photo credit: Natalia Medd Summer Wind via photopin (license)
Your heady perfume haunts me
That scent of you in the air.
Dizzying sensations that linger
Like the silhouette of a body
Just sketched on the pillow
When nobody is there.
I caught a glimpse of your shadow
A fleeting glimpse, just a hint
That you were there
Before it was gone.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Lieven SOETE Orfeo & Majnun ¬ 20161126.0237 via photopin (license)
I am make believe:
Nightmare and dreams.
Spectre of memory,
The furious fever in scenes
Of theatre macabre.
Phantoms, twisted fancy,
Lurking in shadows,
Poisons that won’t let you be.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Dani Alvarez Cañellas Silvia Pérez Cruz via photopin (license)
Hello,
I didn’t expect to see you here
On the night side of town.
You look like your hiding out
Back here in the half-light
From a paramour pursuing you
With bandaged up flowers
And a heart made of thorns.
Me, well I’m doing fine
Strumming along in time
With the silence.
Trying to make out this design
In the darkness. In the madness;
Wondering why the roses
Are buried in Plaster of Paris
And I’ve a heart full of thorns.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Kansas Poetry (Patrick) Winter Tree Revisited via photopin (license)
It is a time for tears,
Of scudding clouds and fierce-blown frost
On a chill north wind.
When darkness lurks mere moments after dawn
And perpetual shade creeps like the Reaper in this winterland.
Death and snow are the bitter harvest
Of this barren season.
A time for tears; November,
Swansong of the year.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
This is the first part of a poem which I’m still working on. This first part was prompted by the above image though as it grows it seems to be moving on to deal with other things but these opening lines feel like a poem on their own. Hope you enjoy.
1
Moments of pleasure
Memories
Glimpsed through the prism,
Of the looking glass.
Drunken revels,
Passionate nights,
Barefoot walks, wet sand sticking between toes
Because our shoes got lost
In running for the joy
Of the new morning.
The impossible light
That clings to the curves,
The shadows, the reminiscence
Of your footsteps.
That lead away from me
Along the stretch of beach
Towards the incoming tide
Becoming lost in the sea.
Drowning beneath the churning waves
Just as they now fade within my memory.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
‘The Artist’s Halt in the Desert’ by Richard Dadd http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/legalcode
I travel alone through this desert
Though my companions are many.
The silent stones around this oasis
Weep tears into the water
While moonlight glistens upon my fears.
False memories, these heartbeat melodies
Are the ghosts listening outside the circle
Beyond the fire glow, out in the dark
Shadows of the night. These desert sands,
An hourglass with eternity running out
A warrior’s fight with demons not of his making,
Surround me becoming part of my being.
I travel in silence, but never alone
While comfort and solace lurk round the oasis.
The darkness relents with the kiss of the dawn,
Earth rotates and day begins again.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Day 11 of the Review 30 and a little tale of spies
photo credit: Shadow Chess via photopin(license)
He had not expected the King to be a woman. But his briefing had given him very little information, all he knew was he was meeting an agent in a shabby cabaret bar in a Vienna backstreet who would recognise him.
A blonde, long hair falling onto bare shoulders, had sat herself down next to him her skirt rising as she slid herself along the seat towards him revealing long shapely stocking clad legs, he had been about to tell her to leave when she had given the password, her voice intoxicating as she whispered in his ear. He had asked whether she had the package but the King had not answered just placed her hand on the inside of his thigh, her blue eyes staring challengingly at him as she stroked her hand up and down his thigh.
Hurriedly they had left…
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photo credit: Shadow Chess via photopin (license)
He had not expected the King to be a woman. But his briefing had given him very little information, all he knew was he was meeting an agent in a shabby cabaret bar in a Vienna backstreet who would recognise him.
A blonde, long hair falling onto bare shoulders, had sat herself down next to him her skirt rising as she slid herself along the seat towards him revealing long shapely stocking clad legs, he had been about to tell her to leave when she had given the password, her voice intoxicating as she whispered in his ear. He had asked whether she had the package but the King had not answered just placed her hand on the inside of his thigh, her blue eyes staring challengingly at him as she stroked her hand up and down his thigh.
Hurriedly they had left the cabaret, making their way through the deserted streets lit only by a crescent moon, to the nearest hotel, his mission forgot in his desire to have this woman.
But then after, as he lay naked in a pool of blood a knife in his belly, he realised he had not expected the King to be a double agent.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
