have a poem about being true and honest with yourself …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin (license) photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin(license)

This is my voice
And it is wrong
More often than
It is right,
I accept that.
I accept this
Mortal fallibility.
It would be wrong
To deny it.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Mansions

Day 9 and here is a poem from back in February and written while sitting in my car in a garden centre car park, but not about cars or gardens …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: whitewall buick John Hay House stairhall (demolished) via photopin (license) photo credit: whitewall buick John Hay House stairhall (demolished) via photopin(license)

There are many rooms
In this mansion,
Many rooms that make the whole.

Rooms of cobwebs,
Rooms of overflowing fears,
Rooms of wonders,
Icicles of tears.

Rooms that look out
North, east, west and south,
Corridors of light filled
With memories of ecstatic shouts.

There are many rooms
In my mind,
It’s not a split personality

Or the cracks in my reality.
It just takes many rooms
To make me whole.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Siren Blue (Dreams)

And here is Day 8 of my review with a poem of getting lost amongst the memories …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: bdrc 宋凝 via photopin (license) photo credit: bdrc 宋凝 via photopin(license)

I can’t remember what it is,
This ocean of memory
In which I’ve got lost.
A natural phenomena,
Drifting, flying, falling, dying.
I’m a stranger in this kingdom
So far from home.

I can’t see a solution,
A way out
Of this maze of confusion.
This song of the stratosphere:
Drowning, crying, calling, dying.
Dream keeper of this kingdom
I can’t call home.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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