Chiaroscuro

photo credit: The Manic Macrographer Low Key Portrait via photopin (license)

Your light and dark plays with me.
Essence of night is the fragrance you wear.
Silence is the word on your lips
As with a gaze unwavering you stare
Succeeding again at unmanning me.

Twilight and rain clouds wrapped about you
Like a mantle of darkness
You are shadows, a certain chill in the air.
An absence, a sickness,
An addiction I keep on returning to.

You are the bones, the secret within.
The whisper deep underground
Forever echoing in the dark.
You are the fatal cry. The final sound.
I am your victim. You are my sin.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Bohemian Queen

photo credit: Eddi van W. energy via photopin (license)

The light is lazy
That creeps in through the window
And bathes you in its glow.
The tassels on the shawl
Draped across your shoulders
Ripple gently.
As if it is only the dream
Of a breeze
That disturbs your meditation,
And not the humdrum reality
Of this physical, not astral, place.

I believe you see
In different colours
Not visible to mortal sight.
That you commune
With the intangible
As you untangle the metaphysics,
Of the web you yearn to leave.

I believe
That if I blink, turn my eyes from you
You will achieve nirvana, your true purpose
And dissipate.
Become a million dancing flames
That burn too brightly,
Quickly fade to memory
And beyond the realm of mortal sight.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Penumbra

 

Flecks of colour in the night
Flickers of motion beyond sight.
The glory of memory
Of you and me. Of you and me.
Repetition of this ceremony

Beneath the waves of this sanctuary.
With a touch as cold as the altar stone
And bed a barren ocean where I lay alone
Within this dark. Where outside lights
Dance and tease just out of sight.

No heart’s comfort now you have gone
The hearth is cold within this home,
And in the garden flowers might
Crumble to dust; in this world turned black and white.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Embers

Let us kick off the Review 30 for November with the opening chapter of something I’ve been working on; other than world domination.

Made of sticks and stones

As I said at the beginning of the week I have been working hard on a new project. This has developed out of the final exam project for the University module I completed in the last academic year; a small idea that has grown and grown, this is its beginning.

photo credit: Phoenix rising, with babies via photopin (license) photo credit: Phoenix rising, with babies via photopin(license)

Chapter 1

A shout from one of her clan sisters brought her back to the moment. All the clans were coming together, flying south. She had never seen so many of her own kind before, eighty at least and more shapes appeared on the horizon all the time and slowly coalesced into the distinctive shape of more lizard birds.

Most were brown like her family. Some were grey, the winter sun glinting silver off of gleaming plumage, while others still appeared to sparkle an iridescent blue, light dripping on to their feathers…

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The sun got lost

The goblins got the blame when the sun failed to rise. Alderman Pickering, said that they had leaned a really long ladder up against the mountain during the night and plucked the sun straight out of the sky as it was rising.

Mr Hobson the village butcher said that was nonsense and it was more likely that one of the fisherman out on the far ocean had caught the sun’s reflection in their net, dragging the reflection down under the water where it was sunk and lost forever. Without a reflection, so Mr Hobson said, the sun would just not be able to shine anymore.

Then there were others who reckoned the sun was tired, shining looked such hard work after all and it would be back in a day or two after it had had a little rest.

But I knew it would never be back. For how could the sun shine down ever again, for last night you said that you did not love me but loved someone else.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Rain

Day 22 of the 30 Reblogs of November. We are soon to enter the last week of November and it is hard to think of rain in a positive light at this time of year, but here is my attempt at sticking up for the rain…

Made of sticks and stones

Rain is dreams,

Dreams are light,

Light is goodness

And Goodness

Is drops of rain.

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