The Visitor

For the eighth November, we have a poem about how nature can suddenly remind you that as humans we are just so small and insignificant.

Made of sticks and stones

The sunlight wavers
As clouds scud low
Above the surface of the moor.
A scarred moonscape it seems to me
But what do I know,
For my body no longer feels like my own.
Wind eddies swirl
Alien emotions wash over me;
I’m think this is my planet
Just not my home.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Visitor

The sunlight wavers
As clouds scud low
Above the surface of the moor.
A scarred moonscape it seems to me
But what do I know,
For my body no longer feels like my own.
Wind eddies swirl
Alien emotions wash over me;
I’m think this is my planet
Just not my home.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Of Grace

 

photo credit: Holly Norval Lifted by the light via photopin (license)

A momentary feeling
Of grace in the chaos,
Of calmness despite
This slow descent
Into catastrophe.
Just a glimpse
Into another universe
Like a stumbled upon path,
An oasis of plenty
In the forest,
Appearing out of the mist
On an April morning.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.