war kids

Ethel looked at the photo it was the only image she had of her with her siblings. They were sitting on a bench happy and together. It had been taken about six months before the bomb, before their house had been destroyed by the doodlebug. Their parents had been killed, but somehow the three children had survived, hidden in the cupboard under the stairs the fireman had found them huddled together shivering and crying, but alive.

Ethel remembered the place they had been taken too, the place where all the children cried throughout the night, shouting for a family that would never come back for them. Eventually the new parents came, but they were old and felt three kids were too much and so they just took her. She last saw Gladys and Johnny when she had been taken away kicking and screaming by her new family. And to this day she could still hear Johnny’s screams as she taken away. The Micklewhite’s were not bad people, they looked after her well, but they were just not her Ma and Pa and it was like having a limb removed growing up without Gladys and Johnny.

She was eighty now and she had had a good life. There had been two husbands, both now in their graves. She had raised four children and there were eight grandchildren to visit and fuss over her. But all that mattered as she sat alone in the coffee shop nursing a strong cup of coffee as the world went on its merry way outside the window, was that in a moment the door would open and Gladys and Johnny would come in, they would be together again for the first time in seventy-five years.

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published: 17 March 2014


Night Watch (Turbulence)

photo credit: PeterThoeny Sonic Runway and bubbles via photopin (license)

Transition from high to lows
Is always a bumpy ride when you can’t let go.
When you are reaching out for the drowning man
Hoping, beyond hope
That he’s going to drag you back down again –
To the bottom of the well.
Instead of just hanging here where gravity is like shifting sand.
Where the currents could tear you apart
And you’re living a living hell.
Crying tears, flowing down, creating rivers all about where you stand.
But nobody sees the pain, because nobody is watching
They all think you can cope.
They share out the blind eyes, pass round the happy pills
As the music starts and you put on the clown mask.
Believing the delusion that all is well.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Salt in the Wound

photo credit: Adi Korndörfer Sweet tear via photopin (license)

photo credit: Adi Korndörfer Sweet tear via photopin (license)

Tears rolling
Out of control,
Down to earth
Drowning us both.

If I could take back words
I would take back the hurts,
Chase away the tears.
Wipe away the fears

Say goodbye to it
And stop the crying.
Start your healing now.
Make you feel – new.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


Let it out

Thank you to all in the WordPress community, out on Twitter and Facebook too, that allow me to express myself.


Where would we be without the ability to put thoughts onto paper – whether as fiction, poetry or in art.




Legs curled up beneath you,
This chair a womb of tears.
Crying for its absence,
Heart beating no more.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


A six word Advent calendar – Day 5

Georgie Porgie makes the girls cry.

© 2014 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.