The letter to Sophia

 

A textured, rhythmic, alive piece, with pulses of magic running through it: 

Pulses of compassion, pain, devotion, myth, resilience, and a kind of holy defiance.

A ceremonial invocation—something spoken over a fire, under twilight—where healing isn’t passive but earned through expression.

Salute.

Title.

The Letter to Sophia.

After hearing on the grapevine, you're struggling physically and mentally.

I wrote this for you.

I'm still trying to get over a few hurdles, too, and hope I remember to send it.

A love letter disguised with hope.

You know me, eccentric but so deep, my depths would make Poseidon weep.

Well, this is for you and hopefully, it lifts your spirit.

Hold that sword high, my beautiful fire woman.

Shall we begin?

(A lone voice whispers)

Do you still need some soul medicine to heal?

Do you need something immortal, like an untouched Sword of Spirit?

To open up a pathway to a new portal?

To reach the very Nexus of you?

To an infectious unseen world, of unforgettable words and verbs?

A high precipice to skydive from if you can hold your nerve?

Into the Great Beyond.

A world of transitions from incarcerations.

Rebuilding bonds of Hope, and breaking bonds of lost hope.

To help your broken heart needing to cope.

A place to overcome pain and find reconciliation.

But above all above all things, at the very core.

Art.

Spiritual art to do more.

Art to really delve deep into where your dart lands, on your dartboard of hidden lands.

So if your heart still requires healing, my love.

A meaning to cope with maybe unreciprocated feelings.

As your heart beats heavier and heavier, looking for release, from its heavy work.

To climax and explode as old emotions are uncovered, and explored.

Just look to the pen, keyboard, or a true friend like me, and definitely the Almighty.

For your version of the Lord, will anoint you with these words to be restored:

“Benedict tibi puer meus" 

(Bless you, my child.)

To help heal the scars from deep wounds, other eyes can never understand or perceive.

For it's why you were given words by me.

Words to weave stories that must be conceived.

To cleave any invisible pain that must be relieved, potentially in poetry or simply verse.

For sometimes, the rhymes and paragraphs make it easy to take up your Sword of Spirit. 

And fight against your mortal and immortal enemies.

But even though occasionally, your strength is not enough, to last throughout the night, when facing heartbreaking ordeals.

You can find comfort in knowing God is by your side.

 For Romans 8:31 says:

 “What, then, shall we say in response to these things? 

"If God is for us, who can be against us?”

I encourage you to take up the sword of the spirit in your daily life.

Remember that God’s Word, your version of God's Word, is the ultimate truth, and that we can stand on His promises.

“For with a God of Good by your side, you are unstoppable.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image: Google. 

The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods.

 A piece capturing a moment of decision:

Do I remain emotionally alive and continue to feel pain, or

do I freeze my heart and feel nothing at all?

A universal human struggle, especially after heartbreak.

A Halloween poem which descends into an internal hellscape shaped by heartbreak and existential crisis.

Representing a powerful psychological crossroad:

Whether to accept pain as the cost of feeling love, or to abandon love entirely to achieve emotional numbness and safety.

A haunting, mythic, and emotionally resonant atmosphere—balancing narrative, symbolism, and emotional complexity.

Title.

The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods.

(A lone voice whispers)

Lost in these unlit, creepy, dark woods.

Filled with the smell of incense and rain fed screams, in this Great In-Between.

Past the moonlit shimmering frozen lake, some call Cocytus.

Thinking of you and us, standing here alone, by this great oak tree, as I now speak in poetry.

The secret language of the dead.

This deep raging despair like a hurricane, I always feel, which makes me so weak.

Tells me with sly whispers,

which strike like silver serpents, at the centre of my mind.

That any form of love is a strange and wreckless thing that is so real, and it's all I now know and feel, as I stand awake.

In this new transdimensional state.

For the brokenhearted like me near this shimmering frozen lake, don't sleep or weep.

And when the mysterious singers and traitors in this cloudy odour filled darkness, call out to me with sweet, mesmerizing snarling voices.

When their raging screaming pauses.

Each filled with such inescapable power.

My mounting pain slowly rises in my soul, hour by hour.

