Trip the Light Fantastic with You

photo credit: Trix: Pierre qui roule ……. Impresionante Sara Baras y toda su compañía via photopin (license)

Your motion in that moment
Is sinuous, movement neverending.
You dance the figure for infinity,
Sketching out your theory of everything
With your body. A prism you have become,
Your silhouette a rainbow as light explodes through you.
I am a spectator at the beginning of the universe
As time stops. Before my heart beats again.
I am a spectator at the beginning of the universe,
As with the electricity of your touch
I come to life; I breathe again.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Luna, Luna

Day 23 and a poem that I found I had written on the back of an old envelope and forgotten all about …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Sabrina Campagna Live Music Photographer Queen of the Air via photopin(license)

Luna, Luna impossible,
Girl dancing by the light of the moon.
Dancing with stars in her eyes,
Barefoot and wild – my beautiful Luna
Hoping the morning
Doesn’t come too soon.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Luna, Luna

photo credit: Sabrina Campagna Live Music Photographer Queen of the Air via photopin (license)

Luna, Luna impossible,
Girl dancing by the light of the moon.
Dancing with stars in her eyes,
Barefoot and wild – my beautiful Luna
Hoping the morning
Doesn’t come too soon.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Deal

photo credit: Dancer I, 2013 via photopin (license)

Is it cruelty that prompts you
To withhold your touch,
To walk away, renege on the deal.

Or is this just a dance?

Are there steps I should know
If I desire to pull you close.
If I want you to hold.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 3 May 2016 

Last Dance

Another year of blogging nearly gone by and here’s a poem from last November to kick off my annual review of some of my personal favourites from the last year.

Made of sticks and stones

Image from DeviantArt: http://jp13jp.deviantart.com/art/Ultima-danca-last-dance-367967150

And the lights go down
Night after night
And the orchestra
Go home to their beds.
And in the early hours
When I am alone
I wonder
If I should’ve asked you to dance.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Weaver

photo credit: The Web via photopin (license)

And The Weaver starts spinning
She’s got you in a daze
Trapped you from the first moment
That her hips begin to sway.

Her motion beckoning you nearer
You’re longing for her touch.
It’s like your breathing is failing
And falling is not enough.
 

photo credit: The Tangled Web via photopin (license)

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Summons You Away

photo credit: summer here kids via photopin (license)

The summer sun summons you away
Like a mirage dancing
First there and then gone,
To reappear again over there.
A between times moment,
False trail, just glimpsed
Out of the corner of the eye.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

You

photo credit: Bright Black Press Shot via photopin (license)

The dancer twirls around the floor
Dancing for her own reflection,
Mirrored there upon the walls.
Why would she wish to dance with another,
When no one else understands the music’s call.
“Oh you pretty thing,” the music acclaims her.
The one and only, the belle, the dance desires her.
“Oh you pretty thing,” with every swish and glide,
The ecstasy, as the music rides her.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Last Dance

And the lights go down
Night after night
And the orchestra
Go home to their beds.
And in the early hours
When I am alone
I wonder
If I should’ve asked you to dance.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

photo credit: “I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others–young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby via photopin (license)

 

Two minute warning

It’s Day 2 of of the Review 30 for November.

Made of sticks and stones

Will we recognise the two minute warning?

Humanity’s last chance

To avoid our own destruction.

Will it be a familiar tune?

Like our grandparents would’ve known.

One to which we all can dance

As we pirouette off to our doom.

Will it be the sound of distant birdsong?

If there are birds still alive by then.

Will we recognise our last chance?

Have they already called last orders?

Are they playing our funeral march?

 

© 2014 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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