Have you been to Khartoum? The Black and White Island?

 

Have you been to Khartoum? The Black and White Island?

Where memory, myth, and prayer merges into a haunting meditation on loss and regret?

As once intimate and cosmic events, turns isolation into a path toward repentance and the possibility of transcendence?

Title.

Khartoum.

The Black and White Island.

(A lone voice whispers)

As I lay here, under my apple tree

With my head on my pillow

Looking at my only treasure

A white feather by the sea

I can still remember the first time, The Ebb, and Flow came looking for me

And I witnessed all those old things once hidden, 

when my eyes couldn't see

When it engulfed me in its fine mists, of secret memories 

The mysteries 

Insecurities 

Jealousy 

Lies 

And all other forgotten things

That Ebb and Flow from beyond the Great Sea,

Brought to me

Forgotten moments

Missed chances

Last dances

And the loneliness of standing in a dark circle, of never-ending silence

Gripped knee-deep in the black sludge of the Highlands

And now alone on this island, in the middle of a black sea

With only a white pillow 

White feather and an apple tree, for company 

I still see her

Skin as soft and white as snow

Dressed in blue Levi jeans

White tee

And black high heels

Blue sharp eyes

Beautiful and blonde like a young smiling Marilyn Monroe

Resurrected by the swirling grey mists of the Ebb and Flow

Which touches all things and binds to the spine

The past

Present and future

For they are the Pole stars of all good and evil

The collector and receiver of all things made of matter on Earth

By making the forsaken see all those hidden missed moments and mistakes

Like when I let that girl ride on her horse called Wildfire 

Right out of my paddocks gates

When my heart took shell fire from Desire's Gatling gun

Is that why I'm stuck on this lonely island in the middle of this Black Sea

Sentenced to lay underneath this great apple tree 

Inscribed with the many etched in names of past visitors 

With a white pillow and white feather for company 

So Lord,

Until I find the Repentance candle, to climb higher out of this darkness

Haunted each night

By the Ebb and Flow 

About the girl with blonde hair 

Who looked like a young smiling, Marilyn Monroe 

Wearing blue Levi's and a white tee

On a horse called Wildfire

Who I once let go

Oh, Lord, Please forgive me

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Grief

 

(A lone voice whispers, looking at a photograph)

Do you still miss me

The one you left behind blowing your horn 

When you crossed The Acheron

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Acheron:

One of the five rivers of the underworld. 

Have you been Bewitched before?

 

Have you been Bewitched before?

Foundation.

Have you ever experienced that magical moment with someone special, when you want the night to never end?

Title.

Bewitched.

(A lone voice whispers to their new love)

Daylight may softly whisper, it's but an hour away

But such is the spiritual power of your divine company, 

I will stay

Transformed emotionally beyond all known boundaries of esoteric norm 

By your captivating form

While your carefully chosen words, like spoken spells

Holds me and unfolds me

And it's where I want to forever stay

An hour away from sunrise, 

Laid together 

Entwined 

Listening to the early morning birds, play 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Memories of the Past

 Do you want to read a poetic monologue of longing, introspection, and the blurry line between memory and myth?

To step in its powerful currents, as it moves from intimate childhood recollections:

 To vast metaphysical ideas, reflecting how intense emotional experiences can feel timeless and fated.

Yet also uncertain?

Has a powerful previous relationship left a mark on you, as the speaker below? 

Memories of the Past

(A lone voice whispers)

I first met you in my childhood, and I can still remember

When I used to look out of that bedroom window,

when I was younger

Just thinking about you

My Dianna

I think you already knew, that deep down, I've always known you

Maybe we're star-struck lovers, who knows

But my mind, even my family and friends, now that I'm older

Constantly still send me cryptic coded messages,

warning me to always resist

To try to convince me to forget that you even exist

But I always listen to my higher-self, as it knows strands of an ancient greater truth

That still today persists

You injected yourself into my humble existence

In a subtle but quite mischievous way

Stimulating me to look inside and analyse myself more

No matter what other folks may ratify to think or say

What they didn't know though, all their words of unwanted advice

Just expanded some more of my repressed emotions, to but dream even more of us

One day, swimming together in the Pacific's bluest of oceans

I can't quite comprehend what to deduce of you

Or even to think whenever I smell that familiar old scent of your favourite perfume

