Happy New Year.

 

Seasonal.

 

A poem that uses the cycle of the seasons as a metaphor for a relationship, capturing how love can be intense, fragile, and shaped by time rather than choice.

“We collided like two random raindrops in Autumn." Implies a chance meeting—unplanned, brief, but meaningful. Autumn often symbolizes change, maturity, or the beginning of an ending.

“Froze together in the cold Winter.”

Winter represents hardship, emotional stillness, or survival. “Froze together” implies closeness born out of necessity—two people holding onto each other during a difficult period.

“Then separated when Spring came.”

Spring usually symbolizes renewal and growth, but here it brings separation. This implies that when healing or change arrived, the bond could not continue—growth led them in different directions.

“Who knows what Summer may bring?”

Summer stands for hope, warmth, and possibility. The speaker doesn’t claim certainty, only openness to fate.

“Maybe we’ll meet again as the railway tracks sing.”

Railway tracks suggest journeys, departures, and parallel paths that may converge again. The “singing” gives the image a romantic, almost nostalgic tone—movement guided by destiny rather than control.

End notes:

The poem reflects on a love that was brief, real, and shaped by timing, not failure. It accepts separation without bitterness and leaves space for hope—that life’s paths may cross again when the season is right. It’s about impermanence, chance, and quiet faith in fate rather than longing or regret.

Title .

Seasonal.

(A lone voice whispers)

We once collided like two random raindrops in Autumn. Froze together in the cold winter and then separated when Spring came.

Who knows what Summer may bring? Maybe we'll meet again as the railway tracks sing.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Redemption.

A poem exploring if love survives death.

The agony of waiting when the world moves on.

The cost of refusing to let go.

The tension between faith, hope, and exhaustion.

Asking a haunting question:

Is eternal love beautiful—or cruel—when it traps someone forever?

Would you wait?.

Title.

 Redemption.

 

(A lone voice whispers)

I crossed over in March. On the fifth, in the year of our Lord, 1902.

And all these years I've sat patiently waiting for you(Down that dark road, every second, whenever I think of you?

I've looked in old memories tins that beckoned.

Explored all the who knows linked to sin.

Chased paper boats, with endless time.

Just hoping she's coping 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 of wet dreams of a new beginning.

So angels, 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 can waiting for true love be worth the price of 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 light that I pray keeps carrying me on horseback .

Throughout all these endless nights.

As I wait, now impatiently, by these black gates.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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The Summoning.

 

A call to escape emotional imprisonment and choose connection, creativity, and love as radical acts. 

Asking:

Will you step away from a world that has forgotten what matters—and join me in preserving it?

It’s romantic, defiant, and quietly political, but most of all, human.

Title.

The Summoning.

(A lone voice whispers)

Would you follow me willingly into, The Great Hollow? 

If I pulled back the veil and showed you a way in?

To a wild world of verbs and contradictions.

Whispering like loose chord progressions as your old world receded into the distance.

To then escape from the weary grotto of penitentiary existence.

And unite in the Hollow as our last line of resistance.

From a world subjugated by darkness and no compassion.

Where Love is no longer viewed as a pièce de résistance.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Sadness and Madness of Mario.

 

This is a lyrical, confessional poem about loss, longing, and survival, framed as an inner monologue spoken to an absent, idealized lover (“Isobel”). 

The speaker is saying:

“I’m still alive because of the memory of you. 

Even though you’re gone, forbidden, or unreachable, thinking of you keeps me breathing. 

My life feels painful, repetitive, and mentally exhausting. I struggle with depression and memory. 

Love—especially the memory of our love—is both my refuge and my torment. I hope that one day, spiritually or after death, I will find peace, healing, and reunion.”

What the Poem Is Not.

It is not a simple love poem.

It is not about a current relationship.

Furthermore, it is not optimistic in a conventional way.

It is about staying alive through memory, imagination, and faith, even when reality feels unbearable.

A raw, emotionally intense meditation on how the memory of a lost love keeps a person alive while they struggle with depression, time, and the hope of eventual spiritual peace.

Title.

The Sadness and Madness of Mario.

(A lone voice whispers)

The reason I still breathe is you, my missing old Italian lover.

Lost somewhere away from me in here.

Hidden in one of the many blue portals.

In this, The Great In-Between.

But when this dreamy yellow sunset before me cries its last daily breath.

As it's truly spent.

At the end of this, one of my long, rigorous days of being stuck climbing over life's many memories.

