Improperly furnished with words alike the proper onstage guffawed and remarked, slighted and sent ribbons for acts that blanket at dusk with the manuscript rack, heaving against the pages like a concubine the throes of these pages batches of wine, like those that are deleterious these are cursed the same but they struck from their pages, the unequal dim range.
Since I have half a gift
yet not a whole,
I bring words to half life,
but alas my complete soul.
Who I am,
not who I am supposed to be,
on these wings of an eagle
I take flight and become free.
At dawn's break
cascading on the horizon,
is there enough light
to see the day?
It is this murky muddled mirage
where I facilitate my way.
Noble men and women
seems from another universe,
who have authored manuscripts
of such grand eloquence,
I wonder and marvel
at such sui generis verse.
I myself may never be there,
but I can’t help to think
these masters passions
which they all must bear,
are not too dissimilar
to when I soar in the air.
The Day of Rest
So, it is another Sunday morning
after a restless night, dreaming about
a manuscript I couldn't find
I have many manuscripts, but the problem is
to be unknown, publishers want
money up front
Last time I sent a manuscript for a book
The publishers said it was great
I paid 400 euros, which I called great, but
The publisher has vanished and does
not answer my calls
I will remain unknown and asleep
I used to type my words, but now
Everything is stored in my computer
That is a bonus, no need to look
at my work, except dreaming about it
Woody sonnet
I tried to be a carpenter, soft wood
and a screwdriver to make shelves for
I have many manuscripts that I have not
the heart to throw into the flames
In case what I'm looking for is there
The girl in the shop said I could not
carve a name on the shelves, she
handed me sandpaper to erase
The titles I had given the shelves
Failure one and failure fifty-four
She, the girl in the shop, gave me
a plastic hammer for free
Mice in the shed, she demanded
I do something.
I found three mice,
surprisingly easy to catch, like they
had been saved.
Living on old newspapers and
stillborn manuscripts
not much of a diet.
Kill them, she demanded.
I put them in a shoebox
made a few holes and gave them
some bread crumbs.
In the tall grass, by the road verge
I let them out, and that they would
rather stay in the box.
Finally, they got the message and
disappeared.
I looked up and said:
“What about it, God? Any chance to
Win on the lotto?
Foundation.
In this modern world, has mankind forgotten judgment may await if one is religious?
Title.
The Priest talking on a Pulpit in The Great In-Between
(A regal voice whispers)
You do know
What you do and feel in public or secret
My child
Writes all your life's many hidden manuscripts
And follow's you like a Charles Dickens's
Jacob Marley
Character
Into and after the crypt
So do more good
Purge yourself.
Pull yourself away from the Great Tempter's black hole
Don't just sit and judge
Urge your soul
Or the goal could be
You
Stripped and whipped as you become
Just another
Of the Devils legion's
Of unloved conscripts
(C) Copyright John Duffy
Shine Bright O' Golden Pen
To Empower & Inspire The Masses Of Men,
Burn Ever Luminous & Blaze As The Sun
And Let Thy Ballpoint Scintillate Like The Chosen One,
Fill Thy Longhand With Prestine Manuscripts
To Great Endeavors That Shall Sail Afar Like Ocean Ships,
Guide Thee To Depths Unknown
When Many Are Lost & Have Lost All Hope,
Illuminate Thy Ink Scrolls For All Of Time
With Knowledge & Wisdom & Light Divine,
Oscillate The Great Duality That Always Was
And Let It Transcend Through The Sword That Descends From Above,
Infuse Thee With Essence As An Emerald Stone
So I Shall Articulate These Jasmine & Fiery Poems
He, I, died years ago, when
history started and wrote
manuscripts of its unsound
flesh. Hark, behold His glory!
Yet I was gone before the
dusk of the first revered day.
Even when they shot at silence,
even when they drank to used-to,
even when they wrote the bible,
he stayed in Jerusalem.
They who preached the noble He,
when their rubber foam and glue
and latex turned to cushions
that held softly revolvers,
they hailed Mary and began
tearing down amity gripped.
Man’s heart shot down a peg again,
woman’s mantel respite candle,
my corpse reeks of paralyzed life,
you can’t ask for forgiveness.
Clinging onto the shaggy
hands, held together by string
bands, full of worship upon
the chapel which my statue
grieves, they call upon heaven
to win the war they started.
Who will lull the holy golem?
When has servitude remedied?
What is religion but muted
Tongue? New faith for every shot,
I died years ago, he dies
every day.
You confuse me but never daze me,
Who are you if i scrape the surface.