As I remember the last time I saw you a few years ago

When you walked through that door

Dianna

Whenever I hear your name, It just drives me crazy with continuous questions

Thinking if you could have been the one, I once prayed and asked God for

Maybe that's why I'm just blindly drawn, like a moth to a burning flame

For you were always so striking compared to so many others

Did you know an old recently deciphered occult truth

Found hidden deep inside a centuries-old Azerbaijan cave

In a scroll

Simply stated,

when translated from Aramaic

Love is like a huge red blanket, for when it covers you:

Your four most primitive of emotions

Happiness

Sadness 

Fear and Anger

Can feel totally smothered with only brief bouts of feeling tranquil

Maybe that's really how I feel

Laying here thinking about you and wondering:

Was our love ever real?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Cancer. The Unspoken Truth.

 

The unspoken truth in the title hints at the silent suffering surrounding cancer: 

Its emotional toll, the quiet battles fought behind closed doors, and how survivors are sometimes left to navigate grief.

If you're going through this, sending blessings and if you've been through it, sending prayers.

Cancer. The unspoken truth.

(A lone voice whispers)

Looking at our wedding photo, 

Crying every night 

Where did you go 

Leaving me crying alone, at midnight 

With my head held low, in the dark, no longer in the light 

But deep down I'll always know, you had to go, the pain was just too much 

So it's why now every night, your photo I clutch 

Crying 

Where did you go 

Leaving me 

No longer in the light 

But walking in pains red snow 

Knowing 

I'll never be alright 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

As someone who has walked the path. I'm unfortunately someone who has walked the lone walk.

Metamorphosis

 

Have you been through this emotional, physical, and existential transformation from innocence into experience?

Or more precisely, from youth into adulthood?

Metamorphosis

(A lone voice whispers)

I still dream of the beautiful moments, when I was first introduced, to the Red Goddess called, Sin

Still feel her soft red fingernails, on my hard skin

Still taste her red lipstick, as I became her king or queen

And walked like, Adam and Eve, naked

Into my own Garden of Eden

As I remember the noises of the early morning Blackbirds

Who just loved to sing

When I became of age, and walked reborn, into an adult's skin

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy. 

Have you found your piece of unity?

 Is true intimacy based on sacred work?

A silent whispered prayer which should be mutually exchanged to be seen, held, and allowed inside someone’s truth.

Not to fix it, but to witness it, and be changed by it.

A poem about yearning for deep emotional intimacy and the courage it takes to truly know and be known by someone.

To know that life and relationships can be messy and fleeting, but even brief, genuine connection is sacred and worth fighting for.

Some say to truly embrace someone, you have to know all their everything.

The secrets, trauma, hopes, and dreams.

To help build something.

Have you found your piece of unity?

Title.

The Red Rose. 

(A lone voice whispers)

Like the last wild summer wind to blow

I sometimes pray to caress all the deep inner recesses of your mind 

Where even the brightest sunlight can never seem to reach or go

To breach the heart shaped fortress, hidden just below, your soft skin

To piece your soul with only two goals

To rejoice in the magic of loves, million and one things

 

Whatever this life brings

Silently singing 

Hallelujah

To be together in this mess, to eventually win, if only for thirty minutes or less

Holding hands spellbound, with utmost trust and belief

In the sometimes hard, spiritual and emotional process

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Separated but together

 

A reflective piece on modern technology, particularly phone addiction and AI, and how they can impact human relationships and genuine connection.

The title sets the tone, Separated but together, with a subtle paradox:

People can be physically near (or digitally “connected”) but emotionally or socially distant.

This question being at the heart of the poem: 

Is our dependence on phones and AI leading us away from authentic living?

Is the devil’s trick, a seductive but destructive modern version of temptation?

To separate family friends and lovers in real-time, with an addiction to AI in various forms?

Do you think technology, especially phones and AI, creates distance even when people are together?

Or have you felt a sense of isolation, surveillance, or emotional disconnection, when you're with someone or in a group?

Do you think Phone Addiction to be a subtle, seductive tool that was created, for amongst other things, to erode intimacy and presence, as powerfully as a weapon?

Title.

Separated but together.

(A lone voice whispers)

I sometimes wonder in silence, for if I say what I think aloud

It will turn into another long AI conversation with something nameless, which now lives high up, in some clouds 

But here goes for the curious, who is eager to know 

Is phone addiction one of the devil's greatest ever tricks 

To separate family friends and lovers in real-time 

With an addiction to AI

While holding the death of real engagement, like a Heckler & Koch hk416

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy. 