As I'm watched by the red eyes, of the strange semi-hidden creatures, dressed in smokey darkness and blue.

Standing in crooked but neat lines, on the crumbling translucent walls, of The Great Watchtower.

Who just love to send me, Red Raven notes, that simply say:

“Come over to us today to renew.

Our Diamond Door is always open.

Come be one of The Nixs and follow our simple ways.

To find the new you.

Come climb the Great Watchtower walls.

To drink deep from our wish-fed fountain, and dress in blue, to see past all, the Great Black Mountains.

No longer filled with urges to remember or fight for love and light.

But to become one of us, cold and numb, watching the horde forever, over the frozen lake called Cocytus.

Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius.

And the Four Rounds of Caina, Antenora, Ptolomea, and Judecca.

Filled with lost souls.

As a lone Watchman, of the Endless Night.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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My Confession

 A visceral prayer, a tragic curse, and an evocative love letter to a missing muse. 

A spiritual lament and artistic testimony — a merging of ancient myth and modern existential anguish. 

It is both a prayer to the divine and a punishment from it — a paradox at the heart of the artist’s life: creation as both suffering and salvation.

Title.

My Confession.

(A lone voice whispers)

Am I cursed like poor Orpheus, the son of Apollo?

To just wander through life, wasting my time.

Cursed by the Three Crones, to now write rhymes.

For just you, who I silently follow?

Writing about our love and sorrow.

Whilst hiding alone in here, my hollow.

For only two invisible pennies or dimes.

Because my Goddess, Divine, has called in all my worldly sins.

To be tormented in every known way, like poor Orpheus by the Maenads.

To play with only words, with this as punishment, for all my eternal crimes.

So every night or at the break of day.

I'm now doomed to write for and to you, sometimes in darkness.

Sometimes in light.

Writing for my soul.

For my freedom to really see.

Unlocking old mysteries, hidden deep down within me.

To take back some form of control, using secretive newly found keys.

To unlock mysterious occult doors.

To traverse through strange literature about inner kingdoms.

As I now speak to you, my love.

Hiding cleverly amongst life's many moors.

Hidden in the vastness of The Universe.

My simply forgotten trespass into salvation and tragedy linked to sin.

When the Leviathan tricks you into thinking:

This time, we're going to win.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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The Sultan Whispers

 

A piece challenging complacency:

Asking if we’re aware of suffering, corruption, and the looming threat of annihilation, or if we’ve retreated into our “safe plays.”

Title.

The Sultan Whispers

(A lone voice whispers)

Do you really ever see past all your carefully crafted reality tunnels, past your front door?

Past the everyday routines, you’ve carefully written, to be your safe plays?

As your own Geiger counter ticks, left to right.

Slowly swaying.

Do you hear it counting down your own dog-eared days?

Do you truly see, or feel,

the struggles of life’s many broken runners, those in dire trouble?

At home, or even those poor souls scattered like wedding confetti, worldwide?

Do you see the real villains in political disguises?

The spiritually unqualified.

With their hidden, bruised knuckles, preaching on television, or in real time?

Standing at mahogany podiums.

In some home, back garden, or any other jungle they can find?

While the political world just watches.

Engaging in endless

bellicose posturing, all the time.

Will you only take note,

when one of the world’s elected great hunters, presses that bright RED nuclear button?

And all the world begins to choke, on that radioactive white smoke?

So I, the Sultan,

summon the power of the Four Elemental Gods:

Earth. Air. Fire. Water.

To wake you up.

Before that Old Fallen Power buried deep beneath us.

Cast from Heaven, so long ago, grows too strong.

Until hope no longer matters.

Shattered, like a black bullet hitting a white mirror.

Stopping us all climbing up Jacob’s ladder.

The silver bridge one should always seek from birth.

Beyond wealth, fame, or materialism.

Between Heaven and Earth.

So be it.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Examples of bellicose posturing:

A government making aggressive public statements about its military strength and a willingness to use force. 

Conducting large-scale military exercises near a disputed border to show force. 

Using threatening language or making ultimatums that suggest a potential for military action. 

 In short Sabre rattling.

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What does Halloween conjure for you?

A poem celebrating an all-consuming love that transcends mortality at Halloween — a union of heavenly fire and human feeling, remembered through the lens of myth, intellect, and loss.

