Now Lost

For the 6 November we have a poem from January when I was really caught up in researching my family tree. And my thoughts and feelings were immersed in all things Irish, which probably explains the genesis of my current fiction project and the family stories from which it emerged.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Thiophene_Guy (animated stereo) The May Queen, 1886 via photopin(license)

Grey eyes, all grey-eyed,
The will-o’-the-wisp
Inhabitants of the sepia past.
Yet these phantom,
Long-forgotten footnotes in history,
Are the foundation stones
Of how I have come to be.
The desertions, the petty cruelties,
That gold coin flung afar
To sink forever within the mire.
All just threads and plots passed on
To become mythology.
Like the tortures
Of inferno, and Iron Lung –
All have played their part
In my neuroses and minor crimes.
And yet my hopes, my dreams…
Or call it what you will
My native gift, my elemental spark –
Something
Recognises as the source
That same grey-eyed river,
Which I can glimpse,
Through maelstrom mist sometime
Out of the corner of my eye,
Like reflections in the mirror.

© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

View original post

Advertisements

Now Lost

Grey eyes, all grey-eyed,
The will-o’-the-wisp
Inhabitants of the sepia past.
Yet these phantom,
Long-forgotten footnotes in history,
Are the foundation stones
Of how I have come to be.
The desertions, the petty cruelties,
That gold coin flung afar
To sink forever within the mire.
All just threads and plots passed on
To become mythology.
Like the tortures
Of inferno, and Iron Lung –
All have played their part
In my neuroses and minor crimes.
And yet my hopes, my dreams…
Or call it what you will
My native gift, my elemental spark –
Something
Recognises as the source
That same grey-eyed river,
Which I can glimpse,
Through maelstrom mist sometime
Out of the corner of my eye,
Like reflections in the mirror.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Visualise

photo credit: begemot_dn tree time via photopin (license)

photo credit: begemot_dn tree time via photopin (license)

Dandelion clocks dance in the breeze
Like the time we spent together
Danced away from me.
The visions of you I keep in view,
Anchors of trust to which I’m tethered.
Vision of time now lost.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Jasmine

photo credit: Ross Elliott CorfeCastle 0214 0801bw via photopin (license)

photo credit: Ross Elliott CorfeCastle 0214 0801bw via photopin (license)

Jasmine twists across the tower doorway
Green vine only no flowers left,
No sweet perfume. Just castle ruins

A path forgotten, overgrown.
Gardens glory ages past
In this abandoned Camelot.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Weary

Day 5 of my annual review, and another piece about age…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin (license) photo credit: And Now for Something Completely Different via photopin(license)

The man put down his newspaper.
His eyes were not what they once had been,
They had seen too much
Of war and hate, and change.
So he closed his eyes to shut out the dark
And slept right there in his old armchair for a while.
He dreamed of when he was younger;
He dreamt of all of his firsts,
First kiss, first dance, first nights.
Always the first and never the last,
For in his dreams
He wasn’t chained within a body that creaked.
His world was not bound by those four familiar walls
And the good times would come back and greet him.
Because in his life there had been many good times;
There had been joy, he’d known love, he’d known laughter.
For the lights of his memory might dim
But they’d never go out.

View original post 17 more words

Echoes

I see waves beat upon the shore.
But if I close my eyes
I feel the ripples, reverberations
Of some other place and time.
The tide evokes memories
With the sound of its ebb and flow.
These whispers of yesterday in the water,
When I close my eyes and give myself to the sea.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

I Was Different Then

I used to love her
But that was then,
That was a different life,
A different circumstance.

That was when someone else
Held the strings
And I danced on
To someone else’s song.

My fate was controlled
My future was not my own,
A dice throw and happenstance
Outside of my control.

But now I take my chance
Out here on my own
Where freedom isn’t a delusion,
Not a bargaining chip

Illusion, bought and sold.
I used to love her
But that was yesterday
And yesterday is gone.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Hiraeth

hiraeth:
(n) A deep, wistful, nostalgic sense of longing for home;
a home that is no longer or perhaps never was.

photo credit: Silent House via photopin (license)

photo credit: Silent House via photopin (license)

This is not the place
Where the river flows
Rerouted to a moment of déjà vu
Over some other town.
Where the leaves were a different green
Growing on different trees.
The past was another shape to this
And the stranger I ran into
Had eyes a different shade of blue.

This is not the room, back then
The sun shone in a different light
With windows on a different view.
There were more reds in the sunsets
Back in that other place.
When it shone on lazy summer paths
Wandering through those dragonfly lanes.
And that stranger I ran into
I remember eyes a different shade of blue.

This is not the skin, the feeling is not the same.
The fields of wheat we walked through are gone now.
Just a ghost remains of the golden hue
That holds the moment in my mind.
That road, pavement pools sparkling in the rain,
Takes me past the turn
But never back to the door of home.
Never back to the stranger
With eyes that were a different shade of blue.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.