Rainy Monday

photo credit: © Axel Naud It's rainy outside.. via photopin (license)

photo credit: © Axel Naud It’s rainy outside.. via photopin (license)

I’m a child who is still growing
I’ve not gained enough experience yet.
I don’t have the level of knowing
To stand on my own feet without a helping hand
From someone who loves me.
From someone prepared to accept my fallibility.
My ability to fuck it up on an epic scale,
I can only say sorry
On those days when I don’t feel ready to be an adult.
You know, when it’s Monday and raining again.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 20 February 2017

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Misbehaving

This is one of my favourite all-time posts and was originally posted on the 18 May 2016. So much so that I thought I’d share it again, hope you enjoy

photo credit: Leda via photopin (license)

photo credit: Leda via photopin (license)

I was forced today, very much against my will, to go for a coffee. The rain was beating down, seriously threatening to move me beyond the status of drowned rat to something far more wretched. And while I wasn’t sure caffeine was the answer I felt there was no harm in at least exploring that hypothesis.

I had work to do, the most urgent thing being meeting a deadline which had less than twenty-four hours to run but even though I had everything I needed with me to do some profitable work, my mind wanted to misbehave. So there I sat in a riverside location watching ducks go waddling past and people rushing by trying to avoid raindrops. While overhead the sky became increasingly ominous.

So I sat there and I wrote three poems, which seem to be linked or at least sit together with a degree of comfort. Not that they are about anything apart from daydreaming and misbehaving.

PS. And I’ve met that deadline too, so not a bad day all in all.

Grey Lady

photo credit: IMG_1158 via photopin (license)

photo credit: IMG_1158 via photopin (license)

No matter how much you disguise
Or hide the beauty inside
You never fail to shine.
In a world of billions of shadows
I’m praying Grey Lady
That one day
You shine your light on me.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Somewhere

photo credit: Eyes Color via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eyes Color via photopin (license)

You move in silence
Like an angel.
A halo of gold framing your face
Like a coronet marking that you are
Not of mortal kind.
An elfin beauty, ghost of a smile
Curving your mouth
And setting stars aflame
Somewhere in the unfathomable depths
Of those blue, blue eyes.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Linger

 

photo credit: Autumn lips via photopin (license)

photo credit: Autumn lips via photopin (license)

You are something and nothing
The beginning
The moment it all ends
That headlong rush in the dark
The luxuriant feel of summer rain upon my skin
The fear
The pleasure and the pain
The ecstasy
The moment
Your lips first linger on mine

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Little England

photo credit: neiljs London snow via photopin (license)

Flurries
Of worrisome weather,
Caught between hello and goodbye.
A day that don’t know
If it’s coming or going.
Came in like a lamb
But now it’s having trouble deciding
Whether to go out on the town
Or out with a bang.

A blizzard is blowing
Down High Street and byways
And icicle tears
Are stinging my cheeks.
Next moment it is raining,
Chasing the white flakes away.
While the sun is claiming
A leave of absence
From the muck and the grime.
Escaping grey little England
For the lake and the beach.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Raindance

For the 26 November here’s a poem of rebirth …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: chiaralily Wet City Nightscape via photopin(license)

The return of the rain
Brings me to life again.

The touch of this holy water
Upon my skin
Washes me clean
Lets me begin once more.

The passion of the raindrops
Freefalling to the ground
Is the baptism of hope I need
So that I feel born again.

It resurrects a faith
That had all but died.

I feel rain, I feel alive.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Flurrying

Day 7 of my review of the last twelve months and a poem about the weather. I love writing about the weather, it is a bit of a comfort blanket though if in doubt or struggling for inspiration you’ll end up with a weather poem. But then with the weather endlessly changing you are never stuck for something fresh as a subject

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Dmitry Karyshev first snow via photopin(license)

Flurries
Of worrisome weather,
Caught between hello and goodbye.
A day that don’t know
If it’s coming or going.
Came in like a lamb
But now it’s having trouble deciding
Whether to go out on the town
Or out with a bang.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Raindance

photo credit: chiaralily Wet City Nightscape via photopin (license)

The return of the rain
Brings me to life again.

The touch of this holy water
Upon my skin
Washes me clean
Lets me begin once more.

The passion of the raindrops
Freefalling to the ground
Is the baptism of hope I need
So that I feel born again.

It resurrects a faith
That had all but died.

I feel rain, I feel alive.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Weather

With my review of the year now finished  it’s time to start on another blogging project the Advent Calendar – a post a day between now and the 24 December – and here is the first …

Weather

photo credit: Natalia Medd Bubble Wrapped via photopin (license)

Early morning rain waking me again.
The sun won’t be breaking through the clouds today.
That old weatherman has gone and got it wrong again.
He promised me sunshine and smiles, mercury way up the dial
Before I fell asleep last night. But the plan has obviously changed
Because I wake up to rain again.

This Rain

Day 11 of my review and a poem about endings; or beginnings …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: kevin dooley Rain bytes via photopin (license) photo credit: kevin dooley Rain bytes via photopin(license)

This rain
Seems permanent
The way it is clinging to me,
Like sin.

As guilty
As drab Sundays
In a Suburban town,
When the weekend
Has run out of time.
And though you’d prayed
In your dirty subterranean soul
That Monday would never come,
It looms like storm clouds over you.

And this rain
Is hanging on,
Soaking me through.
Tell-tale mark
Like the blood and gut stain
Of the week to come.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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