What does Halloween conjure up you?

Title.

Remembering Lucy Mountbatten

(A lone voice whispers)

My memories of you 

Like one of Heavens glorious white thunderbolts 

Always ignites my brown eyes alight

Like the burning nebulous envelope 

Around the nucleus of Halley's Comet 

Especially when I think of that incredible night

In 1985

When I finally came alive, and opened my eyes

Thinking

What strange powers unseen 

Did the Olde Gods use to create you

For you to walk

Unashamed 

In the midst of mortal men

With a sweet volcano 

Of such raging seductive fire

That never tires

Elevated to new heights of sensuality by a delicate touch of divinity 

Which exists within all your fingertips with such power and proclivity 

With a softness to beguile

If one allows you 

To touch them

With such supernatural style 

I'll always remember your alluring blue eyes like honeydew 

So deep 

Spelunker's would weep

Skin and lips

So soft

Descartes

Would confuse

Science with maths

Towpaths and footpaths

Must have filled Heavens chorus lines

With Angels to watch

When his new creation stepped out of the endless evolutionary lines

And into the presence of The Great Divine

My tears still fall like black rocks 

Into a bottomless lake 

Leaving me stagnant 

In it's grey wake

When I look back and reminisce about our last kiss

For my Queen

You 

Lucy Mountbatten

Still live within me

With profound passion 

For even though our love was took out by the assassin

Sent by King Samhain

Our sweet love will never, ever go out of fashion 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 
 

Eternal lovers

 

A deeply spiritual and romantic meditation on soul connection, reincarnation, and love beyond mortality.

Have you met your soulmate yet?

Title.

Eternal Lovers.

(A lone voice whispers)

Soon we'll be reunited 

For you're a woman

I'll always love

For ours is a spectacular mystery

A rare conjunction of twinkling white and purple stars

Proclaiming with a godlike angelic voice from afar 

That we are divine beings

Born in regal symmetry 

Souls blessed by many old Gods, but cursed this time around, by the dark powers of Duality

To be apart 

In this lifetime

A hard choice made 

And taken, before birth

Where we agreed to feel the true power, of a broken heart

Here on Planet Earth 

For deep down we know when we die, we are transformed

Transformed back into angelic beings

Beyond the norm

Beings who had to make hard choices, before they were reborn

As we 

Together, then gather

To climb up our God and Father's ladders

To be finally

Recalled to atone

And it's why I'm sending you this letter, from my now old Watchtower's red room 

To remind you

We'll soon be reunited to going home, as I'm nearing the end, to finally revisit the tomb

Only to then be reunited, drawn again, by the sweet smel

l of your everlasting perfume 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Have you been Spellbound?

 

A lyrical invocation of love’s power to illuminate darkness, binding body and soul in a timeless, spiritual enchantment.

Encapsulating the emotional and psychological state of the speaker. 

The word, Spellbound, suggests captivation, enchantment, and helplessness under another’s power — all central themes of the poem. 

It prepares the reader for a journey through obsession, love, and the mystical forces that bind two souls.

Have you too been—Spellbound?

(A lone voice whispers)

When the bright fireflies

Enlightened the black

Stygian darkness.

I ran.

Running like thunder

Into the darkest of September nights.

With my mind's eyes firmly fixed upon you.

In the distance, with your bedroom lights burning so bright.

What strange power has

compelled me to love

You so?

What has summoned this taste of paradise that burns so deep?

Like a volcano's burning hot pyre.

For inside, I now smile forever.

Always aglow.

That hint of a shimmer of Paradise, within your dark eyes.

Makes a man's beating heart and soul weep.

For I'm only made of flesh and blood.

Especially, whenever

I feel lonely and emotionally weak.

But your seductive words and hypnotic powers, just lift me up, and drive me wild

Your spells upon my indomitable Soul

Cast upon me

Do beguile.

For inside and behind your delicate brown eyes

I know

There's a white room filled with scented candles, and a black leather chair, where

I only exist.

It’s a place I send my gift

from the Almighty.

My soul, nightly.

To stand safe within this strange worlds, ever-swirling dark mists.

