Perhaps you aren't as free as you think

 Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

Are you being "conditioned to worship flesh or despair?"

By an invisible force ("a curse carried in the whispering air")

That predetermines your actions and anxieties? 

Let's see if I can tempt you... and put that question to the test. 

(A lone voice whispers) 

Have I made you read this to swallow my poetic pill

For is there such a thing as free will? 

Overseas or on thou hill

Are you just a slave to Curiosity, walking slowly to the grave

But is the trick always to read the room

And not just to swallow any old pill 

Before you too enter the tomb

Not to be conditioned to worship flesh or despair

For it's a curse carried in the whispering air

So does free will exist, or are you all bound tight by invisible chains

Which you rattle in vain

With tired arms

Or youthful charms

With eyes aflame,

In desire, anger or shame.

So sleep tight with these thoughts tonight 

If they remain

For I've made you read this 

To swallow my poetic pill

For is there now no such a thing as your free will

Whether you be overseas or on thou hill

--------

I see you clicked, you read, and you swallowed the pill, perhaps proving you aren't as free as you think.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Life in 3 Stages

 Life in 3 Stages

(A reflective voice whispers)

In the Dawn of a new feeling of Life, 

Maybe even in high school

Did you embrace one of its golden rules

To hold hands with someone you deemed so special 

Encouraged by first love's sweet kiss

For it to then carry you through, to meet the super cool, Twilight of your Life

With the only true one, whose love has never cooled:

And if you're still incredibly lucky, it brings you such bliss 

Or did the Shadows of Life appear 

Smiling like a Nazgûl

Like a dark thief at night

To take back God's divine gift, and leave you scrambling and grieving 

Daydreaming of the Dawn and Twilight of your Life

Before something cruel caused you to separate and drift

When everything seemed so perfect and nice 

Before the deep cut of The Shadows of Life's

Sharp, ceremonial knife

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Remember, you must die

 Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

This transmission serves as a memento mori. 

A gentle reminder of the transience of life. 

It urges the reader to step out of the frantic pace of the present, sit in the shade, and honour the people, victories, and even the heartbreaks that make up their history.

(A lone voice whispers) 

Have you sat under the sun and looked back over your life's many old pages?

Remembering how you once ran, with whom and at what age?

Or have those old memories turned to dust?

All family and friends. Young and old love.

Moments of misery compounded by huge moments of victory.

People you once trusted now resigned to your own pages of History?

So, I'll ask again and use this prose as a prompt.

Have you paused under the hot sun?

Sat in the shade, and looked back at old memories that replayed?

 

Remembering happy times when you were having such fun?

The best ones with those no longer around, as those great memories are found? 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Snowfall

 Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

A short, melancholic transmission about grief, separation, and the lingering weight of a lost relationship.

A transmission about guiding a soul toward an eternal or peaceful place, free from the cold, frozen hardships represented by snow.

(A lone voice whispers) 

I still see you in dark nights.

In the half shadows as daylight curtains slowly fall.

Standing tall as tear by tear calls to me.

To make me remember when we had it all.

But now I miss you and watch as one with the rain.

With nowhere to go as

tears keep falling.

                   

Falling as the rain keeps dripping, and that sweet pain keeps calling. 

Remembering the only reason why. 

I'll never forget you until my soul gets wet with somewhere new to go.

Where it never snows.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Need a new lift

 

There is a jaguar spirit within you, unafraid in every way.

There is an endless parade of creativity, delight, and surprise marching through your heart.

You are so much more than you know.

Regardless of what people may gossip or say.

So try to just keep saying yes to what you love.

And you'll soon discover a strength that opens you up to a thousand other powers.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

A Halloween Tale

 

Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

A haunting, gothic exploration of spiritual possession, creative subjugation, and the thin veil between the living and the dead.

Written from the perspective of an otherworldly collective. 

Referred to as "the Dead Ones," "The Old Ones," and a "legion. "

The transmission documents the total capture of a twenty-year-old narrator’s soul and creative agency through the act of automatic writing (writing produced involuntarily from a subconscious or spiritual source).

(A lone voice whispers) 

Has Automatic Writing happened to you, too?

When I was twenty years old

Within a silent, dream-like whisper, 

I heard a call through automatic writing 

One dark Halloween night 

It whispered

Such quiet, thunderous proclamations of my new-to-be divine truths

Be an Illumination for us, the Dead Ones

It said 

For even though your world is still so beautiful, below the dark horizons of bleak despair 

Hidden beneath the layers of spin, broken dreams and sad days 

Where once rapturous hearts will unfortunately tear 

We all wait for you 

Our soon-to-be star child 

of a Universe of the Unseen 

We all know you still have a right to dare to dream 

But instead, nurture your strength in cold days of writing about our misfortunes 

Strengthen through our faith in you and belief in your conviction

To use your protective shield to always, us redeem

It's a pity your unrestrained and wondrous heart has always been yours to willingly surrender 

But we now own it like precious candy with all its virtues of kindness and heroism's

