Libretto

I

photo credit: Historias Visuales Viajera silenciosa via photopin (license)

I may have the words
But the music has escaped from me.
I may know the steps
But the dance has left my feet.
I may have had you once
But that was another day,
Another picture of decay.

II

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Metamorphosis:
Say something else, before voices flee
Running timid from
Reality. Bleeding on these streets
For the word crimes. Passionate
Execution of the grey
And the virgin’s vision – decay.

© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 14 January 2017

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What We Can Learn

photo credit: Howard J Duncan Basho’s Pond via photopin (license)

What can we learn from the silence,
From the absence of the thunder and roar.
From the separation of the sense from the feeling,
The search for a meaning beyond the blue door.

What is the substance of existence,
The warp and the weft, the disparate threads.
Is the heartbeat just a Morse code call to the dying,
This mortal stardust’s flickering dread.

© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Nothing and Nowhere

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The stillness of the vacuum at the heart of it all.
The silence of the moment that heralded my fall.
The sadness of the climax, the shattering of dreams
When reality is nothing like you hoped it would be.
The absence of essence, of reason to believe.
Of loss and the grave, and the inevitability of grief.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The End of the Echo

photo credit: PeachySick11 I WON’T BE THE ONE TO LEAVE THIS IN PIECES via photopin (license)

Sounds recede and then
Only silence remains.
Only silence and pain.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Unreadable

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Winding down the wrong road,
Misreading the runes of your heart.
For I can’t fathom the truths
You expect me to know.
I can’t foretell what phrase
It is you are wanting to hear.
For your face is just a blank page to me now
Full of unreadable signs.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Low Tide

photo credit: Crunchy Footsteps Tidepooling in La Jolla- tide coming in via photopin (license)

Wave after wave,
This life of leavings and goodbyes.
No crescendo just diminuendo,
Petering out into silent partings
And solitary sighs.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Still Midwinter

Day 11 of my review and wishing for warmer weather.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Snow Queen via photopin(license)

It is still midwinter here
There is ice upon your lips
And I can’t remember the last time
The sun broke through the clouds,
A smile lit up your face
Or we shared a whisper of desire.

Where I long to whisper sweet nothings
There is just this glacier between us.
We should be wrapped up beneath the covers,
Instead we’re tangled within this iron curtain
And this cold warfare silently simmers
But never burns, for there is no fire.

There are no tears, recriminations, just the eloquence of sighs.
I yearn for the return of spring.
I lie awake waiting for the thaw
But it’s still midwinter here
There is ice upon your lips
And I can’t remember the last time.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Drifting

 

photo credit: Impressioni portoghesi – Lisbona di notte via photopin (license)

I didn’t see, I never heard
The silences lengthen.
I never noticed that you had drifted
From out of my embrace.

I never missed your gentle caress.
I never stopped to consider,
I never stopped to just care.

When did we stop dreaming together,
When did I start building walls.
I didn’t see, I never heard
Until I heard the slamming door.
 
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 27 March 2015

Still Midwinter

photo credit: Snow Queen via photopin (license)

It is still midwinter here
There is ice upon your lips
And I can’t remember the last time
The sun broke through the clouds,
A smile lit up your face
Or we shared a whisper of desire.

Where I long to whisper sweet nothings
There is just this glacier between us.
We should be wrapped up beneath the covers,
Instead we’re tangled within this iron curtain
And this cold warfare silently simmers
But never burns, for there is no fire.

There are no tears, recriminations, just the eloquence of sighs.
I yearn for the return of spring.
I lie awake waiting for the thaw
But it’s still midwinter here
There is ice upon your lips
And I can’t remember the last time.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.