Weary

The man put down his newspaper.
His eyes were not what they once had been,
They had seen too much
Of war and hate, and change.
So he closed his eyes to shut out the dark
And slept right there in his old armchair for a while.
He dreamed of when he was younger;
He dreamt of all of his firsts,
First kiss, first dance, first nights.
Always the first and never the last,
For in his dreams
He wasn’t chained within a body that creaked.
His world was not bound by those four familiar walls
And the good times would come back and greet him.
Because in his life there had been many good times;
There had been joy, he’d known love, he’d known laughter.
For the lights of his memory might dim
But they’d never go out.
For in dreams
They came back to greet him.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 December 2015

Where did it All Go Wrong?

Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser

Gruesomeness Warning (Clicking on the Link Reveals a Colour Picture of the Adult Me)   

Here we are as promised my poetry collection has been published and is available via Amazon for Kindle and as a paperback. I am really pleased with the look of the Kindle version and the mere existence of a physical book I have written, though it does feel a little like an out-of-body experience holding a book filled with my own words. I would describe it as pleasantly freaky!

Anyway here is a link to the book Wreckage hope you enjoy it.

Thank you all for your kind words and support on the blog over the last three and a bit years I really wouldn’t have wanted to do it without you all.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

What is this life?

photo credit: Gabriele Negri PhotoArt Lingering via photopin (license)

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

To pick our nose or scratch our arse,

To wonder at the human farce.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally published   4 October 2014

*With thanks for the inspiration supplied by the wonderful poem Leisure by W. H. Davies

Circus

photo credit: vk-red Transfiguration III via photopin (license)

photo credit: vk-red Transfiguration III via photopin (license)

I’m waiting for the clowns
I haven’t seen them yet,
They should be here
To share in my regret.

Up there in the shadows,
Up there in the Gods,
The mountebanks are lurking,
The ones you all adore.
Those liars with their silence
Drown out the sound of the applause.

But there should be clowns here.
Not just whiskey fears and cigarettes.
There should be clowns
To help me to forget.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Fragile

Day 28 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about the fragility of life …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Natalia Medd It's getting cooler every day ) via photopin (license) photo credit: Natalia Medd It’s getting cooler every day ) via photopin(license)

Butterfly flutters
In the early autumn sun,
Holding on to life.

When forever is just a day
Every wingbeat matters.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Fledgling Moment

Day 22 a poem for the moments when you are standing on the edge…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin (license) photo credit: Eagle Eye via photopin(license)

We’ve got a choice,
All of us,
Stood on the precipice
Waiting on the edge of eternity
Ready to step out into the void.
We can choose to fall
Spinning downward at the speed of doubt,
Crashing earthward, accepting the inevitability
Or take a chance
Accept the risk,
Start beating our wings
And try to soar.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Cartography of Skin

Day 6 of my review and a poem about the journey.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: my bloody valentine via photopin (license) photo credit: my bloody valentine via photopin(license)

A tattoo of scars
Draws a map of how I’ve sinned.
It shows the route that I have travelled
In my journey on Earth, from birth until today.
Continents drawn contain the highest peaks
Where eagles dwell, then swoop down into
Vast valleys of despair lit only by lights absence.
There are islands of love here and there
Set adrift on barren seas.
While monsters lurk beneath the waves
As ocean tides rise and fall
With the pulsing of my heart.
With this tattoo of scars
I travel; on a path mapped by
This cartography of skin.

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Weary

Day 5 of my annual review, and another piece about age…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin (license) photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin(license)

The man put down his newspaper.
His eyes were not what they once had been,
They had seen too much
Of war and hate, and change.
So he closed his eyes to shut out the dark
And slept right there in his old armchair for a while.
He dreamed of when he was younger;
He dreamt of all of his firsts,
First kiss, first dance, first nights.
Always the first and never the last,
For in his dreams
He wasn’t chained within a body that creaked.
His world was not bound by those four familiar walls
And the good times would come back and greet him.
Because in his life there had been many good times;
There had been joy, he’d known love, he’d known laughter.
For the lights of his memory might dim
But they’d never go out.

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DVLA

photo credit: w4nd3rl0st (InspiredinDesMoines) Life is a Highway | Badlands NP, SD via photopin (license)

photo credit: w4nd3rl0st (InspiredinDesMoines) Life is a Highway | Badlands NP, SD via photopin (license)

Slowing down for corners,
Savouring of life’s best.
Growing older
If not yet wiser,
Knowing hand-in-hand
We’ll pass the test.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Fragile

Butterfly flutters
In the early autumn sun,
Holding on to life.

When forever is just a day
Every wingbeat matters.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.