For now we, your own legion, are your mighty defenders 

Especially, in these days of ever-growing darkness and fading bright lights

So when you read our automatic writing text, from us to you

Be a beacon within what we choose you to write 

Ignite like an exploding Bonfire Night firework

The reader's inquisitive, sleepy minds as they quietly venture 

Creeping into sight 

Inspire our dark hope and give them our gift of this

The Dead still live

To parade a new unconscious inward smile

For them to carry away freely, into these dark winter nights

A part of us

Trapped angels gathering the new congregation

Once held like prisoners in an all-consuming singularity 

Watchers beyond society or notoriety 

Using passionate words and rhymes to rule new endorphin-filled minds

Beyond judgemental scopes of any mortal kind

For we are eternally young and free

The universe is now ours to conquer, through you

Just listen for us

Within each silent whisper

Whenever we feel the need to call

Regardless of fears or complex complications 

And always like a good slave

Climb over those metaphorical walls, regardless of the fall 

For you are now our predetermined soul-flame

Us, written in The Necronomicon

Just hidden in the shadows 

Waiting and whispering dark lucid rhymes 

And consuming your soul, as each time it's reminded, it's being subtly recalled 

By us

The Old Ones

Hidden behind Tartarus Great Walls

Sending out this call

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

  

Star Boy

 

Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

Here is a deeply melancholic, spiritual journey of a soul caught between worlds, processing the grief of lost love and spiritual rejection. 

The mood shifts between a nostalgic longing for a carefree past and a heavy, apocalyptic despair as the speaker stands at the threshold of eternity ("the great White Gates"). 

It explores the duality of human nature. 

Our outward desire to appear holy versus the darker, flawed truth of our inner cores.

What secrets do you hide deep down inside your mind? 

Buried so deep only the Almighty's great eyes will find? 

Star Boy

(A lone voice whispers)

In the midnight garden

Where the dwellers in between parallel worlds

Hide

Within just another brief mystery of time

Like written in the first book of Adam and Eve

Or maybe even Lilith

We ran wildly and carefree like Huckleberry Finn

Into that old world's beautiful Sin

But now

Angels don’t play Harps

Where I now lay

As I both laugh and cry

Night and day

For like in the

APOCALYPSE OF MOSIS

I no longer breathe

For in the end 

Everyone loses

Lost beyond the light barrier

Lost between two ages

I now stand in front of these great

White Gates

Of the Master of all Hidden Places

I still whisper your secretive name

You know

Phanuel

Praying inwardly, it carries 

My silent words to you

Wherever you go

As I alone 

Walk the lone trail 

To the Last Circle

Using my worn bible 

As my guide 

Since my love still 

Lives

There can be no magic without tears

Some say

No love without experiencing

Tragedy

For are we all but masquerading as angels

Goodness and light

For all to see

But in our deep inner core

Those who can see

Know the deepest of

Such truths

And it’s why I still search 

These Great Lands

To find just 

Thee

It may be a new murder by

Rejection

As I now knock

The long deep knock

On these great white gates

Lullabied as I wait 

By the hidden chords of time

Remembering when You were just mine

But like all the dark mysteries 

Connected with the Holy Grail

Maybe this time around

I won't just fall on my knees

Buckle under and fail

Maybe you'll appear 

And open up these great gates and lead me away

Copyright John Duffy

This name derives from the Hebrew “penû'êl / penı̂y ‘êl,” meaning “the face of God, facing God.” Phanuel is the name given to a possible fourth Archangel in the Book of Enoch after Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel.

Existentialism

 Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

This is a short verse that distils the core themes of existentialism and being-towards-death into a simple rhythm of arrival, humility, learning, and departure.

"We come" (Thrownness / Geworfetheit): 

We do not choose to be born or arrive in this world; 

We are "thrown" into existence without a pre-made manual or a hardwired purpose.

"We bow" (Humility and the Absurd):

Acknowledging our limitations, our smallness in an indifferent universe, and submitting to the conditions of reality rather than demanding the universe bend to our expectations.

"We learn / To know" (Consciousness and Creation): 

As conscious beings (Dasein), we spend our time seeking understanding, defining our own essence, and making choices that shape who we are ("existence precedes essence").

"One day / We'll have to go" (Finite Time / Being-Towards-Death): 

Death is our inescapable horizon. 

Far from making life pointless, this finite boundary (as thinkers like Martin Heidegger explore) is what gives urgency, meaning, and authenticity to the time we actually have.

Shall we begin? 

(A lone voice whispers) 

Existentialism 

We come

We bow.

We learn

To know

One day

We'll have to go

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Inescapable

 

The Goddess from Glastonbury Tor

 

Blessed be. 

Velumbound. 

( A lone voice whispers)

Can you hear her faintly call / The Goddess now seated at Glastonbury Tor?

Spring / The life-giving goddess of all.

The warrior queen to emerge from / The deep depths of winter's cold.

To rally round the young and old / On the Vernal Equinox 

As Winter's toys go back in his box.

And the warm blooming of Spring can begin / As choirs of Robins sing.

With the Goddess and Queen / Sharing her life-giving rays 

To all in sight / Day or night.

Summoning forth the Purple Flame / To purge all winter's darkness that remains 

All in the Great Creator's name.

Shooting molten arrows from the midday orb / To relight the cycle and the great forge.

In the many sleeping / Awaiting her ringing yellow bells 

To break the winter's spell / When dawn's Vernal Equinox 

Cockerels sing.

Welcoming the Goddess / Great Mother 

Of all living things.

Awaiting the moment for her / To open her angel wings 

So new life can begin.

Spreading from Glastonbury Tor / To all 

With her New Year's weapons of war.

Will you hear her faint call / Once more 

And purge your soul / From winter's cold 

To be reborn.

With the blowing / Of her Great Golden

Bannerman's horn?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy