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.

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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

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Need inspiration?

 

A poem reflecting on time, ageing, resting, and above all, resilience.

Themes denied to so many.

Occasionally, you can try to do too much.

Title.

Need inspiration?

(A lone voice whispers)

You all know the game.

It's within your power to have an hour.

Be proud to feel old, a fate denied to so many: but never fold. 

Recover, then step back into the cold.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.

#A poem reflecting on time, ageing, resting, and above all, resilience.

Themes denied to so many.

Occasionally, you can try to do too much.

Title.

Need inspiration?

(A lone voice whispers)

You all know the game.

It's within your power to have an hour.

Be proud to feel old, a fate denied to so many: but never fold. 

Recover, then step back into the cold.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.  

Do you like reading deeply spiritual and mystical poetry?

 Do you like reading deeply spiritual and mystical poetry?

With imagery evoking heritage, supernatural guidance, and a longing for a much-needed destiny? 

Then read on about the dreams of, Miss Applegate, while living in Hades. 

(Hades in this case represents living in a state of high emotional turmoil. Maybe you know the feeling? Salute)

Rêves de Miss Applegate

(Dreams of Miss Applegate)

(A female voice whispers)

I can still see her 

Old Marie Laveau

Dressed in motherly blue 

I can't pretend

In my grandma's old passed down scrying mirror

Looking back 

And smiling 

Summoned to haunt me 

From when I visited 

Big Mama Aurelia

Somewhere out on the water village of the Grand Bayou

For she announced the end of me being single

And a time and place of happiness, I still cannot see, where I'll mingle

A time when the Great Kamadeva will walk in 

Like a proud Captain Jake, and tempt me to sin

In new where's and how's, the what if's and so's

So, sometimes I stand dressed in my Mama's old white wedding dress

Looking in my long black and gold mirror, pleading to know my fate

To save this damsel in distress

In what year, month, or day, will she come see me? 

Before each winter's year ending snow, and whisper

This year, the waiting ends, Josefina

So I can celebrate the overthrow of yet another phase of living in Hades

But until then, I'll just go back to masquerading on my life's only solo holy mission

On my heart's beating crusade 

Looking for true love, before I too like, Old Marie Laveau, fade away

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Kamadeva is the god of human love and passion, who is known to awaken carnal desires among humans.

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Are you a Newbie?

 

Are you a newbie?

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you transitioned from silence or hesitation towards bold, authentic, courageous communication?

After you realized language isn't just a tool for casual conversations, but a beautiful divine means of self-expression, while one undergoes some spiritual rehabilitation?

Are you or have you felt like a Newbie?

Someone who was once walking through the complex strands of intricate language by the Alphabet Sea

And found the courage to express themselves for others and them to see, while reducing their soul's baggage 

Risking all to talk raw, in front of all, and stand tall

As you found your old self slowly retreating as your new more confident self, started communicating 

And now, with reflection, you sometimes wonder

How could I have ever lived that awkward life of always sitting watching other rebels, on the author or poetry shelf, write?

While keeping myself, to myself, in the middle of any given night?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

     

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Voice of Eli

A layered poem of spiritual meditation. 

Recognizing the subtle winds that guide or shape us, even when unseen.

Reflecting how sometimes, words and memories, can be spiritual lifelines, preserving connection beyond the physical.

Reminding us to stay in an inner fight to stay spiritually alive, in a world that can feel spiritually barren.

And to approach whatever prayer you use not just as ritual, like so many other but as a sacred, personal invocation for peace and strength.

And finally to embrace cycles of spiritual change and letting go.

Good or bad, and then understanding how they can bring renewal and a new sacred presence.

The Autumn leaves represents a transaction of emotional states. Like Autumn to Winter.

Salute.

The Voice of Eli

(A lone voice whispers)

Like an army of unseen thieves

Wearing invisible black and red threads of divinity

You may steal

These words

As they are read in your head into infinity

To remember old times of beloved memories of us

The undead

You have my now declared permission 

So go ahead like an army of invisible thieves

Wearing black and red threads of divinity

 

Fighting

Mentally

To stay alive

While living amongst

The living dead

Use these sacred words

As your literacy

Your Godhead

Recite after me

Silently

O Sancte!

Da mihi pacem et libera me a tenebris!

Da mihi vim resistendi temptationi!

In nomine tuo omnipotenti!

Amen 

So they may fall like Autumn leaves 

All around 

The sacred grounds 

Where you may sit or stand

And forever stay

As your beating band

Still plays

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Translation: 

Oh Holy One!

Give me peace and free me from darkness!

Give me the strength to resist temptation!

In your almighty name!