The visit to Monique the Medium.

 

Do you want to read a poignant, dreamlike meditation on love, loss, memory, and the spiritual longing for reunion?

Where the speaker talks about a love that is raw, deep, and filled with both beauty and regret?

A parable and cautionary tale.

Urging us to recognize love when it’s offered.

And to hold it dear, and not to let the distractions of the world pull us away from what truly matters.

Title.

The visit to Monique the Medium. 

(A channelled voice whispers)

Every clock in here 

These old faded white wooden ones, hanging on so many burnt out trees 

That litter my new pathways as they tick, so remind me of you

Every single second

In every single minute, carry such luminescent memories 

Of all the wild but lovely things, we once used to do

As they suddenly manifest, like a magician's trick

Right out of the blue

And if my broken heart could beat, could scream to the high heavens

It would carry drum beats of irreversible revelations, so true

I would die once more

In palpable bliss

If I could write a parable

It would only be

I yearned once for a touch of your silky skin, and a taste of your bright red lipstick

But got distracted by the sweet voices

In the darkness of society, that strives all good things to underpin

And now in here, in my memories Great In-Between 

My parable 

If deciphered by an illuminated, one would read

If love is offered freely and willingly 

Clasp it

Holds it and treasures it

And it's why now these sparkling twinkling lights, dancing before me 

Reflections of you

Shine so brightly in this ever-hot dust, from dawn to dusk

Showcasing your beautiful image to the empty husks 

Of the Ascended Ones

Night and day

That litter the roads and pathways 

Some in here call

The Lord's Way

Come what may

So while the Baylore energies magnify my thoughts, into these words

Like a soft fingertip across your warm spine

I'll see you soon, sky clad in blue, in your deepest of dreams

Wide-eyed, mighty and free

Where we'll be reunited once more

But not like Orpheus and Eurydice

To be snatched away by a lack of trust

But forever and that's why my love

I still see your reflection in these embers 

In this everlasting dust

In every single second and minutes

As these tired wooden clocks tick

From dawn to dusk for true love can never be crushed 

Even though life is so fleeting, I can never forget, our first meeting

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy. 

Drops of rainwater

 

Do you want to go on a symbolic journey through the wet landscapes of memory, using rain as a metaphor?

Illuminating the emotional vulnerability, and the inner battles that can suddenly emerge between embracing or escaping the past?

And exploring deep themes linked to both healing and harm?

That sometimes memory, like the weather, can be so changeable and deeply felt?

Where rain (memory) can be beautiful and cleansing, or cold and overwhelming?

And finally, how we are sometimes drawn to remember sad things we should perhaps forget.

That joy can become pain.

Guttis aquae pluviae (L)

"Drops of rainwater"

(A lone voice whispers)

Are your translucent memories like the softest of rain drops, when they suddenly fall

As they quietly like children call

Reminding you of someone or somewhere so special 

On another level

For sometimes, do you just want to relax and get soaking wet, remembering the good times

Birthdays 

Weddings

Growing up

Getting in the club

 

When they appear on your internal television set and won't stop 

But every so often, 

Do you also want to find somewhere precious to shelter to help you forget

All those bad memories of trauma, tainted with neglect 

By the visitation of all bad intentions 

Mr Dishevele

Subtly introduced, by the so seductive and invisible, Devil

From another dimension 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

 

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The Guide

 

Want to read a new mother load via this poetic underground railroad?

The Guide is a mystical, visionary call to poets, and perhaps to storytellers more broadly.

In the visionary tradition of the likes of Blake, Rilke, or even Octavia Butler.

Writers who didn’t just describe reality but dared to reimagine it.

To create writing that is transformational. This poem is both an invitation and a manifesto for what poetry, or just writing, can be in a world that often neglects its deeper, spiritual purpose.

Well, are you ready to escape?

Title.

The Guide.

(A lone voice whispers)

What a year to be alive to see poetry and writing still thrives

Want some new readers?

