The Ancient Ones

 

The Ancient Ones

(A lone voice whispers) 

Our name is Eldritch. The true Gatekeepers of The Rich. 

Sent through time to invade your minds with dark dreams of the eerie kind.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

A whispered incantation rather than a full narrative.

“The Ancient Ones” frames the speakers as primordial, pre-human entities—beings that existed before ordinary history or consciousness. 

Calling themselves “Eldritch” immediately signals something unknowable and unsettling: knowledge that doesn’t belong to the human world.

 It echoes cosmic-horror traditions, where the most frightening thing isn’t violence, but contact with truths the mind can’t fully process.

When they claim to be “the true Gatekeepers of The Rich,” that “rich” isn’t about money—it’s richness of hidden knowledge, power, and forbidden inner worlds. 

Gatekeepers decide who gets access and who doesn’t. 

These beings stand between everyday awareness and deeper, darker layers of reality.

“Sent through time to invade your minds” suggests they don’t attack bodies or civilizations, but consciousness itself. 

Time becomes irrelevant; these forces recur across eras, entering through dreams, myths, inspiration, madness, or creativity. 

The phrase “invade” implies a lack of consent—humans don’t choose these visions.

Finally, “dark dreams of the eerie kind” positions dreams as the doorway. 

Dreams are where reason loosens, where ancient symbols and archetypes surface. 

The poem implies that what we experience as nightmares, intrusive thoughts, or uncanny inspiration may not be random—they are messages, visitations, or pressures from something older and watching.

Taken as a whole, the poem reads like a mythic explanation for disturbing dreams or ideas,

a personification of the subconscious, or

a cosmic voice claiming authorship over human fear and imagination.

Because it’s whispered and brief, it feels intentionally incomplete—like the reader has overheard something they weren’t meant to hear. 

That unease is the meaning as much as the words themselves.

Have you had dreams sent of the eerie kind?

Salute.

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The Midnight Visitor's

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Sometimes before the visitations come at night.

The shapeless shrouds walking in from misty clouds.

I smell a scent of sulfur as they appear in my sight.

Broken things, each wearing a red ring. Standing one by one until their bell I ring.

To then kneel and tell me their something.

Some speak of forgotten old queens or kings, as they wonder.

Some speak of standing still in memory's thunder.

To taste old, decayed moments that choke their inner sun.

Some dream to run to heaven to see the sights.

It's like this for me every night.

While the new world sleeps, and those from the old knock on the door to my keep.

Asking me to shine a light on their own mysteries, so their call can taste the old thrill of past victories.

That they still have a place somewhere in history.

Somewhere between the Dragon and the Holy King

It's why they say they come to me to sing.

For who wants to be a forgotten old broken thing? 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

 “The Midnight Visitors” is about being a witness and a keeper of what the world has discarded.

The visitors.

The “shapeless shrouds,” sulfur scent, mist, and red rings aren’t literal demons so much as forgotten souls, memories, ideas, and identities. 

They’re broken things—people, histories, emotions, even past selves—that were never resolved or honored.

They arrive at night because night is when the mind is unguarded.

 This is the liminal hour: between waking and dreaming, past and present, and life and death.

Where the red ring suggests wounds, guilt, shame, blood, or unfinished business—a mark that identifies them as damaged but still alive in memory.

The speaker ringing the bell reverses power. They don’t haunt him; he summons them. That frames the speaker not as a victim, but as a ritual holder, judge, priest, or poet.

Someone who gives the forgotten permission to speak.

What they confess:

Each visitor carries a fragment of their history.

Lost royalty → fallen greatness. Frozen moments → trauma and regret.

Decayed memories → time eroding meaning. Dreams of heaven → longing for redemption.

These aren’t just their stories. They’re human stories—the universal fear of being erased, of having mattered once but soon to be no longer.

The speaker’s role.

This is the emotional center of the poem.

While the “new world sleeps,” the speaker stays awake to receive the old. That makes him an archivist of the unseen.

A translator between eras.

Someone who shines a light so forgotten things can feel real again.

Where poetry itself becomes the lantern.

Dragon and Holy King.

A line that places the visitors between myth and sanctity—not villains, not saints. Just human. 

History usually remembers extremes; this poem speaks for everything in between.

The final question.

“For who wants to be a forgotten old broken thing?”

This is the quiet heartbreak of the poem. It’s not really about ghosts.

It’s about all of us and the fear that one day our story won’t be told—unless someone like the speaker listens.

Would you want to be remembered?

Salute.

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The Call of the Golden Temple

 

This poem is about being gently, beautifully summoned—by love, art, destiny, or mortality itself—and choosing not to resist. It’s a whisper rather than a scream. A quiet readiness to follow the fire before it goes out.

(A lone voice whispers)

Sometimes under the bright gaze of cosmic starlight.

I feel you creeping like a lone shadow slowly into my sight.

Bright and gloriously burning like early November fires.

That old remembered desire never retires or expires.

Your aura appears, singing and skipping along.

Singing a strange new song. Saying I should hurry and come along. 

So here I am. Waiting to follow, like a lone oracle, into a new golden temple of Apollo.

So, oh shadow slowly creeping into sight.

Burning bright like early November fires.

Does thou know when my earthly time expires?

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

The Resurrection Leaf

 

A poem about how grief sometimes listens, finds faith in hope, and love that refuses to accept final silence. 

Where it doesn’t just deny pain but leans toward resurrection rather than ending.

Title.

The Resurrection Leaf.

(A lone voice whispers)

Every time I hear your sweet voice recorded on old videotapes. I die inside quietly as I hear that familiar sound.

That all my spirit guides hold me upright to stop me from falling on Heaven's wet ground. As watching angels gather all around.

