I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.
The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.
When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.
I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.
Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.
I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?
The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.
So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
It falls with grace.
Metallic bawls hail the strength of zinc roofs.
At the mercy of the thatch,
Drops drip from needle points of skeletal
Palm fronds.
Particles of rain descend on thresholds
Among dewed terrains.
The petrichor befriends the atmosphere,
Caressing limpid warmth with floating cold.
Lightning, a white dancing Anaconda, races with speed,
Filling the tenebrous plains with lights of hope.
Troubled skies ululate through the power of thunder.
I always recline on that liquid voice!
Rainmakers cream their palms
And roast fresh leaves of
Epochal petals
Plucked from somnolent trees.
Bubbles, green and full of life, puke,
Filling up the mouths of burning woods.
Grey darkness suggests the pleasant wars of
May through October,
When distant wayward drops
Trickle before the deafening deluge.
I hail the blandishments of July
For the society of fattened yams and the
Worthy tendrils —festooned confetti of ceremonial
Harvests.
Droughts yawn in vain when the attitude of
Wet seasons befriends the skies,
Yielding fecund grimes that grace the soil.
This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...
The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.
C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.
(A reflective voice whispers)
In the Dawn of a new feeling of Life,
Maybe even at high school
Did you embrace one of its golden rules
To hold hands with someone you deemed so special
Encouraged by first love's, sweet kiss
For it to then carry you through, to meet the super cool, Twilight of your Life
With the only true one, whose love has never cooled:
And if you're still incredibly lucky, brings you such bliss
Or did the Shadows of Life appear
Smiling like a Nazgûl
Like a dark thief at night
To take back God's divine gift, and leave you scrambling and grieving
Daydreaming of the Dawn and Twilight of your Life
Before something cruel, caused you, to separate and drift
When everything seemed so perfect and nice
Before the deep cut, of The Shadows of Life's
Sharp, ceremonial knife
(C) Copyright John Duffy
"Like a heartbeat the drums pounds in a ceremonial ritual to cleanze the body and soul anew"
i invite the freshness
of the mountain air
to fill my lungs
inhale replenish
and clear my thoughts
as i quietly await
the ceremonial rising
of the majestic sun
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Ah, behold
Prince William in uniform,
chiseled chin held high under ceremonial sunlight,
a speech polished like his medals,
echoing across parade grounds
as cameras hum like obedient bees.
“Duty, honor, courage,”
he proclaims,
as if reading from an antique scroll
dusted off for dramatic effect.
Crowds swoon.
Generals nod.
Newspapers burst into patriotic confetti.
And somewhere, in mahogany offices,
other leaders lean forward—
inspired, invigorated,
tugging at their tailored lapels,
murmuring, “Yes, yes, it’s time I put on a uniform too.”
What a pageant!
Suitors of war now march with princely conviction,
banners of legacy fluttering in the breeze of manufactured glory.
Recruitment numbers spike,
missile budgets blossom,
and drones, oh so dutiful,
take flight with newfound moral purpose.
Peace?
A quaint notion—
better saved for museum plaques and children's books.
The Prince has spoken.
The machinery whirs louder,
oiled by rhetoric,
driven by legacy,
and crowned by applause.
Out with the old, in with the new way of doing the same old thing.
Instead of snow, I clear the leaves. I don’t cleave to a resolution.
I don’t revolve around indecision. My natural giddyup takes off, as
the silence of empty-for-years-nest necessitated a sort and toss.
Happy New Year, a choice, when nothing precludes its success,
such as mourning in formal dress. Sneakers suffered from heel to toe,
as the alternative alteration of age - not hip, not on toes, unbendable.
Sixty-four years new, on the eve of ceremonial senior citizenry,
golden leaf revelry. Hold onto what is momentous: kith and kin,
giving in the form of an empathetic and devoted ear to your loved ones, acquaintances, strangers. Wishing you a Happy New Year. This one
begin with wraps and bows, even if the ball drops. Make it your best.
On a winter evening,
along a lonely country road
I rode my bicycle and saw,
far ahead, a young couple
dressed in traditional
ceremonial clothes.
The setting sun cast it's light
as they crossed the wide paddy field,
brown with stubble,
quiet and still
May be they were returning home
from a religious ceremony,
a beautiful moment
I know will never happen again
in my life
Today, the paddy field
by the roadside is disappearing
and the road has started to buzz
with the noise of change
A 21st Century Question?
Do people still need real human poetry in the 21st century
Some still ask as AI plagiarizes when put to task
To be the social connectors
The innovation and invitation
To new or old, writers
Adored heroes
Thought leaders
To breathe form from the intangible into their quiet lives
For them to taste the twist and guile of the Mysteries Schools
Poetry in all its many magical ceremonial forms provides
For soon
Each and every quest will end in a visit to a lone watchtower
In the mind
And when one is on the other side watching from those parapets
AI won't help
Because only real created human poetry will help you once again remember
Through someone else's shared experience
In rhymes
All those people and things you once loved
So you don't forget
With the passing of time
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
A Demond bound through the years,
Grew wise amidst silent fears.
He found it a ceremonial thread binding him tight,
The binding force that dimmed his light.
With laughter wild,he tore it free,
Hysterical joy,his spirit's decree.
He leapt with glee,no longer confined,
The numbing bondage left behind.
Yet. as he danced in newfound glee,
A thought arose,a bitter plea:
"What a fool I've been all along,
To let this thread make me feel wrong."
Now free at last,he learned the cost,
Of time spent bound,of moments lost.
From wisdom gained the chains undone,
A changed life began-a wiser one.
Spiritual Welcome
The Step Aboard
Thanking the Lord
Thought of Heaven
The Promise
Years through God’s will
His Gospel Mission Fulfilled
Honor, Glory and Uplift
Heavens enter a Gift
Blessed it Spiritual Warriors
Your Reserved Seat
Devil in total defeat
Chosen ones
Enter my Saints
Sanctuary of Praise
Days and Nights in Heaven evermore
Faith proved sure
Come and Dwell
Enriched with all the ceremonial goodness
This is your story
All found in Glory
Heaven’s desire
The place where praises never tire
Your Heavenly Shout with no expire
Peace and Comfort
Heaven’s spoken words
The gates are open
Luggage not needed
Enter proudly and boldly
Permission gracefully granted
Shout Hallelujah
There was a big party for smiling groom
Ceremonial before his wedding at noon
The men celebrate
The smallest handcuff made
Is the wedding ring he will wear will soon
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