Mountains were made for poets --
for dramtic scales and harrowing descents. For
lofty subjects and deeper, fumarole vents -- many
are volcanic you know. Some active,
others sleeping, as those creative dry-spells~
no word-glows with the ashes. When carefully
placing my dots and dashes, counting often unruly
syllables, contemplating scriptor's tempting easy-rhymes,
word-candy, for poetic sound-effects, reminded I am of canned
laughter, not needed when Saturday Night
Live was yet funny. Had real entertainment substance.
My first book of mountains admittedly needed
more height, did not adhere to principals of careful oversight.
Honesty with self, and stacks of rejections have been
my maturing lifts and refining propellers. Don't give up. Lots
of knowlegeable-beans and more spicy life-seasoning has helped fuel my
linguistic evacuation. As Poe may have also been implying
when he said, what we "see and seem", do not necessarily equate
to a publisher's eclectic ream. What do they know anyway?:)
Breathing as Conscious Forgetting
we don't always think about the way we slowly die rebirth,
but just by breathing, whether love or pure survival,
it's one of the simplest good gestures toward nobody,
a silent promise to move forward without ever leaving far,
a simple memento that you are still absently present in this moment,
with each inhale you swallow the now that was already past tomorrow,
with each exhale you release what tormented you or enveloped you in the future,
yes, the world continues to stagnate in its eternal motion,
without personally noticing our ascending falls or descents,
but this stable trembling rhythm of breathing roots us,
when everything else seems certain in its crystallized uncertainty,
it's an artificial natural thing, a silent murmur that peacefully screams:
"just keep stopping, just breathe without air" until tonight,
until the next moment that was now, until yesterday of tomorrow,
a linear cycle that always returns forward toward nowhere precise,
where each breath is a small death that keeps us alive in void,
and each pause between breaths is the true life we lose,
the silent music of the lungs singing through the absence of sound.
(A lone voice speaks to a crowd of poets)
You do know everyone has their own magical style
A style filled with such wild illustrious promises and kaleidoscope's of such deep vivid depths
For in poetry
No stone is left uncovered,
Ranging from life to death
Whispers of love’s wild explosive adrenaline filled triumphs
Everlasting hope or altarpieces of self-fulfillment
Descents into darkness
Opening portals to dimensions of festive destruction
And at the core for the inquisitive
The Red Flag
The smiling frown
Up or down
The fire to ignite a curious reader's eyes to the soul
That really matters
Is the what
Why and guile
It's quite simple
It's why everyone has their own magical style
For there is no guide to the labyrinth of the mind
When you enter poetry's smiling black and white turnstiles
And line up to read or write
With so many other groups of people who are still walking or standing still in history
In single file
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
My hilly paths are full of pits, and my trails turn and twist.
My life and destiny have contracted clandestine tryst.
As there are dams blocking rivers that flow flawlessly
Unknown hurdles put pauses to life rather lawlessly.
Brick by brick how cautiously I construct my dream castle!
How a storm pulls it down as though it's a hut on the hill!
Exploring, inventing, and enlightening, I move on.
Towards absurd spells of death, my mortal being is drawn
Inner aches, like yokes, weigh me when I let go of my worries.
Pains and grieves, like traumas, bring in tumultuous flurries.
Soul passes through deserts of spiritual emptiness.
Pilgrimages of perfection become pride-filled pettiness.
With my descents and falls, I, a weakling, come to my Lord
He lifts me from dust and takes me to his heavenly abode.
As a vulture that gains its youthfulness, I take new birth.
Dark nights of my soul end and bright days lead to endless mirth.
In what good has it all come to
In my imaginary mind?
We roll through the wake of the water,
Goddammitting our way through.
Rising with our victories.
Cursing in our swift descents.
Buddhists are laughing on the shoreline.
I’m selling popcorn on the boat.
When I was little, before I started school,
my dream was to be a professional dancer
for I knew I had that natural talent instilled
in me, talent that was not taken seriously.
The magic, beauty of dance stayed in me.
Although, I never had any dance lessons,
I was always selected to perform at my
schools, recitals and community events.
Life took over and as I navigated the many
twists, turns, inclines and descents of my life,
like a roller coaster, it became loud and clear
I was not meant to be a professional dancer.
My burning desire to dance flickered, as it
was put on the back burner for many years.
It was set on fire after I retired and started
dance lessons and living the time of my life.
It has been six years since I have been doing what
I love, dancing to express the beauty of dance in
my feelings, grace, agility, moves that the people
around me watch and feel the liveliness within me.
Yes, they come and tell me ….
J'aime la vie…I love life, with all that it brings
Alleviating the jarring pain of potholed roads
Labour uphill, thankful for easy descents,
Observe the rules, most watchful for red lights
Plagued at times by ailments, wear and tear
Yet, like a defiant aging car, I chug on and on.
