The Mirror

 

The Mirror


(A lone voice whispers)


If Humanity looked in the mirror and could see its real face.
Would it end this destructive race?


Would it put an end to endless wars and demonizing those deemed less?
Those labelled with perceived flaws?


If Humanity looked in the mirror and could see its real face.


Would it change and lift us to a higher place?
Its self-obsessed power struggles, slowly disappearing without trace.


A dreams a dream until we dream it into being.
Many have tried before to knock on Humanity's door.


Maybe this time around it will be different.
Maybe this time, Humanity will be less belligerent.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

Belligerent" means aggressively hostile, eager to fight or argue, or engaged in warfare. It can describe a person, group, or even a country.

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The Monologue of Monique

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you ever wondered why it is you are born alone

Alone with no memory of who you really are 

Born for someone

A stranger to name you something they deem worthy

Thrust into a new realm of understanding

New emotions

A new horizon overflowing with Lovers and manipulative 

Haters

Judgemental and if you're lucky

Some kind souls, but ultimately new experiences

And then, when you eventually die

Hopefully surrounded by loving friends

You return alone to share your brief life

To the fellow travellers who wait by those alabaster gates

You once walked through so long ago

There are two strong groups waiting on the other side

So I have been told in deep dreams

The Haters

A collective term for the fallen souls 

Hatred and jealousy on their many levels

People who have endured hardship

Loss and whatever else, and willingly sacrifice kindness for callous judgment

To stand by the Devil

The people who would rather argue and fight

The despondent who seeks constant conflict

The game players and manipulators

And the Light

Kind companions

Who has walked tragedies hard, stone-cobbled pathways and still

Shine a light of friendship without an ulterior motive

People who seek a means to rejuvenate you without anything in return

People who try to help when help is needed

It is a strange sensation hearing these thoughts.

People may think in their judgmental shadows

I could be a dark creature in my deepest core, as they

Lean back and judge 

But if one doesn't explore the depths of light and dark experiences, as the voices whisper in the half-light

What is the point of only sharing the goodness in the world without recognising the darkness?

These times are awash in the great unveiling.

It is the Age Of Aquarius

Maybe when I die and in fifty or even a hundred years

People might see that I was a conduit sending a light 

Channelled from the Red Church to help strengthen those in need

Do I seek love and connection with the viewer

Did the many before me

All we seek, so I have been told

Is to plant a seed

A seed to question more

Be kinder

More compassionate

I am currently feeling the strength flow out of me

Old age and endless days of hardship 

But still, I fight the encroaching darkness

Especially at night

I am only one of many voices in the world.

Before you leave, though

One question

What will you leave behind if you suddenly passed away tonight

Money 

Wealth or love

Or even better, a legacy for some to be inspired by

Is that why you, too, should be brave enough to write

Unafraid of the world's many haters, and instead seek to reach those who love to share their light

If you don't leave anything

Have you ever wondered

In a few years

Regardless of your relationships

Something deep to ponder upon.

Salute.

The Monologue of Monique

(A lone voice whispers)

Do you only want to be a few lame messages on social media on birthdays or Christmas?

With cheap flowers on an ornate headstone, a few tears, the three-letter affirmation of repeated weakened Love as the years pass

R.I.P

Copyright John Duffy

The name Monique is a French feminine name, derived from the Latin name Monica, and ultimately meaning "advisor" or "counsellor". It is also associated with the meaning of "wise". The name is thought to have gained popularity through Saint Monica, the mother of Saint Augustine, known for her unwavering faith and spiritual guidance.

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Reflections

 

Foundation.

History is littered with endless broken relationships.

The question is:

Does the Darkness play a part in unravelling the hopes and dreams of the two?

Creating scenarios to break the bond through temptation or other sins?

Has the Darkness crossed the boundaries to ever reach you?

Title.

Reflections.

(A lone voice whispers)

I can remember how we had such fire.

Aphrodite much have sighed with deep desire. 

The smiles and sweet kisses day and night.

Holding hands.

Standing proudly in our own circle of light.

Praying together, our love wouldn't take flight.

But beyond all things that prowl at night.

Crossing boundaries to reach us by means no one ever sees.

Two dreamers died and drowned at sea.

Two beings never to be the same.

But even now, deep inside my heart, that once shared love still remains.

And even though we're so far apart, sailing new seas.

The vision we once shared still haunts me like a familiar ghost.

For it still reminds me of a time I loved the most.

Before Dark Principalities. 

Crossing hidden boundaries to reach us by means no one ever sees.

And tore our hopes from pillar to post.

And two dreamers died and drowned at sea.

Like Megara and Hercules 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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Have you been under the influence?

 

Foundation.

Have dreams influenced your previous or current paradigms?