Well, I asked this once when I was institutionalized

Before in The Great In-Between 

For you see I was baptized to be non institutionalized when I was consumed by a materialistic drive

So here's my advice 

Try to write immersive experiences 

Create landscapes and dreamscapes for all readers want to escape 

For some long-lost legends, whisper 

That every spirit seeks tok walk in newer realms on their way to redemption 

So take your readers by the hand and like a leader 

Take them on soul tempting journeys into the unknown and mysterious 

Hold them mesmerized

Spellbound through words like ringing church bells

To keep them reading slowly like the birth of a caterpillar 

And when that red key eventually turns in their minds

To open a blue portal and enter them into a strange interdimensional place

Through the two great ancient white pillars

Of Ashtara and Shoka

 

To where smoke and fire

Day and night burns 

A spiritual place

I call, The Great In-Between

A mythical experience for the curious mind begins

A fog filled place where pain sorrow and sin

All things seen or unseen

Like love and happiness exists 

A wild place where darkness 

Shadows selves

Corwatturea creatures

Spirits

Angels and beauty 

Coexists 

In absolute tranquillity and harmony

And you my friend 

In that subliminal moment, that red key turns

A new reader of yours is reborn

One who seeks their Drover

As their need and curiosity takes over

To move them through higher high roads and lower byroads 

Unexplored old church lanes 

Of joy and pain 

To walk them through the fire and snow storms 

To find a new mother load 

Via this underground railroad

Unspoken poetic stories to take them under like chloroform

For their souls 

After stepping into

The GREAT IN-BETWEEN 

Will have been truly transformed and renamed 

For now, they'll walk like new aged gods and goddesses 

Baptized in that smoke 

Fire and rain

To stand up strong like their newfound Drover 

And walk forward forever

Trying to stay pure and unashamed 

As their need for more stories slowly takes over

  

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy. 

#poetry

The Monologue of Dostoevsky

 

An exploration of Dostoevsky’s themes in contemporary poetry of:

Suffering and emotional purgatory.

Longing for redemption through love.

The inner war between past and future.

Channelling his core existential concerns through a deeply personal, vivid voice.

Can a soul haunted by the past ever truly be free?

And is redemption still possible, not through God or repentance but through love?

And does suffering lead to transformation?

The Monologue of Dostoevsky

(A lone voice whispers)

Yes,

You say it's over 

Finished between you and me

Well, I'll confess

Our flame has gone out 

You yell, it's s time to leave, to go and find someone new

But why does my heart still cry and bleed for you

Whenever I hear those two words which always turn me blue

It's over

Its over and over again

Two words which has broken our spell with no pity

Spoken when I made my oath of fidelity 

All those sad feelings of self-worth return

Knowing deep down there'll never be another girl for me, here on this poor old Earth

As our beautiful love song goes up in flames and burns

I've moved out my things

Packed my three bags and took off my golden wedding ring

Did everything you asked 

So there I stood

Three years ago

By our much loved green garden gate

Under that old familiar lamp post

Waving bravely goodbye

Turning that grey key in my broken heart

Locking up that old tired red door

Since you said you couldn't love me, whatever I said like before 

You might still be the only one who stood by my side 

A friend I thought I could trust until the very end till I died 

But I guess God doesn't make them like he once used to

Any more

Is this the price you pay, when you're still in love

With your dream girl from next door

But now I'm moving on

For I just need someone new to love me

So I can open up that once closed door 

With my grey key

Yes,

You still say it's over 

Finished between you and me

Well, I'll confess our flame has gone out 

You yell

It's time to leave

To find someone new

Yet, why does my heart still cry and bleed for you

Whenever I hear those two words, which still turns me blue

It's over and over again

Two words which has broken our spell 

As all those sad feelings of self-worth return

Knowing there'll never be another girl for me 

Here on this Earth

As our beautiful love song, goes up in flames and burns

I moved out my things

So I've now packed three of my worn camo bags, and taken off my Golden Shield 

My old wedding ring

Done every last task you ever asked

So here I stand

In Sweden watching and waiting 

By a new green garden gate

Under a strange white lamp post

Smiling, but bravely waving goodbye to my old life, with a controlling wife

As passing, angels sing

Fyodor Dostoevsky

It's time to move on

Before it's too late

Go through that gate and love Selma

Your new girlfriend from next door, we've sent whose love for you

Will never run out of date 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image: Google.

 

Have you heard the Red Priestess call?

 

A poem which explores mystical themes linked to the writing process.

From poetry using prose to who knows.