Which seem covered with so many sharp barbed wires.

Lost in a recurring daydream that's all mine.

Which causes my heart to beat like an orchestral drum on fire.

Hypnotized with a spinning mind filled with whispering, spellbinding, enchanting, inspirational words.

Pleadings to my guardian angels to try to take me higher.

To help me put out all those painful, old, familiar desires.

I always think in these quiet moments.

In this silver silence about why my paradigm is unbearable.

This one I currently struggle to walk through.

Created by the Great Collector of all Divine Revenues

Are we, me and you, Isobel? My missing love.

Simply just two of the many silent prayers, blowing like tragic, lonely snowflakes.

Lost in the vastness of the eternal, endless night sky?

Infinite cries of broken songs carried by invisible soft hands?

Upward, tantalizing sacrifices offered like emotional shining dimes.

To the everlasting Light. As they spin like golden autumn leaves in full flight.

Borne aloft in the tempestuous whirlwind of Father Time's swirling grey dust.

Joining the symphonies of millions of hearts, calling out in unison.

In written or spoken rhymes.

All screaming for just someone in whom to love and trust.

Rapturous but maybe beating blue.

Does my heart still sing our now forbidden love songs and heartfelt prayers?

Loudly, like those unbearable screams once uttered at the great Battle of Waterloo.

You may ponder as your soul wanders.

Yet know this as a taste of my life's sweet kiss.

Inside I'll always know.

We shared an extraordinary moment of such divine bliss.

And as long as we quietly live apart or even die.

No matter where we both venture or go.

As long as the days are filled with life and the tired sun still rises. Sending out her golden rays to energize.

I can only hope my God-given prayers will be answered with my eventual spiritual rescue by my spirit guides and guardian angels when they stand before me.

Free of all their earthy disguises.

And even if all my life's sunsets have all disappeared and gone and died.

And an exotic dark knight stalks all the new lands.

I might then live within.

As those, I leave behind.

Stand by my graveside and cry as my soul glides by.

When those low drums of Heaven rumble and when my heart no longer burns.

As that old piano within my mind begins overflowing with poetic melodies and loudly sings.

If that familiar, eerie noise of lost love blows its silvery horns.

Once again, that drumbeat of fire that once burned pleads to return.

Announcing the arrival of the Dark Man from Depression's many farms.

Whom one should not mourn, wearing his fake crown of thorns.

I’ll dream this illustrious daydream I still treasure.

Of walking hand in hand with you.

On yellow beaches at midnight.

With the blue waves of the Pacific rolling in.

And as we stand looking deeply into each other's eyes.

With you as my eternally baptized queen, Isobel.

Married and living together forever in a beautiful dream.

A safe place I can only pray to dwell within.

Where my broken heart can heal as it no longer yells or screams

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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The Unsent Letter.

 

I've always missed your brown eyes since the day our love died.

That old magic and mystery has now been replaced by grief.

The thief of all happiness.

So this Christmas, I shall dance alone. Alone and holding my new world up like Atlas as I try to overcome this sadness.

I know it's crazy what life throws at us and makes you walk through an experience that changes your life forever.

Like a new Road to Damascus, but I still miss us.

The starlight.

Blue skies.

The joy and pain, but all that now remains.

Is the cold rain filled with broken songs, sung by cold, wet raindrops on my windowpanes.

For even though I conjured Fire, Air, Water, and Earth.

Prayed alone at my sacred altar as the Winter Solstice ended.

Lit frankincense candles.

I know now our silver circle is broken, so it's why I send this.

For some things are too hard to say when spoken.

So I wish you well.

To be reborn into the light and bawakened.

And not feeling heartbroken or burnt at the stake.

To break our old spell and remember the good times.

For we were all born to be happy, not to be filled with rain singing of our previous mistakes.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Augmented.

A cautionary whisper asking whether modern digital life has replaced spiritual awareness, subtly guiding people away from deeper truths while pretending to enlighten them.

It warns that modern technology—especially social media—acts as a kind of spiritual sedative that distracts people from faith, morality, or God. 

Exploring what we consume as “knowledge” online may actually mislead or corrupt us.

Through a new addition fixation.

Title.

Augmented.

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you been sedated by social media and turned away from your God?

By the Devil's New Encyclopedia?

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

 

Do you lucid dream too?

 

A poem that portrays lucid dreaming as a gateway: a conscious descent into the subconscious where a hidden reality reveals itself. 