And just like the falling of a single autumn leaf. I always hear your calling, even though it's faint and brief.

Calling me in sacred rhymes to look out for divinely sent signs.

So like priests worshipping at their holy shrines with all their faithful power down through time.

I always, too pray, one day to climb to reach the heavenly meadows beyond God's angelic towers.

To once more walk with you through all its beautiful blooming pink and blue flowers.

To reach a place where no autumn leaves fall, and I no longer faintly, briefly hear your sweetly whispered celestial call.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The Midnight Voice

 

(A lone voice whispers)

I can see all the way from in here. The fate of the world is on a precarious knife-edge.

The black-robed vultures are gathering in secret covens and lodges. For their Great Cull, carefully planned and patiently waiting on their gilded governmental ledges.

For The Last Harvest. The Great Play.

Paradise for the nuclear family, has been torn asunder. Religion.

Family values and gender by the throw of a black and white dice. Announcing new agendas.

As in boats. Missplaced nations sail and wonder.

Will I find freedom from my old kingdom? 

Just to drown and freeze to death in cold waters.

As politicians ponder. Argue. Reflect and hatred interject.

Faith in a Higher Power, in retrospect, seems demeaned and hated by those with no nerves.

Churches closed by Elites leaving Christians with nowhere to go. Musing in silence in defeat.

But they, The Elites. They'll get what they deserve when Hell opens up its doors, and they are duly served.

You may feel alone. Scared, insecure or in pain. Moving slowly in between jagged lines.

But God knows who's lost their faith and needs a boost.

A touch of The Almighty's grace.

To get through a sickness delivered by followers of darkness.

So all I can say is pray.

Pray.

Pray everyday and God will try to remedy all that comes, whatever may.

For as Jeremiah 29:11 says:

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.

As Deuteronomy 31:6 says:

Be strong and courageous.

Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you.

He will not leave you or forsake you.

So in Proverbs 3:5-6:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.

Quoting Lamentations 3:22-23:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

So to Isaiah 41:10:

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

And ending with Corinthians 4:16-18:

So we do not lose heart.

Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.

For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.

For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.

Be strong.

The light must keep shining for kindness and compassion to keep winning against those swimming.

In the Devil's dark, unforgiving waters, by constantly sinning.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Are you one of the Blessed or a Watcher?

 

Are you one of the Blessed or a Watcher?

(A lone voice whispers)

Precious are those blessed to write—to help carry the blind into the light.

To feel and see new visceral sights—as their inner television starts burning bright.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

A poem exploring whether writers are like conduits. Where they see first, feel first, and suffer or ignite first, so others can follow. 

Suggesting that writing becomes an act of illumination—turning inner images into shared light—helping readers understand themselves and the world more clearly.

Implying writing is not just art; it’s a calling.

And vision—once ignited—is meant to be shared.

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Sorrow

 

A vivid, honest meditation on why grief hurts so much—because it proves something meaningful once existed.

Because sorrow comes in many forms.

Sometimes like a devious thief in the night.

A kleptomaniac who'll impulsively steal joy for pain.

From parents

Lovers.

To children.

Friends and family.

Have you heard him casually whisper your name?

Title.

Sorrow.

(Mr. Grief whispers)

Do you want to experience real devastating pain?

Then fall in love with someone incredible and let me break you down.

Again and again.

From birth until death.

When you wake up one day and only you and sweet memories suddenly remain.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Creativity

 Someone asked how do I create these monologues? 

For that's all they are.

Whispers in the silence.

And so I always answer.

"Can they be what the mind hears or sees / When it leaves the spectrum of light.

To enter into deep dreams.

No one can believe / Unless it's written in seas of fonts / Blowing in a gentle poetic breeze?"

A piece exploring where creativity sometimes comes from - A place beyond conscious control.

A place where the mind hears when it stops looking - to translate dreams into language: 

So others on their own patrol can believe in what it experiences beyond the laws of averages.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Consecrated Dreams. The First Time.

 

Consecrated Dreams

(A lone voice whispers)

I can always remember the first moment of total bewitchery.

When Love climbed, like an invisible ghost, into the very deep depths of me.

From dark shadows hidden behind Aphrodite's crimson tree.

Because my life changed forever that night with its first delivery.

To be haunted into old age with my first taste of its dark mysteries.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

A poem about first love as a powerful, sacred initiation—a consecration. 

A union entwined with depth and feeling but also cursed with memory and haunting.

A haunting where Love is not portrayed as gentle salvation but as an incredible force that reshapes identity forever.

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Oracle of Necromanteion.

 

A poem about spiritual survival exploring whether losing faith (in anything) opens you to inner darkness.

Where temptation and despair work quietly in isolation, hardening the heart.

But it also promises that virtue is a choice, not a rule, and belief can be personal.

Suffering can be crossed.

Transformation is possible, and if you choose rightly, you don’t just survive.

You get to run again.

Title.

 The Oracle of Necromanteion.

(A lone voice whispers)

He who walks without the most holy of ways will never return.

Until they have learned not by sin be swayed.

As true as new trees are made.

By lay played.

In so many wet, insidious ways.

By those hidden in the chasms.

In the faraway stars.

For people like you gathered here today. Should be careful.

For without faith.

In any form.

The nearby Darkness can always open a small gateway to sin.

And if that abyss is opened.

Revealing Desolation's fatal sandstorms.

It gets so much harder to let hope crawl in.

So, O'Ye. O'Ye.

On the yellow beaches.

Beseeching.

O 'Ye Gathered round me.

To the worthy few.

I summon by the power of the Purple Flame.

Virtue.

By the Divine Will of your choice of God.

To guide you.

Amen.

Through Acheron.

To the blue Stargate.

So you can once more run. 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

Art by:

Adolf Hirémy-Hirschl in 1898.