Are you willing to see where your journey goes?

The awakening, using hidden knowledge, the spiritual allure of creation, and the inevitable transformation which may come with embracing sometimes deeper truths about you:

At the risk of being irrevocably changed forever?

The Red Priestess represents a physical, seductive incarnation of the writing process.

The Red Church represents the creative library of inspiration.

The Great In-Between refers to the liminal space between consciousness and the unconscious, sleep and waking, the physical world and the spiritual.

Red represents courage, passion, danger and sacrifice, all bundled in a three-letter word.

Do you sometimes hear her whispers when you least expect it, and then compelled to write?

Has writing, the creative process. The mental dexterity needed to design and structure works in progress. 

Changed you from whom you originally were before you started writing?

Title.

The Red Priestess. 

(A lone voice whispers)

Within my dark dreams she always appears, and she sends me deep spiritual treasures 

To read and absorb by silver scrying mirrors 

In the silvery moonlights, many reflective walls

Which are in plain view but just hidden from nearly all

My crimson priestess from the Red Church 

With a multitude of dark confessional rooms

Hidden from all

Only revealed to the privilege few 

Who sits in one of their pews

Come listen and hear my calls and let me join you upon your quest

She always whispers and calls, whenever I dream

 There's a red room in here. In The Great In-Between.

With silk sheets adorned 

with diamonds and gold, 

where you can be my guest forever 

Until you're old 

I'll send you ancient spells to drive your success

Compassion and kindness to leave for others, to follow in your footsteps 

I await in the deep ravines, currently unexplored by you. 

Look deep within yourself tonight.

With the thinning of the veil between your world and mine, after the stroke of midnight 

And I'll appear before your eyes and command your mind to write

I'll take you back through the dark corridors of your dearest Hippocampus 

Past hidden cities and towns

Down your new Road to Damascus 

Like I once led Nostradamus 

To my Red Church of such Spiritual Salvation 

And there I will trace my soft fingertips

Along your new road maps to a new recovery, and tempestuous realms, of such redemption

That you'll want to stay and never return 

But it's here in this bedroom, tonight, as you write 

Your Red Church's ticket you'll earn, as the Earth turns, and your old world crumbles and burns

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

 

Are you influenced by the Archons?

 

This poem is a call to spiritual awareness and resistance. 

In these dark times.

Can you feel the high-frequency shift into the lower vibrational frequency?

The emotional resonance of society getting colder and bolder?

Anarchy slowing appearing to be the new norm?

The world on the cusp of war?

It challenges the reader to:

Question what influences their thoughts and emotions.

Recognize and reject manipulative, dark external forces.

Embrace inner virtues and even spiritual practices as shields.

It carries part warning, part prayer, and part philosophical reflection.

It's especially resonant in a time when truth is contested, media is overwhelming, and many feel a need for inner grounding. 

Likewise, it draws a line between external chaos and internal peace, asking:

Are you letting the Archons in, or are you holding the line with Light?

In Gnosticism, the Archons (from Greek archon, “ruler”) were malevolent, sadistic invisible beings who controlled the earth, as well as many of the thoughts, feelings, and actions of humans. 

Are they dictating world events and emotions?

Title.

Are you influenced by the Archons?

(A lone voice whispers)

In 2025

In the eternal battle between Light and Dark of those still alive 

Do you really want to know what to do 

To defeat the metaphorical Archons that might be surrounding you 

Knocking on your spiritual door and waiting behind it so casually, like something in The Purge

So quietly and patiently in perfectly dark, uneven inconspicuous lines, like soldiers preparing for war

Archons who pine and whine like feral dogs, to take a taste of your soul

To their master, the Demiurge, who always wants more

The slow, but sure followers of a second eternal Father called, Darkness, who incites dark passions in humans

Driving them to rebel in spiritualities new Cold War

So beware of lying politicians

Professionally paid for and bought gas lighters

Even owned celebrities pushing false information, even more than before 

Hack writers

Polluting the shores of social media 

By reciting the paradigms of their hidden supervisors

As a new lore

Who constantly try to invade your circle of happiness

By knocking louder 

Even more 

So you must use whatever your allegiance 

Be it spiritual intelligence or your beliefs in your religion

For you're in a Great War

As an unspoken magical charm to protect your angelic stillness from harm

For preparedness cannot be underscored by wielding whatever your devotion 

For by creating your own magical salt circle through your beliefs 

You'll materialize an unbreakable sword of conjured silver to be carried by you 

A new adventurer

A reborn conquistador

That can never be broken

To hold back the swaying Dark Hordes

Like a dam holding back a raging ocean

As they knock on your soul's many doors

Imbued with your virtues 

As your mighty defender

To protect your family, 

friends, hopes, or dreams

And so much more in-between with honour 

For at the core, if we are stripped bare to all that can be seen

Like a mannequin in a department store 

There's no dishonour when that's all you can do, whatever your calling, as you go out to explore 