It implies that this world isn’t fictional—it’s real, but experiential. 

You can’t see it unless you enter it.

Morpheus is the Greek god of dreams. 

Entering his seas means surrendering to the dream state. 

The “ever-flowing” aspect hints that dreams are constant, alive, and always accessible—if one knows how to enter them.

Title.

Lucid Dreaming.

(A lone voice whispers)

There's a world on top of this one no one ever sees.

Until they enter the deep waters of Morpheus's ever-flowing seas.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Have you been hijacked by love?

 

Have you ever been hijacked by love?  

A poem exploring love as a divine yet destructive force—a seductive power that offers ecstasy, meaning, and escape, but at the cost of autonomy, peace, and emotional safety. 

The speaker knows this love may ruin him, yet he willingly submits because the intensity feels more alive than restraint.

It’s a poem about:

Obsession.

Erotic transcendence.

Emotional addiction.

The beauty and terror of surrendering to desire.

(A lone voice whispers)

Oh, Aphrodite,

As one of the mesmerizing queens of The Great In-Between.

You must know you just stand out, like a priceless jewel.

In any given room you suddenly choose to appear in.

Unbounded and unapologetic.

In daring red, black, or yellow.

Especially when you start whispering sonnets.

Linked to exquisite, lustful sins.

To arouse the soul.

As your dark eyes quietly glow.

More so.

As you speak of addictive things.

So erotically tangible and yet so sensuously dangerous.

Because they are electric. Ultimately deceptively mischievous.

But always so damned deliciously salacious. Things many could only dream of swallowing.

Like a pure drop of your own communion wine.

Your luscious green eyes.

Always glisten with a wild shimmer. Of Dante's Nine Spheres of Heaven.

Which echo of the divine 

In a mesmerizing, all-consuming reflection and crescendo of a lost Paradiso.

 An explicit tapestry of desire that moves even the Sun, Moon and all the watching, shimmering stars.

To bow down and watch as you tempt the beholden masses.

To always say Yes to your hypnotic invitations.

Regardless of the consequences.

And send to the slaughterhouse of Ares.

Her twin brother called, No.

As you open up new and ever-inviting doors.

Doorways to wanton new lands to explore.

You must know that you cast such hypnotic, visceral spells.

Overflowing with dark strands of lascivious temptations.

That many cannot deny. As their soul salivates, pleads, and yells.

Begging for a one-way trip.

To one of your rare layer cakes.

Of such rich, exquisite, opulent, exotic tastes.

This audit of plaudits is for you. Goddess of the Dark Skies.

Whose powers lay all cognitive emotions to waste.

Beckon forth strangers from all walks of life.

For a quick taste.

Ushering them through your alluring and welcoming crimson gates.

Which herald and whisper of unknown conquests in strange lands.

Entwined around a phenomenal thirst.

They can never afterwards sate.

A deep need where lost souls.

Now addicted.

Wallow and whimper.

Following the drumbeats from your ever-playing bands.

Calling out for new soulmates.

As they journey blindly towards you, knowingly to die.

For once you've breached those inner gates.

And opened those hidden doors.

With a hypnotic aroma of your intense supernatural glory.

Even though some who will be burned may come to hate.

They are all forever compelled.

Rhythmically to crave more.

As they line up adoringly with the meek.

Seeking a seat.

At your so engaging table.

A place they'd all run to.

If summoned by new lovers.

Willing and able to play.

Just to feel your luscious soft or sharp touch.

And to suffer your long reach.

If only for a climax a day.

A means to escape from this matrix's dichotomy.

 Of ever-spinning broken dreams.

They daily pray to breach.

So they too, like me, can begin.

Newly baptized by augmented emotions to preach.

While deep-diving.

Looking for lovers to indulge in new and old.

Tapestries of your carnal sins.

For I've been hijacked with a never-ending thirst for your love.

Now I'm condemned to never sleep.

Since the first day.

You walked in smiling. Into all my secret temples and inner keeps.

Oh. Goddess Aphrodite.

Hear my prayer. The queen who looks like Snow White but with red hair.

I just hope I meet you again somewhere. Not too far.

So you can purge my pitiful soul of all its previous miseries.

As you straddle and mount me.

As we climax, smiling.

Surrounded by all your hypnotic and sensuous.

Soul-soothing energy.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Questions from The Rift.

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Can souls just be fragments of our own ideas of heaven and hell?

