Writing | Martin O Regan

In the end, Love

Posted on October 4, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

To hold the shadow dear, the faded memories

The loves lost

The fights had

The friends, the feelings:

To position them in a place of some importance

Each one a tool

To teach

To tempt us forward.

And yet upon a pedestal too oft residing

The pain descending

Like hot wax dripping

Time measured in its and your destruction.

Time measured backwards towards the hurt

As if nothing mattered anymore.

The blind fool lives for what is lost

The wise one dares to tread once more into the minefield

that is the heart.

Drink

Posted on September 30, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

The mind’s allowed freedom,
To roam, to express
But without some temperance
It could lead to distress.

A Coming of Age

Posted on May 27, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

A coming of age a rite of passage

To write in remembrance to commemorate

I’m not mourning and yet I may still

For what I have done to that old tired beast.

I’ve slaughtered it, humanely,

in the name of expression.

Stood there in the limelight only the darkness to see

But like oft has been mentioned, I felt them, faceless, expectant,

and when I sat down swaddled in the spotlight

I sat down with the weight of their individual silence,

Each of them protruding through the inky veil,

To sit beside me on the sack cloth coughing:

This is poetry, culture – steak after all,

And I played my part tonight.

And I come away less vilified than deified,

Though the truth, I know, lies somewhere in between.
I shake the remnants of a beer from its hiding place,

hunting it down with my greed,

And allow that though momentarily I was sophisticated,

I am, in the end, Still me.

Burdened

Posted on May 5, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Morning’s minions drawn from their downy warmth
To be flailed by street amid the swarms
Dark night shifts to grey sky warning
That the gloom arrives though day is dawning.
And onwards into the belly of the beast
Never satiated by the thronging streets
Each day then cursed to repeat again
Man’s fate sealed subservient till the end

Unrepentant

Posted on May 4, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

To flounder in the muggy mind of breathlessness and beer
The spring arrives to summer and yet lethargic I am charged
The older woman found wanting upon the step inclined
A hand up a chance received renewed am I inside.
What kindness then that with intention for its own reward
The Quickening delighted note though as of yet not marred.

The Wishing Well

Posted on May 2, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Scoffing at the notion and yet with no retort

The vacant shell of knowledge echoing

my doubts – which remain defenceless

And yet my instinct tells me all’s a lie.

Just different camps designing

And so when righteous roar

I’ll reply with my own righteousness: You’re wrong

Thus persisting, uncertain as to why.

Nincs stout

Posted on May 1, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

And just now having asked as I recall this some hours hence

My favoured beverage not in stock just on paper

With some annoyance yet received paling it made sense

A pale ale is not a stout but something other.

Served up and bottle topped I leaned forward connoisseur like

As I poured it frothed forth with some surprise

And when it settled almost not the yeast inside put up a fight

While I surrendered to the taste that did arise.

Yet no divinity

Posted on April 13, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Yet no divinity
Just a relapse into hope;
The delusion fortified
Lies now dying in its own decay –

Spreading the seeds of fallacy
Renting the truth from tip to root
The captured eloquence – sermonial – has left words, lies,
Withered on black tongues.

The tidy scribble

Posted on April 7, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

The tidy scribble of a child’s imagination
They render order that could never do.
They despoil nothing even in destruction
For it is drawn just of the sheer act itself.
They do not sit in rooms of highest consultation
And play with pawns as do the ones in suits.
Neither do they play with lives or keep them superficial.
What they do deliver – rank-
They’ve learnt from me and you.

Pilate’s guilt

Posted on April 1, 2017 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Pilate’s guilt
It had been three days hence and still the freshness of the water in the basin retained its vividness. The cool, calming, soothing water creeping under nail, vying in the pores for some eternal purchase. The cracks, the crevices of a younger man’s work, subtled out in the softness of decadence; the cold hard pierced memory too.
With undiminishing clarity he remembered the face of that pathetic Jew. He had no more sympathy for him than for a dog lying abandoned on the roadside and yet he’d felt a stirring that once again suggested the onslaught of age – the younger Pilate in defiance of the masses would have beheaded the man in a bold display of prowess. He had always despised weakness, and yet in the eyes of this one he had not seen this: Though fear had presided as with any man condemned, he had also seen hope – not the pointless hope of mania but the real hope borne of strong belief.

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