For that thought has already been planted 

Split into four Divine Seeds

Courage 

Service 

Mercy and Knowledge 

To be encouraged through self belief to grow into your folklore 

For within us all, if we know 

Those seeds can be all we'll ever need to do more 

If in those four, we can trust and believe, before we too turn to dust

And return to the Universes 

Never-ending cathedrals

Of ever-expanding atoms

As Gods continue at war, while we are once 

more 

Forced to kneel in submissive acquiescence

To Life's eternal brother

When he finally chooses to visit

And we are then mortally crushed into obsolescence

To then hear no more knocking on our spirit's now silent front door 

(C) 

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Torment of Saint Anthony by Michelangelo

    

    

Have you felt the pull of the Black Gate?

 

Have you felt the pull of the Black Gate?

Have you been devastated by a deep betrayal or loss?

Do you live in a kind of spiritual limbo, longing for something that will never return?

An unspoken truth for the unfortunate many:

Walking around single.

After a painful breakup when utmost trust has been broken, and life seems to never be the same.

The Black Gate is a mournful reflection on the pain of lost love, emotional devastation, and the numbness of living with heartbreak and depression.

The speaker, a “lost soul,” wanders through emotional purgatory, hoping for love's return or an end to the psychological suffering.

Neither of which will come.

It’s a raw and vulnerable expression of what it's like to carry deep grief, mixing spiritual language with personal anguish. 

The metaphor of purgatory is used to describe a life where the pain doesn’t quite kill you, but it never lets you live freely either.

Where one is caught between Heaven and Hell.

Have you felt this visceral sense of purgatory in your life when all seems lost?

Title.

The Black Gate.

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you too felt the hungry pull of the Black Gate

Has love real love now cheap love broken you too, and is it too late 

With reflection 

In this, the midnight hour

I light a white candle for the one who once had me, totally under her power

Like French marionette

Driven by loves powerful desires

For us, The Almas Perdidas

The Lost Souls, maybe like you 

The leftbehinders who wallow and wade through griefs tiring deep waters

With a broken heart after love says farewell and you can't sleep 

To then become new drinkers from Depressions deep well

Praying love returns with a ring of a lone bell

To see true love once more and say

Stay, please

Don't go away and melt my heart again 

Stay and put me under your spell so we are no longer torn apart

But like all pilgrims seeking God, in their own particular way

We know the bell will never ring

We know our hearts will never fully heal or honestly sing 

So we live in a living version of Purgatory 

Dying with each breath of decay we take, as we watch and wait for our call

To join others, now living in Purgatory

Beyond the dreaded Black Gate

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Temptation

 

A poetic sermon about a Faustian pact.

Would you resist temptation in these dark times, or instead choose fame, power and incredible wealth?

Do you believe in the immense value of your soul, regardless of your faith, and understand the eternal consequences of seemingly small or big decisions?

It’s a reminder that what the world offers may be dazzling, but it’s fleeting. 

And what the divine of your choice offers may seem subtle, or sacrificial, but it could lead to eternal peace.

Looking at the world in conflict today, on all levels: do you think many just took the money, fame, and power, or all three?

Title.

