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.

Advertisements

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.

View original post

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.

View original post

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)

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.

View original post

Rain

photo credit: Robert Couse-Baker Maxwell’s demon via photopin (license)

Rain is dreams,

Dreams are light,

Light is goodness

And Goodness

Is drops of rain.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published: 29 August 2014

Battle Sky

photo credit: krheesy Electric Blue via photopin (license)

I’m waiting for the storm,
Waiting for the normality to return.
Waiting for the heat to dissipate
In the downpour and the rain,
The deluge and the flood.

I’m waiting for the warriors
The ear-shattering clash of shields,
In the battle sky. Lightning like sharp-edged swords
To spear the heart of heat
From out this summer night.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

This Rain

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.

Rainy Monday

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.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.