Forgotten

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

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Memento

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

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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.

Opposing Sides

photo credit: RamónP Jessica Blanco y Negro via photopin (license)

That shiver of recognition
I think we shared,
When our eyes met
As we passed each other
On opposite sides
Rushing by.

A moment spent together
In recollecting the good times,
Not thinking of how it would end.
A glimpse of a different summer

Warmed by the heat
Of another fire
As we pass by
On different sides.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Remembrance

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“That’s the best decision I’ve ever made!”
I’ve said that phrase again and again,
So much so that I have a list
Numbered one to ten
Of my living hit parade,
The highlights of my life.

But I don’t have a list
Of my epic failures;
Because who wants to commemorate
The times they went down with the ship.

So that is why, I think,
With no flag raised to my failures
I keep forgetting and repeating
The same ones again and again.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Unravelling Twine

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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.

The Silence Between

 

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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.

 

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Primitive Archaeology

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Preserved in the permafrost of time
Lost beneath the layers of deceit,
The decrepit solutions for a forgotten age.
The sage solutions, easy fixes, neat tricks.
A sticking plaster to hide the wounds
From prying eyes, and dying sighs.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Nobody’s Home

 

photo credit: Karen Newman Photography Family Photos via photopin (license)

Dead foot dominion
Where corridors echo
With the sounds of corruption,
And wanton wind colludes
With the creak upon the stairs.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Visualise

photo credit: begemot_dn tree time via photopin (license)

photo credit: begemot_dn tree time via photopin (license)

Dandelion clocks dance in the breeze
Like the time we spent together
Danced away from me.
The visions of you I keep in view,
Anchors of trust to which I’m tethered.
Vision of time now lost.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.