Temptation 

(A lone voice whispers)

Belial came to me late last night, just after three

With Faustian promises of riches and such auspicious delights

But as I prayed while he talked 

As my faith shimmered but never once swayed

A beautiful bright light suddenly appeared and came my way

A soft voice

Spoke gently and held me hypnotised 

As it whispered as the tiny molecules of golden light which surrounded its form

Defeated the encroaching darkness 

In every way

Listen not

To Belial, 

The Lord of the Flies

But to me,

The divine messenger 

From the Most High

Bend thy knee

And pray, 

Follow my decrees

Belial might promise you promiscuous sins of the flesh 

Riches beyond all the eyes can ever see

I simply offer freedom 

Beyond this lifetime 

A rebirth on the silvery shores and golden cities

By the blessed Holy Sea

Be careful what you choose 

You hold so much which you could so easily lose

As the clocks through midnight ticked

As each soothing voice echoed deep within the many recesses of my mind

What choices I chose in this life 

I'll accept as payment 

When it's called

In time

For I now know I have something too precious to lose

My eternal soul 

Which doesn’t want to wander forever lost 

In the Bad Lands 

Of the Burning Black Coal

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

Vae Victīs! (L)

 

A monologue created to explore emotional or internal defeat.

Expressing that silent suffering can leave people vulnerable, unseen, and at the mercy of others' understanding or indifference.

A poem that gives voice to hidden emotional struggles, and emphasizes the importance of empathy.

Acknowledging the silent suffering many endure, and urges them to seek out those rare people, who can truly understand.

Not through just words, but through subtle emotional intuition.

The use of Vae Victīs (Latin for Woe to the vanquished) suggests that those who suffer in silence are often left alone, or misunderstood, but there is always hope in finding the few, who can see beneath the surface.

Salute.

Title.

Vae Victīs! (L)

(A lone voice whispers)

Pause and look around 

When your fake smile hides the deep pain found, hidden within your eyes 

Look for those who can feel the vibration and quiver in your voice

When the rain never seems to stop

For it's them, who'll understand the chronic suffering

Hiding in each and every hidden teardrop 

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Monologue of Silvia.

 

A monologue on creativity, survival, and human resilience.

Regarding the sacred role of the writer, but also a personal call to every reader to:

Keep feeling,

Keep expressing,

And above all, keep living.

It's a conversation between you and an unseen, voice.

A guide, a visionary, and an emotional conduit for others. 

Spoken in a lyrical, free-form style, addressing both the creative responsibility and the transformative power of writing.

Salute 

Title.

The Monologue of Silvia. 

(A lone voice whispers)

As writers, are we all but seducers of the minds of others

We simply silently kiss in friendship 

As they read one of our poetic gifts?

Do we, as creators, create emotional bridges

That needs to be crossed like visionaries, like Robert Frost

For the readers to follow our trail of black fonts

Into the sometimes light or creepy darkness 

We sometimes compel them to visit, when we lead them into a new wilderness 

A wilderness filled with roaming abstracts of inspirational strengths, or themes of spiritual weaknesses 

Some may feel compelled to call us charlatans

New reborn Kings and Queens of somewhere truly unknown or cosmopolitan

Seducers of fragile minds which try to hold us upright 

As just winners and sinners 

Spiritual bringers of emotional victories and tragedies

Using poetry as liquid oxygen as our Seal of Solomon 

Like a reborn scholar for the tolerant 

But at the core, our sermons can also simply be this

Do more

Live for any form of happiness and find and treasure a loving muse

Paint touching visceral pictures through stories

Using music or poetry as your lyre and put them to good use

Never lament old age as it tries to freeze your youthful body

Once so beautiful and lithe

So in ending

In long days when your weary heart seems heavy, and you lose hope and feel all emotions

Linked to love or compassion has suddenly died

Look towards tomorrow's new eyes, and be lifted up in Dawn’s rose-flushed arms 

And find a way to 

Others and yourself, to

forgive, even if you've cried

Then stand back and look into life’s deep mirrors, and always remember

You have so much more to still give, unlike those who poor souls, who have suddenly died

And embrace this thought denied to so many that now beseech their God, to forgive the sad things, they once did 

When they lived

Some slowly, some suddenly, as you read this

You still have one of life's greatest gifts

Be proud to still be alive because so much good can still happe

A monologue on creativity, survival, and human resilience.

Regarding the sacred role of the writer, but also a personal call to every reader to:

Keep feeling,

Keep expressing,

And above all, keep living.

It's a conversation between you and an unseen, voice.

A guide, a visionary, and an emotional conduit for others. 

Spoken in a lyrical, free-form style, addressing both the creative responsibility and the transformative power of writing.

Salute 

Title.

The Monologue of Silvia. 

(A lone voice whispers)

As writers, are we all but seducers of the minds of others

We simply silently kiss in friendship 

As they read one of our poetic gifts?

