(An inquisitive voice whispers)
Do you too like reading to escape for a few hours
Through poetry's heavily laden chest
Containing shiny jewels of such priceless wonders and visual experiences
Waiting for eager minds to run through like the Greek goddess of running
Atalanta
Tempting inquisitive eyes to wait in line
To be hypnotised forever
by enchanted words
Cast within imaginations thunder
To then hold minds
In primordial bondage
Caught and captured in gilded written cages
In lucid imagery flowing through the pages
To then be captivated for a few hours by written spells to beguile
Through ethereal carefully crafted citadels
Surrounded with such hypnotic wonders
Could that be why you love poetry
And books like a heavily laden chest
Filled with mesmerising dreamscapes
To always fill you with joy and wonder
So my question for you
Readers of old and readers of new
Who’s your favourite author or poet
Who always takes you under
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Librorum Amans:
Book lover
Categories:
atalanta, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
There are no more telephone booths,
not the old type - the glass coffins.
The Atalanta hub is rocking,
planes and people buzzing in and out
of an anthill nexus
of distracted minds.
Calling London,
a city
that has red telephone boxes,
concrete-set booths
that all ring at once.
Wrong numbers are seeking answers.
There is a cacophony
in the pressed ears of puzzlement.
The airport begins to spin around,
faster and faster,
a shaky orbit encircling speaking lips.
Dialing fingers sweat, are too thick
for changing conversations.
Talking heads are searching
for one direct call,
one line in an ethereal ball of string.
Red boxes are bellowing now,
every voice is angry,
nearby glass booths
are trembling with a frustrated rage.
All these images are an allegory
for the deaf and dumb days of yore,
a distant time locked in its own
transparent sarcophagus -
drowned-out mouths,
even now
fitfully trying to connect.
Categories:
atalanta, poetry,
Form: Free verse
"Rolled Oats"
Age shall not weary
trolls counting strange fruit
golden apples rolled
Lord Laden put to sleep
on an alter Hippomenes
there Atalanta lights a candle
underneath the dry rot
Ovid’s oracle prophecy not far wrong
3 golden apples racing along
Hippomenes
strange addiction was outshone
the race never to be won
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Categories:
atalanta, addiction, dark, light, muse,
Form: Narrative
Rode here a man of some repute,
Banker and empire builder bold,
Who’d even tried to corner gold,
To lay him out a railroad route.
He addressed our town; here I quote:
“The westward way lies through your town.
It will bring commerce and renown.”
The people closed his way by vote.
They blocked his path; provoked his wrath:
“I will see grass cover this town!”
He rode off with ferocious frown
To route his rails another path.
The rail lines were laid south of here
At the wish of this financier.
The town near died, to his delight,
But folks held on out of sheer spite.
After he found his last reward
Someone cleared out his railroad yard.
There his personal Pullman lay,
Atalanta, in disarray.
Found, refurbished, and auctioned off
For a small sum at which he’d scoff,
The coach now sits where all may see
In the heart of our loved city.
Categories:
atalanta, bullying, community, history, power,
Form: Rhyme
When once I pondered whence came the stars
With baited breath and rapid pulse
I let my spirit loose to fly
To the source of my concern.
Pollux was first to welcome my quest
And I shouted, “Why are there stars?”
“A dragon’s sneeze, with blazing glow
Birthed my neighbor and myself.”
“Why are there stars?” of Altair I asked.
He grudgingly barked a reply.
“Methuselah’s birthday candles
Blew embers strewn heavenward!”
With spirit weary, I ventured on
With many more stars left to source.
“Why are there stars?” was my anthem
Until fully satisfied.
Vega had to hold back a giggle
When faced with my inquiry
“Atalanta now wears Nike’s
Cleats poking holes to the gods.”
With one more cluster to hit I flew
“Why are there stars” my only words
But never in my pondering
Could I picture what was said.
“When your father passed ten years ago
He obsessed of your fear of dark.
He never rests, or takes a break
But hangs nightlights for your peace.”
June 26, 2018
Categories:
atalanta, fantasy,
Form: Free verse