Morning Eyes

Slivers of light, slivers of sky,
Contrails flying across my view
Upturned like a smile.
Blues and greys, mist and haze,
Memories of another place.
Wrapped within different sheets
Dreaming of a distant daze.

© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

I See Dead People

I see ghosts out of the corner of my eye.
Shadows of the past, phantoms long gone,
Haunting me. Sleeping and waking, the dreamers
Creep through the tall grass. Circling my sanity.
Searching for the weaknesses in my reality.

© 2019 | 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.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 22 October 2017

Back to the Sea

photo credit: Andrew Gibson. Golden Arch via photopin (license)

I want to go back to the sea
For the sea is calling to me.
The place where the waves meet the sand
Where we went walking and I held your hand.
I want to make sense of it all
And there the big sky makes me feel small.
For it is only there
That I understand the true scale of my cares.
Only there do I understand what it all means.
Only there, holy water washes me clean.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Ghost

It’s part of the bitter harvest,
Parcelled up, a gift from you.
Sealed by a kiss,
With every teardrop earned;
The very least I was due.

It’s carried on the breeze
These dreams of light, driven by machines,
Captured by my sails.
And you’re part of the design
With all winds steering me back to you.

With your touch like ice
Like dark and arrows aimed for my heart.
Because words once said
Will always haunt a soul, and this touch
Of frost was the least I was due.

This traveller’s journey
Has taken me to this crossroads before.
In search of a healer, not the cause.
Because you’re the ghost in my mind
With all roads leading back to you.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 6 February 2016

Where I Begin

photo credit: Isengardt Sleet via photopin (license)

The chill shock of the spring rain
Soaks me to the skin.
To the bones of me;
The place where the I begins.

Rooted in this barren ground
Petrified by the memories,
And the past I have buried within.
For I prayed to hold my mysteries

And take them to my grave.
For what does man have but his sins.
His secret companions in the dark
With the fatal poison of their sting.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Charlie Bear

photo credit: sammydavisdog old bear via photopin (license)

The material has become frayed at the edges.
The seams have started to split,
The stuffing has begun to spill out of his head.
The fur has practically all gone from his ears.

And that fur that once was glossy and brown
Has slowly lost its dye over the years.
I look at him and he looks at me
With the one eye poor Bear has remaining.

Yes, “You’ve seen better days
My old friend.” I say to him
And “Haven’t we all.”
He replies.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


I am small
Neglected and broken
Put aside
In favour of newer toys
Bright and shiny
Presents unwrapped
But it would be wrong
To throw me away
And misplace the memory
Of the adventures
That we imagined together
And the games we have played

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally published 13 March 2016


war kids

Ethel looked at the photo it was the only image she had of her with her siblings. They were sitting on a bench happy and together. It had been taken about six months before the bomb, before their house had been destroyed by the doodlebug. Their parents had been killed, but somehow the three children had survived, hidden in the cupboard under the stairs the fireman had found them huddled together shivering and crying, but alive.

Ethel remembered the place they had been taken too, the place where all the children cried throughout the night, shouting for a family that would never come back for them. Eventually the new parents came, but they were old and felt three kids were too much and so they just took her. She last saw Gladys and Johnny when she had been taken away kicking and screaming by her new family. And to this day she could still hear Johnny’s screams as she taken away. The Micklewhite’s were not bad people, they looked after her well, but they were just not her Ma and Pa and it was like having a limb removed growing up without Gladys and Johnny.

She was eighty now and she had had a good life. There had been two husbands, both now in their graves. She had raised four children and there were eight grandchildren to visit and fuss over her. But all that mattered as she sat alone in the coffee shop nursing a strong cup of coffee as the world went on its merry way outside the window, was that in a moment the door would open and Gladys and Johnny would come in, they would be together again for the first time in seventy-five years.

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published: 17 March 2014

Time Zones

photo credit: 1.5+ mil views. Humbled and thanks to all! Struck by the lightning, crushed by a wave! via photopin (license)

Moments slip from out my eyeline,
Chances founder on the rocks.
While I try to begin again
The memories wait for me in the shadows.
My hopes are destined to fail
While these shifting sands
Shift beneath me again.
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.