Title.

Have you been under the influence?

(A lone voice whispers)

Although sleep, you may fight at night when Puck calls.

To play in your deep dreams while performing a strange fairy dance.

Put those fears to one side and sleep unfazed. 

And play a game filled with unknown chances.

 For what you might dream of whilst in The Great In-Between.

After that mischievous fairy, sprite, or jester.

Whispers and bade you enter.

Might conjure up incredible heart-touching prose or wild visceral stories.

No one has ever read or seen.

With your name standing proudly front and centre.

Just another dreamer replaying glories.

Once witnessed on Morpheus's Dream Screen Projector.

The immortal carrier of The Four Keys who tempts new suitors or suitresses.

To carry out their own sorties. 

Be it in realms controlled by Judas Iscariot or even Confucius.

Drinking tea or creating vivid poetic stories.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods

 

Foundation.

A dash of Gothic Poetry.

Title.

The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods

(A lone voice whispers)

Lost in these unlit, creepy, dark woods

Past the moonlit Shimmering Lake

Standing here as I speak, this despair I always feel, which makes me weak

Tells me love is a thing that is so real

It's all I now know as I stand awake

In this new state

For the brokenhearted, don't sleep or weep

And when the mysterious singers in this darkness call out to me with sweet, mesmerising voices.

Each filled with such inescapable power

My pain slowly rises in my soul, hour by hour

As I'm watched by the eyes of strange creatures dressed in blue

Standing in crooked but neat lines

On the crumbling translucent walls of The Great Watchtower.

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

Come over to us to renew

The Diamond Door is always open.

Be one of the Nixs

Follow our ways

To find the new you

Come climb the Great Watchtower walls

To drink deep from our wish-fed fountain and see past all the Black Mountains

No longer filled with urges to fight for love and light

But to become a lone Watchman of the Endless Night

I used to think I was strong

But these endless dark nights are so long

Is today the day I will wonder

If I'm wrong to fight the Nixes' many invitations

And go along to the Diamond Door

Beneath The Great Watchtower 

And knock 

Asking to join their mix

For nobody in The Great In-Between knows, I still miss you.

This swirling grey air and smoky fog make you look over your past life

In time

Causing parts of your mind to speak only in rhymes, and once it starts

The forgetting begins

It's why they think I need to be set free

By sending Red Ravens every hour to me

To be like one of them

The Nixs

Guardians of The Great In-Between

Bounded by a sacred oath to stand as Watchmen on the Great Watchtower

Unseen

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Autonomy

 

Autonomy

(A lone voice whispers)

Is your soul littered with hot and cold fragments of your own ideas of heaven and hell?

But are you too metaphorically blindfolded to ever really understand? 

Just another human being living within and under its light and dark, magical spell

Slowly unconsciously waiting for the spiritual comprehension 

As it returns from the ashes of your intimate universe's dust

To really then see

All that your life will see

While praying to your Lord of choice 

The one you trust 

A Great Almighty who will try to set you free

To then be

All you can be 

Reflected in the endless unregulated themes found gasping for air

 In that six-letter word you cherish—called poetry 

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Love

 

(A lady whispers at Saint James.) 

Our love has always connected us, two sacred souls defying the dust of immortality. 

We met slowly in school, missed the ride, but fate brought us together again. 

We then loved fiercely, refusing to be lonely. 

We crossed the point of no return and got married.

Stood in the final circle of poetic vows and declared boldly, "I do." 

Then I kissed you. 

You passed away what seemed like yesterday as the setting sun set. 

And as I sit here, with our three children, on Sunday.

I refuse to forget, while I still breathe. 

For you are the only one, I’ll ever need.  

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Song of Calliope

 

Song of Calliope

Shall we begin?

Amongst the murky misty encroaching images

A surreal scene: the creators of Casablanca, would have been proud to call their very own

My new muse, Calliope 

Wandered and appeared, walking like a real siren

Stepping straight into view

Wearing a stunning Fashionista's white dress 

She appeared right out of the blue 

Bent and with tasty red sweet lips

French kissed my soul back into life 

Watched by cautious eyes

Who had sent her to help me get through

By dwellers 

Who stood hidden in the crescent glow 

Of the Full Strawberry Moon

Which hung high in my mind's purple-hued sky 

Like an unearthly tribute to mortal pain 

Where all those suffering 

Made her a seat and bade her welcome 

Into their bedroom 

In the falling night rain

I now seem to reach out earnestly to crave her soft touch 

As those old emotions of being alone 

Systematically kneel, submitting to be slain, like a reborn Cain

My Calliope came gliding in majestically last June 

Riding on the backs of handwritten messages

Exchanged through spiritual friends one glorious day 

As they discussed my story and all its many open and well-known wounds

Notes that said I was available now I've found freedom from old sacred vows of fidelity

