Peter. The Keeper of keys

 

Even if belief, hope, literature, poetry, or art is doubted or mocked, its purpose is still to try to keep people alive, creative, and open-hearted in shining the light or stepping into the dark.

And sometimes remember, fiction can sometimes seem real. That's the magic of imagination. Salute.

Title.

Peter. The Keeper Of Keys.

(A lone voice whispers)

Some may call me a charlatan.

A new, reborn follower of a King.

From somewhere totally

Glorious.

It's so Cosmopolitan.

A seducer of fragile minds.

Who might choose to hold me upright? 

As I baptized another poor sinner.

And try to bring an end to all their tragedies.

Solidified in written oxygen.

Whatever the consequence.

But my message is simply this.

Try to live for happiness and a loving muse.

Paint touching emotional pictures through stories.

Photographs.

Music.

Art, literature, film, or poetry.

Using them as your own golden lyre.

And then lay them gently in green fields and upon velvety avenues.

So those who want to read or use them.

Can never ever be refused.

Try not to lament old age.

As it tries to freeze your spiritually youthful body in those dark moments of living.

For it's forever deemed to be so beautiful and lithe.

With a profound strength.

To swim through tributaries of anxiety, which may seem so unforgiving.

From all that red pain to eventually finding newer beginnings.

Your heart may seem heavy, and you might lose hope and feel all emotions.

Linked to losing happiness or love.

But look me in these eyes.

Watching you.

Within these words, and be lifted up in Dawn's rose-flushed arms.

To truly live.

Then look into life's deep silvery mirrors and always remember.

You have so much more.

To still give.

So just know when that grieving whistle blows.

When that hope of love seems to disappear at night.

When the darkness appears.

I'll always be here.

To hold you.

For even though some may call me a charlatan.

A new reborn follower of a King.

From somewhere totally.

Glorious.

It's so Cosmopolitan.

A seducer of fragile minds.

Who might choose to hold me upright? 

As I baptized another poor sinner.

And try to bring an end to all their tragedies.

Solidified in written oxygen.

Whatever the consequence.

But my message is simply this.

Will you let these words breathe through you? And calm the storm inside.

As I try to keep your fire alight.

Throughout all these upcoming dark nights.

For I hold all the keys.

To the Kingdom and one day.

I

 hope and pray.

I'll let you in.

When your astral eyes open and Me.

You'll see.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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The Vampires from Dis

 

A poem about being hunted for your inner truth, surviving spiritual predation, and emerging permanently changed—not saved, not healed, but standing.

The Vampires from Dis 

(A lone voice whispers)

From beyond the crying, wet moors they came.

The indentured silently crying out in pain.

Crying out from behind blackened trees and never to be seen.

But still my candle burnt as those hellish creatures whispered like jinn in the Arabian Deserts.

Spill your truth. Spill your truth and be torn apart from all from Dis.

Tell us your magic and IS.

Let's eat your despair. It's only fair. 

But when the swamp dwellers arrive, hidden behind swamp trees and lies.

I always remember the day the old me died and the new one found the strength to rise.

It was June; the wet moors were wet. A sad day I'll never forget.

Under the Moon after a harsh afternoon.

I was changed forever by the vampires from Dis.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Cancer Prayers

 

What kind of presence answers sincere prayer with silence when so many have prayed to no avail?

(A lone voice whispers)

Many nights I've kneeled and prayed.

I kneeled and prayed for better days to return as my beloved lay sick as her life candle burned.

Prayed so whole once more they could return and stay, but within that blaze.

Within its purple haze laughed the Tall Man, who whispered,

"Go join the back of the sad queue of those fools praying and dreaming of Halcyon days.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

In memory of praying endlessly before cancer took my beloved sister. 

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The Shepherd

 

A piece about trusting a quiet guiding presence—whether you name it God, faith, conscience, or purpose—while moving through a dangerous, morally complex world. 

Simply expressing:

Live kindly.

Create honestly.

Walk forward even when the debt feels impossible.

You are not alone, even when control feels invisible.

Title.

The Shepherd.

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a shepherd I know. He follows me everywhere I go.

Come rain, wind, or snow. 

He whispers:

Go show the world. Sing your soul's very song. Be kind and compassionate, and I will always follow along. 

And so it is as this I give.

While I pause in green pastures to restore my soul beneath the still waters of my goal.

To reach Heaven beyond the shadows of death when I have paid life's unpayable debt.

To get my feet wet in rivers of righteousness and forgiveness as the shepherd is with me.

A voice that comforts and guides.