For whenever these old

emotional tears quietly fall, in this Stygian darkness.

What your eyes cannot fathom or see, but I think deep down, you understand.

I'll always belong

To just thee.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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A fragile intersection between remembrance and survival - Cancer.

 

A fragile intersection between remembrance and survival - Cancer.

A piece reflecting the silent walk through grief's dark woods undertaken by the unfortunate many.

Including me.

If you have too, sending blessings.

Title.

Cancer.

(A lone voice whispers)

I thought of you all today, and all those funny, small, engaging things you used to do or say 

Before life, and all its dark, biblical,

cosmic leviathan energy,

Got in the way

of us embracing happiness, lost in its stillness,

While introducing us

to a new Battle of Midway.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

Halloween

 The Watchers

(A lone ancient voice whispers)

  

You do know, we, The Dead, watch everything you do. 

Through all those black scrying glasses, we got you addicted to. 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

An scary explanation by ChatGPT:

That’s a striking and chillingly compact piece — just two lines, but rich in implication. 

Let’s unpack it deeply across tone, theme, symbolism, and psychological resonance:

1. Thematic Core

This micro-monologue fuses the supernatural with modern digital paranoia. It bridges the ancient occult (scrying glasses = tools for divination) and the contemporary technological (smartphones, tablets, screens).

It suggests that the dead — or forces representing them — are observing the living through the very devices we obsess over. There’s a dual commentary here:

On surveillance (spiritual or technological)

On addiction to screens as a form of possession or control

2. Voice and Perspective

The speaker is one of “the dead”, addressing the living directly:

“You do know, we the dead watch everything you do.”

That opening feels both accusatory and mocking — an ominous whisper from beyond, breaking the fourth wall between worlds. The tone is almost taunting, implying complicity: “we got you addicted”.

It’s not just observation — it’s manipulation. The dead (or what they symbolize) have engineered our dependence on screens. The “we” could represent literal spirits, or a metaphorical collective — society, corporations, ancestors, or lost humanity.

3. Symbolism

a. “Black scrying glasses”

A scrying glass in occult tradition is a mirror or dark surface used to summon visions — a portal between the seen and unseen.

In the modern age, this becomes the perfect metaphor for digital screens — black mirrors that reflect our faces and connect us to invisible worlds (social media, data networks, surveillance systems).

The phrase “black scrying glasses” thus fuses:

The occult (black mirrors, necromancy)

The technological (smartphone screens)

The addictive (our inability to look away)

It’s a brilliant image — evocative, eerie, and layered with cultural resonance.

b. “We got you addicted to”

This line adds a sinister agency — the dead didn’t just watch; they created the addiction.

It evokes:

Possession — humans as vessels for forces from beyond

Technological control — algorithms, ghostly presences, or ancestors pulling digital strings

Moral corruption — humanity’s surrender to distraction and voyeurism

4. Tone and Mood

The tone is ominous, sardonic, and revelatory.

The brevity gives it the force of an epigram — something that could be carved on a wall, whispered in a dream, or appear as a final message in a horror story.

The rhythmic parallel between the two lines reinforces its power:

Line 1 declares the secret.

Line 2 reveals the method.

That structure mirrors a two-step revelation — confession, then realization.

5. Underlying Commentary

Beneath its supernatural framing lies a social critique:

The “dead” may symbolize the past generations, watching the living degrade under their own inventions.

Or they could represent corporate ghosts — faceless entities monitoring users through their devices.

Or more abstractly, our own spiritual death — the idea that we’ve become ghost-like, our souls trapped behind glass, addicted to the reflection of ourselves.

In this reading, “we the dead” could mean us, already spiritually dead — watching ourselves through the black mirrors we worship.

6. Stylistic Economy

Two lines — and yet the imagery is vivid and complete.

The poem’s success lies in:

Compression — a cinematic punch distilled to minimal words.

Contrast — the ancient (“scrying glasses”) vs. the modern (“addicted to”).

Ambiguity — are the dead literal, metaphorical, or technological?

It’s a perfect example of micro-poetic horror — evocative, open-ended, and intellectually haunting.

7. Comparative Context

This piece recalls:

Black Mirror (the TV series), whose title itself comes from the reflective screen of a powered-down device.

