Kinetic

Perhaps the shake that I saw was the palsy,
A reward for his troubles.
As I watched the old man struggle to raise the cup to his lips
The liquid sloshing about leaving muddy stains
On frayed shirt cuffs and grubby trousers.

Perhaps the shake that I saw was a resonance,
An ecstatic vibration within.
An excess of colour inset like a diamond
In a black and white world
Now unable to find a way out.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Weary

The man put down his newspaper.
His eyes were not what they once had been,
They had seen too much
Of war and hate, and change.
So he closed his eyes to shut out the dark
And slept right there in his old armchair for a while.
He dreamed of when he was younger;
He dreamt of all of his firsts,
First kiss, first dance, first nights.
Always the first and never the last,
For in his dreams
He wasn’t chained within a body that creaked.
His world was not bound by those four familiar walls
And the good times would come back and greet him.
Because in his life there had been many good times;
There had been joy, he’d known love, he’d known laughter.
For the lights of his memory might dim
But they’d never go out.
For in dreams
They came back to greet him.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 December 2015

Weary

Day 5 of my annual review, and another piece about age…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin (license) photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin(license)

The man put down his newspaper.
His eyes were not what they once had been,
They had seen too much
Of war and hate, and change.
So he closed his eyes to shut out the dark
And slept right there in his old armchair for a while.
He dreamed of when he was younger;
He dreamt of all of his firsts,
First kiss, first dance, first nights.
Always the first and never the last,
For in his dreams
He wasn’t chained within a body that creaked.
His world was not bound by those four familiar walls
And the good times would come back and greet him.
Because in his life there had been many good times;
There had been joy, he’d known love, he’d known laughter.
For the lights of his memory might dim
But they’d never go out.

View original post 17 more words

Annie

Day 4 of my review of the year, and moving on into December with a poem about loneliness and isolation.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license) photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin(license)

I call her Annie.
That little old lady
Who sits on the park bench,
Day after day,
With only the birds for company.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

View original post

Annie

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license)

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license)

I call her Annie.
That little old lady
Who sits on the park bench,
Day after day,
With only the birds for company.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Will you love me?

Day 4 of the 30 reblogs of November and another fragment of a lost poem from my twenties. God, I was intense back then… nothing’s changed.
Another reblog tomorrow plus an excerpt from my work in progress.

Made of sticks and stones

Will you love me for eternity

or whichever is sooner,

‘til the world finally collapses

in on itself

or the end

of my bitter days.

View original post

Will you love me?

Will you love me for eternity

or whichever is sooner,

‘til the world finally collapses

in on itself

or the end

of my bitter days.