Winter Moon

photo credit: Charlie Day DaytimeStudios Supermoon and Clouds via photopin (license)

photo credit: Charlie Day DaytimeStudios Supermoon and Clouds via photopin (license)

Whose is the moon

That floats on high;

That lights my way

On winter nights,

That sails above

And reflects below.

Whose is the moon?

Not mine, I cry.

TL-Clouds-Moon-713-47 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 3 January 2015

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The Burden

lights

Why do you carry the weight of the world?
It is not yours, nor mine, to bear.
Like a line of a poem, the thoughts
Should be memory moments,
Before they are gone.
 
© 2014 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Originally published 24 December 2014

Winter moon

Day 5 and a poem which is to be included in my first collection, out next year, along with plenty of all new poetry.

Made of sticks and stones

Whose is the moon

That floats on high;

That lights my way

On winter nights,

That sails above

And reflects below.

Whose is the moon?

Not mine, I cry.

TL-Clouds-Moon-713-47 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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See

You can see the end of the world from here,

You can get the clearest view,

Of the preachers and the pedlars

Who watch on from higher ground

With their rhetoric and artillery,

Bombing hell out of those below.

Going to be the beginning of the end,

Shells flying endlessly

Until the Earth turns blood red.

The fire and the burning

Drifting columns of smoke

Will blot out the light of the sun.

But don’t worry that you won’t see

Because the tracer fire will light up the sky

Like those floodlit football games on TV.

You’ll see the end of the world from here,

It’ll be an awesome sight.

 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Around the sun

Sun and planet in space

I love the world

When it revolves around me.

What a shame that it insists

On revolving round the sun.

 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Vacuum Pack

It’s an invisible casket
and I’m securely locked inside,
Inviolate.

 

From within my invisible casket
I can watch the world
but the world cannot corrupt me.

 

But I am numb
and I long to feel the world
reach out and touch me again.

 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Going cheap – Sunday morning somewhere in England

Day 8 of the 30 Reblogs of November and a piece written with the blog specifically in mind.

Made of sticks and stones

I found North America for sale at a car boot sale. In a box together with some old CDs and a one armed tiny-tears doll. The old man selling it said he would chuck in a pair of cowboy boots (size seven and a half) and a moth-eaten kiss-me-quick hat, all for a fiver. But I was not sure, what did I need with a continent. I was tempted though, as the boots were my size, and I told him I would think about it.

‘Don’t be long,’ he shouted after me, ‘I’ve already sold Africa this morning and I’ve got this Russian interested in Antarctica!’

I mulled over my potential purchase as I walked about that field in the spring sunshine, the tinny sound of Showaddywaddy blasted out from a car stereo “Under the moon of love,” they sang, to the accompaniment of an approaching ice-cream van playing Greensleeves.

View original post 224 more words

Going cheap – Sunday morning somewhere in England

I found North America for sale at a car boot sale. In a box together with some old CDs and a one armed tiny-tears doll. The old man selling it said he would chuck in a pair of cowboy boots (size seven and a half) and a moth-eaten kiss-me-quick hat, all for a fiver. But I was not sure, what did I need with a continent. I was tempted though, as the boots were my size, and I told him I would think about it.

‘Don’t be long,’ he shouted after me, ‘I’ve already sold Africa this morning and I’ve got this Russian interested in Antarctica!’

I mulled over my potential purchase as I walked about that field in the spring sunshine, the tinny sound of Showaddywaddy blasted out from a car stereo “Under the moon of love,” they sang, to the accompaniment of an approaching ice-cream van playing Greensleeves.

People had travelled far and wide to be there and the field was packed with fervent bargain hunters who circled the car boots and rickety trestle tables, piled high with goods, like carrion crows. I looked on, just content to watch it all as I walked about licking an ice cream cone, wiping strawberry sauce away from my chin.

As I walked I thought of America, I had always wanted to go but had never got round to it. Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, Disneyworld were as familiar to me as the streets on which I had played as a kid.

But the rest, I was pretty sure there must be a rest of America for all the cowboys and stuff to live in; well I knew nothing about that. And as he had only offered me North America perhaps that meant he was only offering me the icy bits, not the good bits I wanted. So in the end I decided to give it a miss.

I walked past the old man’s stall later in the day; the cowboy boots were still there so I haggled him down to 25p.

‘Aah, go on then,’ he said, ‘I’m feeling generous. Coz these Chinese men just bought most of the world for fifty quid and a whole box full of mint condition Elvis Presley LP’s.’