What if the places where it began,
Burned up,
Burned down to the ground.
What if the people who once cheered,
Began plotting,
Baying for blood.
What if the angels, the heavenly host,
Were the demons,
Inside my skull.
What if the sky
Came crashing down,
Swallowing me whole.
What if the fever, seeps through the walls,
No safe spaces,
Just cages for all.
© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 26 May 2016

Red Sky in the Morning

photo credit: Victor Shore via photopin (license)

photo credit: Victor Shore via photopin (license)

What kind of false fantasy
Do you want me to believe?
What silver lining shall I watch
Kicked into the dust.
What wish upon a star
Happily ever after
Should I cry to sleep over tonight.
A politician’s promise;
A teenager’s wet dream;
Lovers kiss with fingers crossed.
It’s another false fantasy
Another rust coloured dawn.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 23 March 2016

Missed you

photo credit: Space Oddity via photopin (license)

photo credit: Space Oddity via photopin (license)

I should have kissed you,
I wanted to so much.
I should have leaned in closer,
I was aching for your touch.

I could have kissed you,
The lights were turned down low.
There was a moment,
Electricity, between us a glow.

I would have kissed you,
But the shadows were too long,
There had been too much wine
And in the morning I’d be gone.

But I should have kissed you.

photo credit: Rachael. via photopin (license)

photo credit: Rachael. via photopin (license)

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally published 8 May 2014

Plotting a course

photo credit: Dusky via photopin (license)

photo credit: Dusky via photopin (license)

I’ve navigated choppy seas.

My boat has taken on water.

But I made it through,

I survived

And if I fear

That I may go down again,

Lose my compass,

Sight of land,

Then I will remember

That the stars shined

And showed me the way

Back to you.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


photo credit: Marco Nürnberger The Shadow via photopin (license)

What doesn’t kill us
Makes us stronger,
What doesn’t kill us
Makes us wish we were younger,

What doesn’t kill us
Makes us wish for yesterday,
Makes us wish.
That the Shadow would go away

Leave us to our own designs
To roll the dice,
Leaves us to play the game.
Fate in own hands

Impostors by another name,
Captains of our own sinking ship.
In control of our own illusions
With mastery of all our delusions.

With all the weapons ready
At our command
We are ready
To take a stand.

What doesn’t kill us
Makes us wish we were younger
Makes us long for the Shadow
That we fear to go away.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

What it Seems

photo credit: biizz it's not over via photopin (license)

photo credit: biizz it’s not over via photopin (license)

What happens if I distrust the rumours
But take your sweetest lies as facts?

Well the honey bee knows
That the strongest perfume can disguise the truth
And that the prettiest blooms can sometimes be empty inside.
It’s like the stag that has learned to fear the silence
Because of the danger that lies in autumn shadow.
Or the wind that cries softly in November,
For remembrance of what winter brings.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

This is the final prompt of five from ‘How to Write a Poem’ by Tania Runyan, and is all about unanswered questions.

The Mob and Me

photo credit: Sirheo Shape via photopin (license)

photo credit: Sirheo Shape via photopin (license)

I don’t understand
The mob, or perhaps it’s just
That I look at the victim
After a lynching
And ask who is next?
Wondering if there’s a chance
That the mob will pick on me.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


Fall back

Blue skies and heartaches
Live always together in
My mind. For I know,
If I dare to love in spring
It’ll be over by fall.

© 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


Jack did not answer. He just headed off down the tree-lined path in front of her, howling, kicking up the autumn leaves in his excitement, setting off a mini-avalanche of soil and stones in his wake. The dog led the way downhill into the shrouded valley, as Angela struggled to keep up with him, a sluggish stream just visible, as a livid scar in the valley below.

‘Jack, Jack.’ She shouted in vain, setting off after him at a run, fallen twigs snapping under her determined tread.

She knew she had to concentrate to get them home safe before dark. She had been distracted, not just that afternoon when she had fled the cottage storming into the forest; getting them lost as she raged at nature. But ever since they had run away, half way across the world to a country that seemed permanently damp, trees sagging under the weight of the Welsh rain.

Angela felt herself losing her balance long before she toppled. Watching as the accumulated leaves on the hill cartwheeled ahead, a reddish brown tornado disturbed by her stumbling feet; her coccyx smacked the ground hard as she fell.

‘Good-oof!’ Angela cried.

The impact forced the air from her lungs as she slid down the hill. Her head bouncing side to side as she slid over the ground, her long hair trailing after her snagging pulling strands from her scalp as she slid on. Her pink cagoule rucking up as she slid helter-skelter down the slope, bare back scraping over twigs and tree roots.

She came to rest in the floor of the valley, her back and head aching. Winded she just lay staring up at the narrow sliver of grey cloud heavy sky just visible among the trees that loomed angrily over her. Their skeletal branches questing upwards for the light, for the chlorophyll that she knew would make the trees burst back into life come next spring.

Cautiously, she felt her belly it was the only part of her that did not hurt. No sign yet that anything had changed since the pregnancy test. In her anger she had left it discarded in the sink, where Bryn could find it if he made it back to the cottage before she returned.

She did not think she had deliberately fallen. Just like the night back in Philadelphia when they had met and she had stumbled into Bryn’s arms by accident; the handsome red haired man had wrapped his strong arms about her and he had been holding her ever since.

When they had married she had just assumed, but doctors, hormones, nothing worked – she stubbornly remained barren. Until they stopped trying, only then did she fall pregnant.

They both laughed at that phrase, falling pregnant a reminder of how Angela had stumbled her way into Bryn’s arms. And all had gone well until the sonogram, until the doctor saying the foetus was not viable. She had been falling ever since.

‘Aah.’ She moaned, levering herself up into a sitting position. She checked her back her hand coming away red, slick with blood oozing from the wounds. But she did not think she was bleeding anywhere else. She did not know if that was a good thing or not.

Angela looked around. Jack stood a little way off, his feet in the shallow stream head dipped, long tongue lapping setting off ripples on the surface of the frigid water.

‘Jack I ache. All of me. I don’t know if I can risk this again.’ Her hand rested on her belly as she spoke.

Jack lifted his grey wolf-like head, his snow white chest sparkling with water droplets and gave a bark. The sharp sound echoed down the length of the valley, in and out of the trees that huddled together shivering in the strengthening wind.

She stood, began walking slowly putting one foot in front of the other haltingly, the aches and pains of the fall making her body feel as if she was learning to walk anew. She started to make her way down the valley searching for the path.

Angela knew what it was she feared most, Bryn’s optimism, his boyish faith that it would be okay. It was like he did not get that losing another baby could tear her apart from the inside. If the fear did not get her first, the what-ifs, that crowded in on her, the what-ifs that shaped things.

Jack had stopped by a tree and was staring back at her expectantly. She realised how blind she had been, because there quite clearly were the letters A and B that Bryn had carved on a tree to mark the path that led back to the cottage. She turned uphill setting her sight on home.  Continue reading