Once spoken 

In hushed verses, that someone else had recently foolishly broken

We now stand firmly upright whenever we meet

In straight lines in new lands of holding hands whilst we're walking

Enjoying talking and telling each other funny stories 

Like meeting each other was foretold to be our calling

At this very moment, as I sit here 

By the attic window by this old Riverside Cafe 

In the Parisian winter cold

Looking out in quiet confinement and contemplating how my once sad life

Suddenly turned to gold

I still in these quiet moments of soul-searching reflection

Embrace my newly found harmonious serendipity and all these treasured moments and intimate reunions

Where two newly introduced souls with such effortless proclivity  

Merged together as if guided by a strange sense of supernatural compatibility

Was I carefully scrutinized by those Hidden Watchers? I sometimes wonder 

Angels

Who stand on blue milk crates in those black unknown voids

Fluctuating between time and space

Trying to find ingenious strategies and heavenly constructs to illuminate 

I hope my much-cherished and treasured face

Who knows, but now I've found a compatible world

A fascinating realm replenished endlessly with laughter

Celebrated and baptized at midnight by soft wanton lips through ink 

Which collide together so passionately

Forever I hope in close proximity, whenever I think 

I may never know all the answers, but in poetic scripture 

Song of Calliope says

Use me as a guide 

To reveal your heart's pain

As a sacred meeting place where love and pain can be resolved again and again 

Until it's nullified, for with you walking at my side

Our love can help you renew to feel more self-satisfied 

©John Duffy 

I'm only going for one

 

I'm only going for one.

Foundation.

From late nights saying they're only having one, which could lead to infidelity, gambling, narcotics, and other subtle forms of sin.

Do the partners of today need a medal for continuing to love their partner and never giving in?

Have you ever heard the line above or below?

Title.

I'm only going for one.

(A partner looks at their partner's picture and quietly thinks after receiving a late Friday afternoon text message)

 You.

My now unspoken pact, which was nearly broken.

So many times. On the sacrificial altar of sin.

Oh, why do we constantly love those sinners, like you? 

Who always nearly let's Temptation, unfortunately win.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Was Bram Stokers Dracula simply based upon addiction?

 

Was Bram Stokers Dracula simply based upon addiction?

Is that magnificent novel, Dracula, partly based upon Bram Stokers keen eye as he regarded people as he strode daily through London and helped him conjure up a magnificent and frightful character that has transcended time and space for generations?

Is Bram Stokers Dracula simply a well-known London socialite—a well-heeled drug pusher of the time?

A well-dressed, wealthy, and striking-looking character with a dominating personality?

A man—unknown to the many but to the few—who created legions of addicts prowling the streets.

Seeking money by any means to get more of the magic powder he gave them via an injection.

Did Bram Stoker infuse the symptoms and behaviour patterns of the heroin or opium addicts and their suppliers to create a mythology that survives to this day and beyond?

Was he not a typical drug dealer, but was he instead a socialite?

Did he know or mix with those who engaged in such activities, supplied by a well-heeled dealer, who he based his iconic mesmerising character on?

Dracula's character is a hypnotic figure that creates a faithful legion that eventually falls under his control; did Bram Stoker witness the demise of actors within the Lyceum Theatre and fall under the control of a Svengali-type character supplying them?

In today’s climate of regulations, it is hard to believe, but in early- and mid-Victorian Britain it was possible to walk into a chemist’s shop and buy, without prescription, laudanum, cocaine, and even arsenic. 

The recreational use of opiates was popular with pre-Victorian and Victorian artists and writers.

The Signs of a Heroin User for modern addicts, but can you imagine the signs in 1890!

Change in Behavior

Risk-taking 

Isolation 

Disorientation  

Anxiousness 

Changes in appearance

Heroin addicts who use needles will have needle marks on their bodies

Does the trademark puncture wound simply represent the needle marks of an easily bought set from the local chemist or the expensive tools of a wealthy dealer supplying a certain circle of writers or actors?

Does Dracula's thirst for more victims represent a certain character within Bram Stoker's horizons?

A person who strove to create an endless line of victims to line his pockets?

Are all the victims pale, always exhausted, and looking ill due to the addiction taking effect?

Did the Svengali character only appear at night searching for new victims?

Writers all base stories around people or landscapes they are privy to —have we, for all these years, simply watched a clever storyline interwoven with tales of Want created through drug addiction by a Svengali of the late 1890s?

The Want been reflected by the Svengali forever chasing down more victims, and the victims wanting to experience a newer magical essence that is permeating the social scene.

Seeking to become newer members of a secret club?

Like today in Hollywood?

Copyright John Duffy 

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