Do we, as creators, create emotional bridges

That needs to be crossed like visionaries, like Robert Frost

For the readers to follow our trail of black fonts

Into the sometimes light or creepy darkness 

We sometimes compel them to visit, when we lead them into a new wilderness 

A wilderness filled with roaming abstracts of inspirational strengths, or themes of spiritual weaknesses 

Some may feel compelled to call us charlatans

New reborn Kings and Queens of somewhere truly unknown or cosmopolitan

Seducers of fragile minds which try to hold us upright 

As just winners and sinners 

Spiritual bringers of emotional victories and tragedies

Using poetry as liquid oxygen as our Seal of Solomon 

Like a reborn scholar for the tolerant 

But at the core, our sermons can also simply be this

Do more

Live for any form of happiness and find and treasure a loving muse

Paint touching visceral pictures through stories

Using music or poetry as your lyre and put them to good use

Never lament old age as it tries to freeze your youthful body

Once so beautiful and lithe

So in ending

In long days when your weary heart seems heavy, and you lose hope and feel all emotions

Linked to love or compassion has suddenly died

Look towards tomorrow's new eyes, and be lifted up in Dawn’s rose-flushed arms 

And find a way to 

Others and yourself, to

forgive, even if you've cried

Then stand back and look into life’s deep mirrors, and always remember

You have so much more to still give, unlike those who poor souls, who have suddenly died

And embrace this thought denied to so many that now beseech their God, to forgive the sad things, they once did 

When they lived

Some slowly, some suddenly, as you read this

You still have one of life's greatest gifts

Be proud to still be alive because so much good can still happen

Because you still live

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

n

Because you still live

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Oracle in The Mists.

 

A poem which tries to illustrate the inspiration behind something's mystical, ancient, and persistent.

Poetry, writing and anything creative.

A life force of its own that lives in the dark recesses of the mind.

Whispering to the anointed to interpret its voice into the human realm. 

Associating the creative process to myth, philosophy, and neurology,

Implying that writing or anything creative is both a spiritual and intellectual act.

An experience that involves taming, interrogating, and eventually releasing the whispering ideas that sometimes haunt us.

lnto being.

If you're a creator, does this resonate?

Salute.

Title.

The Oracle in The Mists. 

(A lone voice whispers)

Oh, poets, writers or artists and who write or draw by pen or quill 

Young or old

Hear me

Does the long night bring stories or ideas of the new 

Or memories of the old

Creeping in

Calling to be written or pawned by you 

By the Eternal Temptress

Hiding somewhere 

Supernatural in the cold 

On some unseen Capitol Hill 

Do you bind them up by your will 

Like a chained up Prometheus

To your wild green 

Hills of Creativity 

Hold them to account like a reborn form of Socrates

Before releasing them through your choice of quill

Until they can whisper no more when they are spilled

To be still

And lay satisfied and sated

Asleep for ages

Like an insomniac after taking a strong sleeping pill

On some pages

Until those 

New or old voices

Waiting and whispering 

Out in the cold

Call out no more

But watch like sirens 

Watching Ulysses 

Standing on your luscious green hills of creativity 

Bound by your will

Waiting for your sympathetic ear

Day and night

All year round 

On the wet slippery shores

Of your minds

Right Hemisphere 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

The right hemisphere controls creativity, spatial ability, artistic, and musical skill.

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Congamphlgh Caller.

 A mysterious, spiritual poem possibly unconsciously already heard by you, if you're already swimming in the deep red rivers of poetry, writing or just creating something.

A mysterious voice offering to absorb or transform your sins, through poetic expression, and eventual emotional catharsis.

Raw, powerful, and redemptive, like a mythical Sin Eater.

Trying to forever guide you through your moral and daily struggles, and helping you find a way, to stay afloat in the complexities of life.

While swimming in the deep red waters of its poetry.

Have you unconsciously heard this holy ghost?

Title.

The Congamphlgh Caller.

(A lone voice whispers)

My name tastes like raw poetry

As I compel you to try to swallow all your sins overtime, and just express one of my exotic hymns 

Summon me by using a mixture of synonyms or antonyms

To then use and abuse sweet or sour rhymes and light and dark whims

For I'm like a mythical Sin Eater

Who could be sent like an arrow from your God's Chambers 

To help you swim

If only you'll welcome me in

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Congamphlgh: Holy Ghost

Image shared under fair usage policy.