As time flies by while he protects my soul and prays to deliver me, perhaps like you, from evil and Sheol.

And those invisible principalities in control.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Pact

(A lone voice whispers)

There are strange things man should not see.

Mythical creatures hidden in the half-light glow of dark places below, where it's too hot to snow.

Wild plays of rebellion and submission.

Far from church pulpits or crescent glows from so long ago.

I still can remember the deal I made when it-I into my house bade.

What was I to know when The Elder contract I did sign?

Only to hear my angel bell no longer chime.

So here I sit by the sea at a quarter to three, waiting for the thing man shouldn't see.

Will thou pray for me?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Dearly Departed

 

Does sudden love-loss turn life into a living afterlife—where the body survives, but the heart remains buried with the dearly beloved?

Title.

The Dearly Departed.

(A lone voice whispers)

How sad am I when inside I remember the painful day I cried?

Where I stood when I received the call that my raven-haired bride had suddenly died.

Every star seemed to dim, and happiness waved no more as sorrow washed up on my shore.

Oh, why does it have to be this way when you're left alone to cope, when love has breached the Dead Man's Slope?

And all you can do is pray to dream—you'll meet again in some eternal time stream.

To once more glimpse their precious face, which brought such tranquility and grace. 

But now that God's deep voice has whispered its divine choice.

And stated its life-changing decision, which cannot be rejoiced.

All my old love has turned to pain, as I no longer cry in vain but now just walk on in an invisible rain.

No more to love. No more to feel anything that's real—except the sharp blade of grief's internal steel.

So now I'm cursed to walk in the Dead Man's Tide until I walk by her side.

Cursed forever to remember the day she died.

The beautiful woman who once whispered yes when she was my fair bride.

Then left me forever.

To wander the lands of the Watery-eyed.

(C)

Copyright and John Duffy

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Is this a curse of living?

 

Senryū

5/7/5

(A lone voice whispers)

Did you cheat on me

Untrusted relationships 

The curse of living 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Unjudged

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Well, hello from just below hell, where lost souls like me go.

To wallow in limbo and be swallowed by the ever-shifting shadows of death's last frown.

Until I too walk underground, upon its unholy black ground.

While waiting like a cargo slave for a certain sound. 

Of redemption no less.

Whilst dreaming of times bound in red tape, no longer around.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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My true love called Jessie Lee

 

MONOLOGUE SCRIPT

Title:

My true love called Jessie Lee

SETTING:

A stranger kneels in the dark with a white candle burning and begins praying.

(A lone voice whispers)

I knew her, my Jessie Lee, like a gift from God. From the spiritual realm. Unmeasured by time itself.

When Love and Fate entwined like red wine and water to make our own beloved communion wine.

But now it's too late.

For like her grandmother and mother before her, she now sings one of heaven's divine love songs.

I tried singing one after she died. Drank so much old whiskey but couldn't sing along.

But I still try to believe as I grieve that you sent her here to me, O Lord.

To undo so many wrongs.

That you sent her straight into my hard, lonely life like an angel from beyond the sky.

Where she brought me true happiness before you called her back and she had to die.

For that I am grateful, Lord. For before she came, I was broken and on the brink.

All my hopes and dreams just seemed to float away and sink.

But when my beloved Jessie Lee came and called my name.

She brought that something so special that your sun seemed to shine ever so brighter and my soul felt lighter.

I know she's there watching in the shadows with you, O Lord.

So, hello Jessie Lee.

I just want to thank you for being you and leading me out of the darkness. 

Even though you're back, watching by the Holy Sea.

It's why I pray.

Pray every day like today.

Even though my broken heart skips.

For one day I know we'll be reunited. Just you wait and see.

The lonely cowboy and his angel called Jessie Lee.

But until then.

Until then I'll face the world and all its dangers and hardships with that smile you both gave me.

(Bows. Closes his eyes and whispers)

Amen.

(The stranger then bends and blows out the candle. The room fills with darkness)

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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Danse Macabre

 

Danse Macabre

(A lone voice whispers)

If I died tomorrow, would you still miss me?

Would you remember the first day you met or kissed me?

If my long walk home to atone was announced by the sudden ringing of a golden bell, would you cry as I broke life's spell?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

A poem exploring existential vulnerability:

A fear of dying unloved or unremembered.

A longing for emotional permanence in an impermanent world.

A gentle confrontation with death, not in terror, but in lonely honesty.

It’s not morbid—it’s tender. Death is simply the lens through which the speaker asks the most human question of all:

“Did I matter to you?”

Do you think you will be remembered in ten years?

Beyond birthdays or at Christmas?

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