Travelling seventy miles a second
As sunlight explodes through the trees.
Wind fire blowing through the neurons
Carried on the autumn breeze.
And it’s good to be alive,
Blood pulsing, raining fire,
As the journey flies beneath the wheels.
With the trees as golden as desire,
Roadside sentinels, as my chariot drives me.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Originally Published 19 November 2017
The beautiful shell
Disguises the beautiful hell
Loving you has led me to.
The miracle of this moment
Hides the jagged edge
And the potential of a fall.
But still, I carry on
For what choice do I have?
Except giving in
And waking up to the cold
Without you.
Without you to hold.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Day 29 and a poem looking on the bright side of cooler days and inclement weather …
photo credit: Natalia Medd It’s getting cooler every day ) via photopin(license)
The rustle of leaves beneath my feet,
The soft pitter-pat of raindrops on the window.
The post-equinox sun who can barely bother to rise
But dazzles so bright that her light leaves me blind.
The chill of the evening that means I reach for a sweater,
The inclement weather that forces me home
To curl up with you.
This is the glory that comes with the fall
This is the song sung by sweet autumn.
These are the memories I hold in my heart
When winter takes hold and extinguishes the light.
Not of your ending, but how you blazed
With unique beauty and life.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
For the 9 November there is a poem about how small this universe makes me feel sometimes…
photo credit: The Knowles Gallery Idaho Sawtooths Milky-way via photopin(license)
This beauty is torn apart
By chaos winds
And bitter rains.
By the harshness of the times,
By the frigid coldness of black nights.
The stars who shine,
Jealously guard those distant lights.
Never sharing of the warmth
Of their distant, alien, hearts.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Natalia Medd It’s getting cooler every day ) via photopin (license)
The rustle of leaves beneath my feet,
The soft pitter-pat of raindrops on the window.
The post-equinox sun who can barely bother to rise
But dazzles so bright that her light leaves me blind.
The chill of the evening that means I reach for a sweater,
The inclement weather that forces me home
To curl up with you.
This is the glory that comes with the fall
This is the song sung by sweet autumn.
These are the memories I hold in my heart
When winter takes hold and extinguishes the light.
Not of your ending, but how you blazed
With unique beauty and life.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Moonlight sparkles on the water
As I drift lazily by, within this dream.
The languor of a summer night
Encapsulates the instant
The goddess whispers my name.
Her voice so beautiful, ethereal,
It’s like the sighing of the breeze.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Originally published 8 May 2016
photo credit: Javier Díaz Barrera (javierdiazbarrera.es) Últimos rayos del sol de verano via photopin (license)
The sun has a special intensity this time of year
As if she knows that if she did not shine today:
A “if not now, then when” mentality
To squeeze every last ounce of romance
From this brief affair, before she is gone
And we are alone with harsh winter, again.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Day 28 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about the fragility of life …
photo credit: Natalia Medd It’s getting cooler every day ) via photopin(license)
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.
Day 16 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about summer nights ( with no mention of Travolta or Grease)
photo credit: Ophelia via photopin(license)
Moonlight sparkles on the water
As I drift lazily by, within this dream.
The languor of a summer night
Encapsulates the instant
The goddess whispers my name.
Her voice so beautiful, ethereal,
It’s like the sighing of the breeze.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
I,
I stutter,
Struggling to make the words
That form so beautiful
In my mind
Travel to my lips, and form the sounds
Of rose petals for you
To walk barefoot upon.
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
