Fragmentary Grasp of Reason Part 2

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Sometimes I like to give the illusion
That I listen to the words that you say.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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It’s A Lie

photo credit: Rusty Russ Thinking Man via photopin (license)

It’s a lie, it’s improbable,
It couldn’t possibly be.
There’s not seven billion people
Sharing this planet with me.
How could there be all these people
Floating on a tiny rock,
With a trillion miles of nothing all around
Every which way is up.
They can’t all be looking down at their cell phones
Or living vicariously in virtual reality.
With nothing but the hardcore mainframe
To keep back the dark;
Clocked-off from society,
Hermetically sealed by technology.
It’s a lie, it’s improbable,
It couldn’t possibly be
If there really were seven billion people here
It would be statistically impossible
For one of them to not notice me.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Hungers

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The forces
Beyond your view,
In another consciousness
Sat in another room.

The pilot of other ships,
Soldiers on the other side;
Non-combatants have no choice,
All are part of this war.

All looking for new sadnesses,
While still waiting for old tears to dry.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Waning

 

photo credit: Austin Rapp stratos via photopin (license)

Fitful winds
Whip about us
As we sit at this lonely spot.
This silence
Will define us,
Lasting image of latter days.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Annie

Day 4 of my review of the year, and moving on into December with a poem about loneliness and isolation.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license) photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin(license)

I call her Annie.
That little old lady
Who sits on the park bench,
Day after day,
With only the birds for company.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Annie

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license)

photo credit: Gulls On Edge via photopin (license)

I call her Annie.
That little old lady
Who sits on the park bench,
Day after day,
With only the birds for company.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Twenty-three pairs of chromosomes

photo credit: Axlaxes via photopin (license)

photo credit: Axlaxes via photopin (license)

What if everybody else is as screwed-up as me.
What if my behaviour is just normal for here.
Perhaps this is not spontaneous combustion
And just the confirmation I’m human

Like a mental gravity weighing me down.
Would any aliens that happen to pass by
Know that we are all cracked, twisted and broken.
Maybe there should be a sign up high in the heavens,

“Planet Earth – you gotta be crazy to visit here.”

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Resignation

I’ve had enough.
Are you listening?
Have I got your attention?
Yes, that was me screaming.
Showing fear and agitation
As I shouted, raved and ranted,
Gave voice to my desperation.

I’ve had enough.
I’m heading for the exit
A more fulfilling destination.
I’ve had enough of choppy waters,
Of being decaying vegetation.
I found some pride down here in the gutter
Going to rebuild my reputation.

I’ve had enough.
You can keep the aggravation.
Stick it where the sun don’t shine.
I’m going home.

photo credit: Sunset Burns via photopin (license)

photo credit: Sunset Burns via photopin (license)

 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

I’ve got to get out of this place

Day 11 of the 30 Reblogs of November

Made of sticks and stones

He had read it in a magazine, about the Romanian civil servant who had died at their desk, sitting propped up in their office chair for two weeks and no one noticed. That could happen here, Graham thought, it is the Friday before Christmas if I died now they would not find me to January.

The office was open plan. A sniper who happened upon the scene should have had line of sight from one end of the cavernous space to the other, but as Graham looked around he could see how people had manufactured walls to protect themselves. A forest of pot plants loomed, family photos were chosen as company over the living heartbeats and conversation of colleagues, calendars were propped up as a makeshift barricade a stuffed Piglet toy and Shaun the Sheep pressed into service as the defenders.

He could hear the tap, tap of a keyboard…

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The Chameleon

Day 3 of the 30 reblogs of November and a piece of poetry written in my teens. There was once a lot more but the rest has been lost in the mists of time and this is all that remains.

Made of sticks and stones

Gheerhaets_Allegory_iconoclasm

Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder, Allegory of Iconoclasm, c.1566–1568 etching 15” x 10.4”, British Museum, London. {{PD-US}} {{PD-old}}

Who are you looking at?

What do you see?

If you look real hard

Do you see me?

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