Nothing

Day 3 of the Annual Review and a poemwritten for someone who left too soon…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: kbetty An angel who doesn't know he has a halo via photopin (license) photo credit: kbetty An angel who doesn’t know he has a halo via photopin(license)

I keep hearing that song.
That song you played
When you were still something.
When you were still alive.

I remember you placing
Your hand in mine, trusting
You had the moments left
To do anything.

You had your whole life.
A million breathes to take,
A whole life and everything.
When you were still alive.
 

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Parting the Sea

photo credit: Taylan Soyturk Photographe The Time I Was Daydreaming via photopin (license)

A forgotten realm calls out to me
From the darkness beneath the sea.
It sings songs of memory, loss
And tragedy. Of sacrifice and cost.
Sings of the brothers left behind. Who know,
And cry, because we’re never coming home.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Unravelling Twine

photo credit: Piyushgiri Revagar Centre via photopin (license)

I never knew my father. I recognised him of course, I’d see him every morning silently cutting up his bacon rashers and sausages before forking them into his mouth; while us kids bickered and fought using our cereal spoons as make-believe swords. Then in the evening he would be found hiding in the dark shadows of the living room while the rest of us hovered like a family of moths in adoration around the flickering light of the television screen.

The rest of the time he seemed invisible, apart from the odd glimpse of him sat on the old wooden bench in the shade of the crab apple tree at the bottom of the garden. Mum used to send him there as she hated the smell of his tobacco. There he would sit his pipe gripped between his teeth while his hands worked unravelling a twisted mess of green twine. He never seemed to unravel it, every time you saw him there he seemed to be, starting his own labour of Hercules anew.

I never found out what he was doing it for or if he ever finished, and now I’ve left it too late to ask him.

 

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Last of the Line

photo credit: Soap Creatives Time travel via photopin (license)

photo credit: Soap Creatives Time travel via photopin (license)

A time of dying
Leaves no one alive to keep
Memory alight.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Nothing

I keep hearing that song.
That song you played
When you were still something.
When you were still alive.

I remember you placing
Your hand in mine, trusting
You had the moments left
To do anything.

You had your whole life.
A million breathes to take,
A whole life and everything.
When you were still alive.
 

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Too Blind

Day 9 of the review – and a poem about ‘too much’

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Standing at the Gates of Hell via photopin (license) photo credit: Standing at the Gates of Hell via photopin(license)

I can’t see you,
Just the echoes
Where you used to be.
Because I’m a lost boy
Confused about the direction,
Whether I’m heading
For heaven or hell.
For I stopped feeling
When I started bleeding
Many moons ago.
And all that’s left
Is half a bottle of whiskey
And these scars
That keep my eyes shut,
I’m down on my knees
Begging for redemption
Knowing the game is up.
For there is just an absence
A black hole in the aether
And the echoes
Where you used to be.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Drifting

 

I didn’t see, I never heard
The silences lengthen.
I never noticed that you had drifted
From out of my embrace.

I never missed your gentle caress.
I never stopped to consider,
I never stopped to just care.

When did we stop dreaming together,
When did I start building walls.
I didn’t see, I never heard
Until I heard the slamming door.
 
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 27 March 2015

Shipwrecked

Shipwrecked

To the night another soul
shipwrecked on the rocks.

For the night’s not over
‘til all hearts are lost.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 13 January 2015

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Amnesia

She’s falling,
Memories drift away.
All the pills in creation
Won’t save her.
These failing reminiscences
She clings to can’t bring back
The brightly coloured yesterday now gone.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Stillness

 

Foetal,
Legs curled up beneath you,
This chair a womb of tears.
Crying for its absence,
Heart beating no more.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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