Dark Side

photo credit: leavingorbit Waning crescent (2%) via photopin (license)

Spinning in the infinite
Shining forever, but always
You die. Resurrection
Is not an option,
Only entropy.
The slow descent,
Decaying orbit,
Dragging you downward
Towards a black hole
Of your own making.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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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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Exhalation of Water

For the 12 November I’m sharing a poem about moments

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: VinceFL MacroMondays_Bubbles2 001 via photopin(license)

Stillness,
A momentary calm
Like the heart breaths before
The exhalation of water
From the lungs of a drowning man.

A baptism of desire,
Of cold, cold fire.
The absence of touch
In a universe without feeling.
Just the biology of the vacuum
Without emotion only needing,

Then the tsunami.
Colours exploding, overwhelming;
Like a million hands
Reaching out of the darkness
Touching skin, caressing my mind.
 
© 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.

Exhalation of Water

photo credit: VinceFL MacroMondays_Bubbles2 001 via photopin (license)

Stillness,
A momentary calm
Like the heart breaths before
The exhalation of water
From the lungs of a drowning man.

A baptism of desire,
Of cold, cold fire.
The absence of touch
In a universe without feeling.
Just the biology of the vacuum
Without emotion only needing,

Then the tsunami.
Colours exploding, overwhelming;
Like a million hands
Reaching out of the darkness
Touching skin, caressing my mind.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Tumbledown

photo credit: dharder9475 117/365: Dark before light via photopin (license)

It all falls down,
Crumbles about my bones.
Heartbreak and tears stripped away
Leaving me bare.
Nothing left but hope,
I am reborn
Knowing that you’ve entered the room.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

A Poem of Spring

 

photo credit: Rusty Russ Flowered Tree – ReVisioned via photopin (license)

Abandoned memories
Swirl on the breeze, coalesce
Together with unforgiving rhymes.
I struggle to pick out
The strands of imagination
And inspiration
Which I wish to pursue.

The dogs bark out on the moor
And the hounds of winter howl;
Last chance, last stand,
Against the creep of the calendar.
These lengthening days
That mark the changing season.
The reasoning hours of civilisation’s return.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Tumbling

photo credit: kickize The graveyard via photopin (license)

photo credit: kickize The graveyard via photopin (license)

Tumbling snowflakes
Covering me, a blanket
Of winter conceals.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Swimming Underground

Drifting,
Forgetting,
Drowning out the sound
Of the living beings.
Precious moments
Spreading out
Tentacles touching eternity.
Cracks in reality,
As eye to eye with the divine
I delve my hand beneath the earth
Dive down
Amongst this Promethean decay.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

 

Young

The white waves call
The crippled newborn forth out of the shell.
Born into a world ill-equipped
For life.
And on belly it crawls slowly
Towards the healing waters
To be reborn; take flight,
To feel young again.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The opening line of this poem comes from the Louis Macneice poem “Prayer Before Birth”. I’ve only just come across his work recently and now it seems like every other new poem I read is his.

“Young” is one of two poems I’ve written that have borrowed this line, neither of which ended up exactly as I planned. Perhaps the line just wanted to head back to where it began.