Are we too metaphorical to ever understand, but just another human living within and under its dark, magical spell?

 Slowly waiting for spiritual understanding as it returns to just us?

 To really see whatever all our life will see?

Praying our Lord of choice, The Great Almighty, will set us free.

 Can this place, here, where you now visit and read from—but a brief refuge, carefully hidden in the slow-moving storms of time?

 A brief respite from what needs to be done?

A secret, well-beaten shack along the dark highways of deep spiritual fraternities?

 As we are now connected mentally?

Merging together slowly into a swirling eternity.

 From twisted emotional journeys unknown.

 To strangers and beloved people in distant foreign time zones.

From deep lessons to be learned.

To dark bridges that must be burnt.

 Our destinations could be greater than we can ever possibly know.

 To others, it's just a flicker.

 But to those blessed, maybe like you, it's but peaceful and rather slow.

 But no matter, for in the end. If we are lucky and truly blessed.

 We are all wrapped in shawls of grace and deep spiritual peace.

 For if all our misdemeanors we eventually fully confess.  

 We might hear the Almighty's beautiful voice again.

 It's an old song that some forget.

I have the lyrics if you want to read on.

Read on, they are free, and you don't owe me anything, such as royalty fees or any other debts.

“Take me as a symbol of your need for release.

 Replace your hatred instead with love.

 Where there is an injury. Look above.

 Where there is doubt. Have faith and don't give up.

 If despair appears. Remember hope.

 When darkness glides in. Let light absolve its sin.

 Where life becomes unhappy. Smile and constantly try to remember these words.

To sing.

 We are all tributaries leading back to the Holy River.

 Deep channels of our divine peace.”  

 So continually try to remember to help pardon your soul.

 Before you enter its beautiful gardens.

 For with inner forgiveness. We are reborn to eternal life.  

 Free. From all the burdens of our earthly life, emotional knife.

For I am beyond.

What your occupation entails.

 I just want to trace what your heartbeats regale.

 Your age is a pale horse I never want to see.

 I just want to hear your hopes and dreams.

 Will you risk all for love and spiritual glory to live an extraordinary life?

 Can you sit with me in the sunlight's shadows and reflect on life and smile again?

 Past all the doubts and disturbing grey rain?

 Do you still seek to sip a drop of Love's glorious champagne?

 Will you dance with me in feverish ecstasy as happiness revisits your inner domains?

 Will you be a smiling passenger on my fast-moving trains?

 Free and with no limitations. Ready for pleasure beyond refrain?

 Will you soar with me like two golden eagles?

 Above fast gossip whispering campaigns?

 What you answer doesn't matter to me.

 All your answers are simply for you.

 Can you say no to another to be true to your soul?

 Can you rise above false accusations and still keep your control?  

 Can you cherish your inner beauty?

 Beyond prying, unfriendly eyes.

 Rising internally like an angel when hope seems to die?

 Can you parade with failure like long-lost lovers and salute the scarred, silvery moon?

 As its bands play a dark, ominous, bleak tune?

 Your social status, I care about not.

 Only can you still rise and embrace your lot?

 After the long nights of despair and pain?

 Will you rise to challenge this life again?

 Will you stand like a sentry lost in despair's inferno flames?

 Or will you ask me to help extinguish its name?

 I don't care for all your academic labels. I just wanted to know if you're willing and able.  

 Or if you just need another seat at your table.

 For the company you keep in these dark days of empty, lonely moments.

 They are like great friends who speak like trendy, holy old poets.

For are we today simply an extension of that which resides within?

 A projection from the source.

 Will our souls forget us, the projection it now lives within, say in a thousand years, or will it still remember this version of us before we turn to dust?

 A rather deep thought from me.

A fragment of someone's soul speaking.

For our spiritual love could be like the Alpha and Omega.

 An eternal new beginning, but always ending in the end.

 Why do you mourn? It has always been so.

 Haven't I tried to show you the light?

 Haven’t I tried to hold you in the darkness of nights?

 So cast your fears to the stars. Feel eternity within and know this.

 If it doesn’t work this time. We will be reborn again.

 I am always sleeping inside. Just like way before.

 When your steps faltered. I carried.

 When you fainted. I nursed.

 Feel the embrace of the beloved gemstone of my light.

 The clasp of my deep love.

 It waits here breathless and speechless. 

Free from the clutches of demonic dust.

 Just filled and lined with unconditional trust.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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