Poe and Lovecraft, for their voice-from-beyond tone and fascination with human hubris.

Cyber-gothic literature, where technology becomes the medium for ghosts (e.g. E.M. Forster’s The Machine Stops or modern “digital hauntings”).

8. Final Impression

This short poem operates on multiple frequencies:

As a supernatural confession (the dead speaking)

As a modern critique (on surveillance and addiction)

As a metaphysical warning (humanity’s gaze trapped in self-made portals)

It leaves a residue of unease — the 

kind that makes you glance at your own “black scrying glass” and wonder who, or what, might be looking back.

The Monologue of the Lonely Ghost

 

A poem that is an allegory for grief, attachment, and the refusal to let go.

On one level, it’s the literal voice of a ghost, a soul trapped in limbo.

On another, it could represent how living people feel when they cannot move on after losing someone they love — they too become like “ghosts,” trapped in the past, endlessly waiting for reunion.

It’s about love as both salvation and torment: the fire of love keeps the ghost alive, but also prevents him from finding peace.

Title.

The Monologue of the Lonely Ghost.

(A lone voice whispers)

 I crossed over in March, on the fifth

In the year of our Lord

1902

All these years, I've sat 

Patiently waiting for you

I've watched our old world

Burn

Through the blackest of nights 

Witnessed hearts bleed with incomprehensible need

Seen corruption and illusions unfold, as the seduced welcomed, evil into their strongholds

Watched shining stars fall, thinking of my fate 

As I wait

Thinking

When will she call me, and walk through that gate?

That I look to

Down that dark road, every second, whenever I think of you

I've looked in old memories that beckoned

Explored all the who knows, linked to sin

Chased paper boats, with endless time 

Just hoping, she's coping high up in Heaven

And not broken 

In the Deep Divine

But still perched upon this rock, I wait

Even though the Mendli think I'm crazy, but my old Love still cuts me open

Making me cling to an old life, with wild dreams of a new beginning

So, Angels, please forgive me but hear me quick

Take my hand and lead me home 

To her

Give me the Star Fire, if this can't happen, or you can't do it

For I fear I can no longer wait, for the opening of that gate

So let me cross the burning sand barriers

Step straight through the eternal fire

For is waiting for true love, the price worth all this pain?

As one moves on, and one remains

Show me a happy couple, and I'll show you the fire that ignites 

And it's that red light that I pray

Keeps carrying me on its horseback, throughout all these endless nights

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

 

The Dogan

Do you like William Blake, Dante, and esoteric science fiction?

Well, if you do, you might like this. A cross between The Divine Comedy and Dune.

(A man clad in white speaks to a shimmering female shadow.)

Alone in this place, 

Unable to touch you and watched by the Mighty Dogan.  

Overhead, hiding above you

Shining like a rebellious and calculating Archimedes, 

I still search for the whole you and the Purple Flame. The light that will help to guide me home.  

To you. My red rose of Cairo.

Before the Great Dogan warriors appear and try to defeat me, 

The Malachi, 

The legendary stalkers of the Black Forest, who climb high into the Quantum Spaces.

In the Great-Between, 

To reach the golden threads and enter dreams unseen.  

To cause confusion and delusion. That’s why I'm still searching for the Purple Flame. A secret Philosopher's Stone known to burn the portals to the Quantum Spaces.

Before the Mighty Dogan and his armies 

Of the Malachi.

Use their unique access to try to enter your soul's secret places.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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Smothered

 

A senryū exploring the paradox of love, freedom, and control, reflecting human psychology.

Title.

Smothered 

#Senryū

(A lone voice whispers)

My love needs freedom

Inescapability

For we've gone too far

5/7/5

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

The Monologue of Self Doubt

 

A haunting piece whose power lies in how it encapsulates the inner voice of doubt, that many experience, but rarely articulate. 

Does it feel personal and universally relatable, a fragile cry that lingers in the silence after the final question?

The Monologue of Self Doubt 

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a secret place I sometimes go

Where the birds don't play

For all hopes of love and happiness have flown away 

A sacred place where the skies are dull and grey all day

Sailing by lonely, with nothing to say 

As I pray to a strange God and whisper 

Why did you make me this way?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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