------------------
11th July, 2023
Time has never been a focus
of mine – speaking primarily of longevity –
A sense of being alive seeming to predate
my oldest memories;
I think of memory...more precisely, of dreams --
imagining journeys to far-off romantic places,
along with those invented lands of
challenging climbs and horrific descents into
unrelenting madness...
I think of god – and how He appears to many of us
in our own recognizable ways...
I think of those masses of non believers – awake
only to the diminishing depths of surface presence...
while their science speaks of multiple dimensions,
they, themselves, appear captives of a shallow psyche,
with its own self-imposed span of limited existence...
After the hurricane,
The wind is glum,
And the sunset has seen its last stop;
Just beyond the horizon,
Where the vales are all ebon,
The birds have taken to slumber,
The sea reflecting the crescent,
In all its brightness, it sheens.
The waves are quiescent
Beneath it the fishes,
Have taken sweet refuge.
The dusk is nigh,
The trees gleam and shy,
And the little nightingale,
Sings a ballad to the skies,
The clouds have culled,
Beneath it naps the wheat fields,
Murmuring their 'goodbyes'
As the night descents over the cities bright.
6/11/20
After The Hurricane Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
"Nature from my house"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gulmohar tree red flowers abound
breeze creates red carpet on ground
Dove bulbul sparrow parrot crow robin
chirp merrily in morning
melodious surround
Morning in mountains fog descents
shining ice scattered around.
Evening sun, a red ball descents,
slowly on other side, west bound.
red vented bulbul
built nest in my balcony -
perfect bowl of twigs
Date: 9/7/2020
_______________________
A tapestry lay in an ancient sun,
Basking neath a ventrous day yet unspun,
Colorful hues of ocher and saffron,
Draws aqueous fumes that moist production,
Every eye, blossom, unhatched egg, greet, opens,
Fortuitous bounty spreads emotions,
Gathered, skins, feathers, and scales, 'bout all strewn,
Harken a flightless prayerful dove a tune,
Invocates breaths to cite a liturgy,
Jolts loose a cloak of boundless energy,
Kingpin meanders its righteous release,
Lifts a poised sky veiled like an altar piece,
Mirrored echoes o'er a restless domain,
Naked beings wild, nay wear traps of vain,
Oaths show side-by-side, generating warmths,
Pleasant touch between life, light and air, calms,
Qat leaves pools a creeks hold, stirs brew a tea,
Raven espies to hover, pecks a spree,
Symmetry fulfills in a baseless realm,
Tenacious wanton rhapsody days' whelm,
Universe descendants be a joint trust,
Vast spectered spectrums spirals to adjust,
Webbed stars a new sky, quietude abound,
Xenon fades into a nulled swarty crowned,
Yielding yawns, surrenders lids to be froze,
Zzz's orchestrates descents towards a lulled doze.
Date: 06/01/2019
Pearled Diana, What dost Thou want from me?
A whirl of fresh air descents from your perfect symmetry
Phantomed voices; dance now my mind vocally
Like statue-esque echos from beloved house Báthory.
For is it truly You, who speaks so woefully?
a portrait; the Goddess bathed in sky filled jewelry,
Nymphomaniac, Necrophilic graced by Death supposedly.
"I - the Filth in Her womb blessed with grave poetry."
or is it but me, isolated by Death's ovary.
Mother Moon, for Thou I refuse it to be!
Now I know Lady death clawed me unknowingly...
This pale seductress in black spectres my anxiety.
Depression, Suicide, The Razor's depravity
High atop maddened peaks await anxious pills
to spare coal mine canaries nightmarish sleep:
When new moon ascends and threatens weary tides
pain ridden stomachs ache ere swallowing pride;
From restless valleys come thorns sung muted dreamers
whose bright eyed despondence convey majestic thoughts preceding
inevitable descents of men labeled insane. Grey avalanche
crumbles all preconceived notions of universal truth
as bright flashing signs with neon letters reveal
God said something but She didn’t mean it.
1/17/2017
Just as mirror of the sea,
Lake Michigan’s shinning big.
Boats are passing with the sails –
summer has refreshing air.
Ideal shallow to swim water –
heated, crystal air vibrates,
at trees people sit in shades,
some are playing on fine sand.
Shining with the crystal sparks,
spacious beaches - waterfront
and the Downtown stands afar.
Reddish setting sun with lure,
sky has color of vast water –
pleasant air descents cool.
Tonight I died Cold and lonely,
Caught between regret and peace.
Life hereafter for me will cease,
but not from existence;
Rather from cruel intentions,
inflected pain from a host of honorable mentions.
journeys of ascensions and descents into madness;
Surely they are my birth right.
For Fortnights I have contemplated,
Indecisive with the notion;
Poisoned by dreams and haunted by quotation.
The part of me that has passed shall no longer be mourned;
Goodbye dear self, hello dear scorned.
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