Will i find the real you or not.
Do you exist or was i dreaming.
In the darkness of foggy night ,
Would you venture into the shadows,
Seek me out hold my hand if u dare,
For I am the shadow of nightmare.
Will you ,wont you come to my domain,
Search your mind look for my name,
Its easy to find if you know where to look,
Study letters ,ancient manuscripts and books.
Reveal your secrets to your self deny them not,
In your soul all begins can you create a world within,
Awaken to behold all that is false and untrue,
Discern for yourself break the mould.
No more a pawn or a slave to those who rule,
Be true to yourself no more the fool,
worry never what others may say,
The one is coming on a far off day.
APMcIntyre 17/10/2024 (C).........
Wow The many email addresses
I can’t even stress enough the
importance of having more
than one use your cat name your
dog bird grandma grandpa
change your email accounts reset
change your passwords cause
hackers will break in your
home lock you out of your own
email address I use different
email addresses for different
things medical church poetry
manuscripts family and friends
either way rather 123@me
or 321@Karma be consistent
be creative soar be different
protect your poetry protect you
Poetry Soup, it has been a while
What has happened, so much death judgement vindication even when I was a child
Green mile I had to walk when my mother was deceased
I had to build up the courage and integrity
To continue at this point to express what was inside of me
Could it be who I am have been here all along
Although oh precious mother was called home
No phone I would never hear her voice
Stuttering like Abraham the father of many nations was reminding me my course
when she walked the last mile of life
I will move forward and become a stabled wife
It was many years I had to grieve
I never was triggered by loss but what was inside of me
To all which are continuing on your journey at hand
Make sure you heal, therefore you can stand
Straight and tall without a flaw
All has happened over the years to force you to talk
Even through poems, manuscripts and whatever can heal
A mirror can only be cleaned when you see who you are for real!
Except change and let of pain 2024!
Carry it like a babe in arms,
Or asymmetrical soccer ball.
Marvel at its inner chamber;
Threaded seeds sleep in its room.
Consider its genetic detail,
Its encrypted secret code:
Copies made for generations,
Manuscripts illuminated -
Still unknown.
The silent child sees Cinderella
Riding in her pumpkin coach.
The artist sees its painted jacket,
Sleek and smooth.
And now, it’s time to sit and eat it –
Orange, baked and sweet,
Remembering other Sunday dinners -
Now, all gone.
Blind in the all-consuming mist without a trace of light
Blind in the oven’s black smoke that makes all songs to Jesus seem hushed
A woman grabbed some of the treasures given from the height
In her worn hands, feeling the papyrus and straw being now crushed
And threw them in the flickering fire to be their plight
Though she feared preserving these written worlds would bring the jinn
Jinn danced in wicked victory on the perishing, once green lands
Simply dancing in circles as the night sky flames of sin
As the songs of these lands became whispers above dead seas and sands
And these whispers became nothing, without even a din
What mysteries vanished into the air, taking their leave
What pure prayers were never heard again, just left for time to bury
Maybe the Gospel of Perfection, the Gospel of Eve
Maybe the flawless hymns of Bardesanes, the Questions of Mary
Our burning hearts will never know, but our souls will still grieve
About how some manuscripts of the Nag Hammadi Library (discovered in 1945) were tragically burned to fuel a simple oven fire.
I've lived in it all my life -
the self's grand fiction -
refuge for the child, youths
rebel fortress and a walled
cloister to house
the holy relics gathered
on the pilgrimages
of my mind. I have built it
line by line with words
baked into bricks.
Rooms follow years
down passageways of books,
dusty manuscripts and dreams
hung in stations along
age blackened walls.
In high towers, windows
open to a universe
with a terrifying silence
at its core.
I hear reality's hard fist
knocking at the door,
a presence breathing
its corrosive damp into mortar,
unpicking me
brick by brick. And yet,
a sense of peace in surrendering
what was never really there,
dissolving into what is
Scenes of a marriage
I should have known, she was up before me
I made a cup of coffee and went back to my study
to reflect upon the new day
How wrong I was
She entered; my navel-gazing had to be for another day
“Go and have a shower and put a nice shirt on
we are going to the solicitor.”
“I’m not smelly; I have not had breakfast; why should
I dress up for a solicitor, charging me money for what?
Greedy bandits, all of them.”
“Anyway, I have bought ink for the printer and plan to
print two manuscripts.”
“I have no sugar for my tea, the maid comes at one
the poor woman is divorced, her husband used to beat her
and you can print your papers another day.” SHE SPOKE
So, I had a shower.
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