Requiem

 Requiem 

A poem that mourns what is lost when depth is mocked—and quietly honors those who still dare to descend into the well.

Maybe like you?

(A lone voice whispers)

How sad is a mind that abstains from the pleasures and beatitudes of the incredible kind?

And the thoughts of the highs and lows of life and all the many diverse moods it includes?

 The art reflected in words of an illuminated heart, only there to try to tear it apart with sharpened claws.

The flaws and causes reflected in new or old poetic laws.

Some revelations may appear untrue depending on where the guitar music goes. But the more you know as you drown in the flow and embrace its icy blast.

Maybe you'll finally understand at last.

Stories conjured with rare magic from the deep purple well, like a whispered incantation or spell, are just created to keep the curious sated.

As they swallow all on a page but to then scorn a thing that took an age to write—can that be right?

As a wise man once said to fools who pleaded for more as they waited in King Solomon's courts,

 "Wouldst thou tear the branches from the bough of the tree of knowledge until all grow as dull as thee?

So stay your tongue and wait and see. For soon you'll be sated.”

For happy are those who embrace all prose or art 

Good or bad, if they know how hard it is to go to where a poet or artist goes.

To the deep purple well to conjure with a spell.

Prose for eyes in hidden blue skies to consume when they ring their bell.

Hiding with ease behind swaying trees in a supernatural breeze inside their cells.

To help them sing with life while under its spell when they enter into its visceral hotel.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Redeemed

(A lone voice whispers)

Once I stood in front of life's very mirrors, lit inside with such fire.

Walked like a true dreamer unaffected by desire.

 Whose sacred voice was protected by angelic lyres.

But I fell.

Only to be denounced by the King of all liars.

Then Corinthians 12:9 arrived.

Slipped like a secret note under my door. 

It just read, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

And in that stillness, even though denouncement remained amongst all that pain.

I heard a voice whisper, “Be brave; your game is not over yet. For in you I'll forever dwell.

And that thought, never forget so I can save you from being tempted by Hell.

So today, rise and stand up strong.

Dare to make mistakes and accept your wrong, but in doing so. Try to sing my song.

That you have all my gifts to be remade complete even while you sleep or grieve.

For all you have to do is in me believe.

And I swear I will never leave.

And this tale pass on. So others can sing my song.”

So listener in the mists. Read this aloud or with silent eyes. For by doing so. You summon incarnated Hope, which will never die.

Goodbye…

“Hosanna.

When thou need'st to be saved. Call for me from beyond the honour'd grave.

Hosanna.

Hosanna.

Oh my Lord.

Come to me and save.

Hosanna 

Oh my Lord.

Come to me and save.

Hosanna.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

The Prophet

 

The Prophet 

(A lone voice whispers)

It was cold on the ground, Without a midnight sound.

A strange time when black bats flew like arrows in the half-light as the moon came around. 

And there, on the hilltop on Mount Megiddo. It waited.

 Unhallowed and old.

Death calling to visit wearing its black shrouds.

Many cried that night. Their pleas like grey smoke. Disappeared like magicians into the gathered clouds.

And as the moon was swallowed by the night, a wild chant began as the good and bad started to fight.

While they danced like knights in the white.

Many banshees choked and smiled, hidden behind some oak.

Away from the common folk.

 And when the battle was lost. When the remaining folk rose, the Banshees came out.

Singing with such greed.

A new light entered the world, born of such deeds.

The star of the Black Night.

A dark light lit by unworldly gods and worshipped with beastly feasts, which now parade in the twenty-first century.

But there, like once on another hilltop, is still hope.

The cross bearer will come once more. So stay strong. And keep praying so that door opens.

For the true battle cries will once more be heard as Banshees hide from the screams of “Libertas a bestia.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Freedom from the beast.

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Rebirth

 

(A lone voice whispers)

When the sky reaches for the sun and the last memories switch off as the day is done.

When the moon is in full bloom, illuminating my room.

As rose-petal dreams gradually drift in. Slowly and seductively slithering like sin.

Behind the rose and mist. There comes a precious gift.

A prize to lift.

Rebirth in the morn when all troubles once owned have flown.

 (C) John Duffy 

The Voice in the Silence

 

The Voice in the Silence 

(A lone voice whispers)

From beyond the sorrowful games, people say. 

Inside, buried under their coal, hiding their very soul.

I see their truth.

Their pain and suffering projecting their inner reflection.

I saw this in the first temples of Cain. All the way back to Alexandria.

And here I am again.

A player in someone's sad experience, just like before.

So I'll just step back and disappear into the folds of time before they attack out of pain. Trying to pry open my soul's door.

“Adiós para siempre mis musas.”

You'll never hear or see me again.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Desolation Wood

 

Desolation Wood 

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a place I sometimes see when all seems dark in my own Selva Oscura.

 Whenever I feel weak in my deepest, darkest of dreams.

 A sparse place where the skylarks and robins no longer gather to sing while nearby rivers empty, deflowered by mountain streams and sin.

A low place beyond the cry of morning delights or the shriek of the lone rooster announcing the start of a new day.

After a long night.

 A place where darkness plays as old photos litter the way and ominous shadows stand up straight and sway.

A cathedral of tired old memories and barge boat journeys between A to B.

 Where no living creature breathes any air as far as the eyes can see. Then I see you.

Standing, wearing dirty old black shoes and torn blue jeans. Wearing a black coat in The Great In-Between.

 

 Looking at me with all the sweet anger you can give, but as my dead spirit guides once told me as I lived.

Channeling what Mark 11:25 said:

 “… If you hold anything against anyone, forgive them so that your Father in heaven may forgive you.” 

Is that why I still see you, a reoccurring ghost, when I sometimes dream after all these years in the Great In-Between?

Where I'm left constantly wondering?

Who's blessed enough to forgive who?

Me or even just you?

Or are you just my soul's only true follower in Desolation Wood, like a reborn Mary Magdalene?

Or am I caught in a relentless dream sent by the Nazarene or the cunning forces of the mephistophelean?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

A poem about carrying someone into the darkest inner places where the speaker doesn't know whether forgiveness would heal or destroy what little truth they have left.

By not knowing whether they are being called toward grace—or punished by memory.

And until that is resolved, they remain together forever in The Great In-Between.

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Whispers of Lord of the Khemenu

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Beyond what tired minds pass by as memories, fires, and embers fade.  

 Beyond what the missing say, while fluted pipes play.  

 

As in deep waters you wade as life slowly fades and Mother Darkness calls your way.

 

 Just look for the magic while your resolve holds as everything unfolds.

And try to empty the cold and all it tries to remold.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

A poem portraying a spiritual crossing through grief and dissolution, guided by ancient wisdom, urging the soul to seek meaning and release despair before it reshapes who they become.

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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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