Amen
 

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The letter on the fireplace

 Do you like mysticism, anxiety, atmospheric rich imagery, layered within mythological meanings?

A bending of surrealism, personal confession, and fantastical imagery of obsession?

Then this could be for you.

Salute.

Title.

The letter on the fireplace 

(A lone voice whispers)

As if cursed by the son of perdition

As I go about my final solo mission to gain admission 

With Aphrodite's dead ringer, who whispers songs of exquisite rendition

A window opened and a lone green arrow from Eros bow struck, that drew gasps from the angels watching

In the midnight sky 

I breathed in a sweet aroma and passion filled scent like pure oxygen 

And felt like a king

Like King Solomon 

I felt an aura and my soul was captured like a moth is attracted to a flame

So now all dark nights appear so long and so black

As the shadow people murmur and whisper my name 

For they all know

Way back to Quekith, I have been changed by someone so radical

As I entered the fifth dimension by finding a love so sacred and magical

But that's the magic of the fantastical

For as the winds seduce trees by subtle caresses 

As the world wakes in a new spring and new life begins

I write this before I go to The Hidden Forest

Where the White Ash trees stand in neat rows like prizes at a country fair 

Where green ivy hides the entrance to her lair as it grows, and other slaves play music on demand, while chained to metal stands

With the smell of Frankincense incense on patrol in the electricity filled air

Ready to invade lungs and take control

It's ten to two as I write this in the morning, and I have to appear there at four

So if I don't come back I leave this for you to know I'm fine

Keep the house 

The car, money and all my collection of vintage red wine 

For I go to a new place where fear no longer exists and have to be on time 

A place, I hope, welcomes me in

Just pray for me that I don't lose my soul and become another flesh slave, chained to a metal stand 

Playing music on demand 

Another prisoner trapped forever in her cave

As she sits on her golden throne singing with her crimson red lips

You're now mine

Now get in line

Your time will come to play

For now, you're caught 

And can no longer run away 

For you're just another familiar 

One in a trillion, 

No longer a civilian 

All this I know for a German call Schiller

Told me over the internet

Told me to come

Told me I'd be a member of a wolf pack serving a queen in The Great In-Between 

So here I am

Pray for me 

Ma xxx

Forever yours,

Your loving son.

Jimmie.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

Ephemeral

 

Upon reflection, have you had a bittersweet experience of a powerful, brief connection?

Something so intense, meaningful, but ultimately temporary, that still left a lasting impression?

Impressions of sublime moments that burnt brightly and then suddenly disappeared.

Leaving behind only grief intermixed with happiness and reflection.

Title.

Ephemeral

(A lone voice whispers)

I met you like the thunderous rain meets wet leaves

Fast and so unexpectedly, that the rain grieves when it leaves

For soon nothing will remain when the sun comes out again

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.

The Calling

 

A poem that reflects the pathway of a life that could have been shaped differently, and yet still, after all these years, holds a spark of new possibilities.

Reminding us at the core that courage and new connections can still matter at any stage in life, and that love can reach us even near the end. 

Instead of being a poem of pure regrets, it offers a bright, and tender invitation.

Salute

Title.

The Calling

(A lone voice whispers)

In a deep dream,

I once heard a whispered call

It came so softly 

Vibrating and crawling all over my inner walls

It said boy

Stand up tall

Be courageous 

Throw away all of your life's toys and climb over all your life's many walls

But I thought it was but a dream and did nothing at all

And now at ninety-eight

All alone 

I'm still haunted by this soft call

Of

Boy 

Boy

Remember, 

Throw out your last toy

For at 98 

It's still not too late

We've still got a chance

To climb over that last wall

And together

Hand in hand

 Into eternity 

We can still dance

If you can still hear this call 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage polA poem that reflects the pathway of a life that could have been shaped differently, and yet still, after all these years, holds a spark of new possibilities.

Reminding us at the core that courage and new connections can still matter at any stage in life, and that love can reach us even near the end. 

Instead of being a poem of pure regrets, it offers a bright, and tender invitation.

Salute

Title.

The Calling

(A lone voice whispers)

In a deep dream,

I once heard a whispered call

It came so softly 

Vibrating and crawling all over my inner walls

It said boy

Stand up tall

Be courageous 

Throw away all of your life's toys and climb over all your life's many walls

But I thought it was but a dream and did nothing at all

And now at ninety-eight

All alone 

I'm still haunted by this soft call

Of

Boy 

Boy

Remember, 

Throw out your last toy

For at 98 

It's still not too late

We've still got a chance

To climb over that last wall

And together

Hand in hand

 Into eternity 

We can still dance

If you can still hear this call 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

Image shared under fair usage policy.