Keeping Faith

photo credit: Fan.D & Dav.C Photgraphy The stars are best seen in the darkest moments. via photopin (license)

Reach out, touch the chill void –
Holding out and hoping
For some kind of sign.
That will stop me from falling
Further into the dark
Between the future and the past.

To the place where the silence hesitates
And all my misdemeanours wait
For memory to recall.
For the sins and sacraments
Of my fragile belief in this reality
To begin again, to believe in me.

© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Silence Between


photo credit: bdrc Shiodome Miuna via photopin (license)

In the silence between
Your lips and mine
Lies the truth unsaid. Unseen,
The key to this epic design.

In the darkness between
Two hearts shattered and lost
Lies the remedy undreamed
To turn hearts star crossed.

In the memories between
The dark and the day
Lie the tears, cried in silence, unseen
And that flickering hope you’d stay.


© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 26 June 2017

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