Grey Cloud Fugue

photo credit: docoverachiever Indecisive weather via photopin (license)

And the dark clouds roll across the sky.

It is beautiful, but it makes me want to die.

The beauty of those impenetrable clouds

That could swallow me whole like a funeral shroud.

Swaddle me in a mystery from which I could not escape.

Smother me in their motion, erase the memories of my fate.

 

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Shortest Day

photo credit: RubyT (I come here for cameraderie!) B via photopin (license)

The golden orb hangs low but does not dispel the gloom

That cloud my senses. Of a world spinning wildly beyond the borders of my room.

This cellular existence, the prison bars are of my own making,

Trapping me within a gravity, making me blind to the chances I could be taking.

 

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

 

 

Young Enough

photo credit: natlas Time for Napping via photopin (license)

Can I still climb that hill
Or will I make a mountain
Of it in my mind?

Will they let me join that sort of crowd
Or do I not fit the design? Am I the kind
That’ll lower the tone? Do I wear the right clothes?
Will I get past the bouncers on the door;
And the music will be awful loud.
(And without a proper tune.)
And you can talk and talk,
But you won’t be heard,
It’s like conversing with a wall.
So perhaps I’ll just stay in
With my cup of cocoa and the news.
Slippers on my feet
And wearing those tatty, comfy clothes.

Can I still climb that hill?
Put in the effort. Heart and soul.
Or should I just give up the fight
Climb the stairs and go to bed.

Should I go out tonight?
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Holler

the third day of November and a poem about searching for identity.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Ukelens Inception Selection via photopin(license)

Brain freeze, brain fade;
A hollowed out
Hollow man.
Slow unravelling lethargy,
Can’t escape,
Can’t comprehend,
This speck of dirt
That is life.
What is real,
Is it fake.
I can’t distinguish
The air I breathe
From the vacuum.
The lies
From the gravity.
The sighs
From the gentle breeze,
And I can’t hear
The deafening cries
Of the drowning man.
Nor recognise
If that man is me.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Out of Body

I lay on the grass
Looking up at the night sky.
Cut adrift
From earthly worries and concerns
On this summer night.
Time
Has no meaning,
My body
Has no substance,
Only feeling.

Drugged by the moment,
The beating heart of the earth
Pressed up close, embracing me.
Like a lover,
While an arch, a canopy of stars
Offers a window,
A glimpse,
Into eternity.

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally published 21 August 2016

Monday

For six days I will live,
Just not today
If that’s okay.
On other days I will thrive,
Rise and shine
Give my best,
But not today.
I need to rest

Escape the rat race.
Engines, raw,
The blood and thunder
Carnivores.
The fight to survive
This urban wasteland
From dawn to dusk
Until this day is
… Laid to rest.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Holler

photo credit: Ukelens Inception Selection via photopin (license)

Brain freeze, brain fade;
A hollowed out
Hollow man.
Slow unravelling lethargy,
Can’t escape,
Can’t comprehend,
This speck of dirt
That is life.
What is real,
Is it fake.
I can’t distinguish
The air I breathe
From the vacuum.
The lies
From the gravity.
The sighs
From the gentle breeze,
And I can’t hear
The deafening cries
Of the drowning man.
Nor recognise
If that man is me.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.