A poignant poem exploring deep themes of grief, disillusionment, and spiritual exhaustion.
Capturing a transition from seeking affection to a total withdrawal into solitude.
The speaker rejects passion—symbolized by replacing the color red with black—and surrenders to a profound weariness with their past existence.
The gothic imagery, such as swaying grief clocks and blackbirds, enhances the melancholic atmosphere of a journey permanently ended.
(A lone voice whispers)
And so like before love came
I return to my lonely home
Seeking no longer to atone
As my world suddenly stops
A new strange refuge where blackbirds now play as grief sad clocks sway
While my spirit guides come out to mourn
Dressed in black as in
They are re-swown
No more will I seek love to be adored - for now my only crimson ship has been moored
And love is now forever dead
Black is my new colour not red
So please forgive me Lord
But to truly live in happiness
I no longer horde
For of that old life
I'm now
Bored
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Trouble comes
still i glide over it's waves,
It is below the keel
letting me drift
to ecstasy,
Moored in peace isle
Peace is divine,
for we wrest havens that stay
unclench our palms to see it vanish
In vile burnt fields;
We wonder if it can ever be
When the light returns...
A lighthouse never takes you home
its beam circles, then vanishes,
spins, returns, and vanishes again;
reminding the lost, stray, stranded
that light beamed out there can awaken
the lamp readied for your return
moored to the pier within your ribs,
with a heavy hauser belayed to ride
the surging pulse of choppy seas
prowling the wharf, inside a safe harbour,
behind the rocks of an old sea wall,
where the tide ebbs and flows, in and out,
rocking the kerosene ship lantern,
swinging on a wooden ship's beam
waiting for the message in the bottle
to return to sender, assured.
There is an anchor with your presence
That moored and stayed my course.
Your life became my essence
That never yields remorse.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
In simple tasks, you re-appear
Like shining shoes or cutting grass.
In times like these, I know you’re near
Here and now, not just the past.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
When familiar smells, fill the kitchen
I remember foods you loved.
So many virtues you were rich in
And your character, beloved.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
My many mannerisms show
That I am more than just your son.
I am part of you where ere I go
For the two of us, are one.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
I pray my son will carry on
The depth of traits from you.
May our legacy live on
And our loving carry through.
Dad, I know you’re near me
And still walk with me today.
grass slick slippery
garlanded with dew's glint beads
taunts weary sleepers
to reach out without thinking
beyond sinking stepping stones
dawn light ogles through
a grey, hopscotch-scattered sky
crunching clouds aside
to find a way through chaos
beyond sinking stepping stones
treetops break the skin
of bedraggled drowned-out mists
frogs croak waterlogged—
no shores for sleepwalking gulls
beyond sinking stepping stones
horizon dissolves
unhitched from any compass
worn edges are blurred—
direction is strewn with ash
beyond sinking stepping stones
echoes lose their source,
I am confused, miasmal
moored meanings unspooled—
I grab for something solid,
beyond sinking stepping stones
in off-ramp byways
of shiftless realities
I crawl through muddles
clambering to find a way
beyond sinking stepping stones
We were cruising along on the Norfolk Broads
One bright September's day.
When we moored up in Wroxham
A Swan popped up his head to say
"Beak a boo! Beak a boo!
Do you have a crumb or two?
We like to greet each stopping crew
And we see that you are new."
When he paused to look at us
We all broke in to fits of laughter.
Just before he bowed back down again,
Nana snapped a shot to enjoy after.
"Beak a boo, Pugwash and crew,
It's a joy to meet you too!
My family and friends are here too.
Will we meet again? I hope we do!"
Such memories with the ones we love
Can help us to cope when they have to go.
The cover of this very book
Is a drawing of my Nan's photo.
Written: November 26, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand
************
Keep me moored to your shadow as I drift to your dazzling horizon.
Heard the sound of a horn this morning
Pulled back the curtains and realized
The night dream still must be going
The waves splashed by before my eyes
The tourist ferry had just moored
Passengers disembarked on the shore
It seems that your face has appeared
For a split second, or maybe more
I began to look closely, but very soon
I got dressed and hurried down the stairs;
The snow swirled under fainting moon
The streak of dawn spread in the air.
Lake view, far off, smooth of complexion
With eve's allure powdered on.
Man and woman, two-seated, twin-oared.
Burdens boated. To eyelines moored.
In wake of moon's syrupy-dipped glance
Of romantic binding substance
Forgetfulness, as pure escapade.
Frothless sped out on. Undismayed.
I’m a broad who’s abroad
And I’m traveling toward
Where my tour will be moored
For the night.
Every view has me floored
And what can’t be ignored
Is that what I’ve adored,
Each new sight,
In my brain will be stored
So that when I am bored
I’ll recall what I’ve scored
With delight.
As I lay on mounds of a shoreline,
weightless in eyes' astounded spirit
blending with angels, dirt, and crosses;
my soul bears this emptiness
in writhing streams omnipresent for day
and twilight's heavy float-- hours change
beyond primitive instincts--a landscape
of bittersweet cycles appear, and below it,
the fluidity from incandescent waters lap
on mouths of frozen stars requesting patience.
Here am i sprouting below, above and under
their flesh; fulfilling my need for deliverance
out of some needled pinch :
awash by whimper of rain , all senses
moored and fashioned so lamely
on brittle soil of life unlived ,
seeking a depth of quiet within myself
time rippling upon this decayed shell undersea...
yet nothing came except a leaf falling.
No glamour here in the South Bay
where function and industry reign
just an occasional seagull is seen
gliding over steel grid power lines.
Daily westerly winds whistle
swaying a small fleet of sailboats
buoys bob along a mariner’s course
as he navigates the currents.
Ships of all shapes and sizes
quietly line the edges of the bay
docked or moored in place
patiently waiting their turn at sea.
An unearthly silence lingers
around the salt flats that arise
staking their claim at the south shore
a monument to the “bitter end”.
It is peaceful here…without pretense
where the hum of traffic is heard
endlessly moving along an offramp
while the random seagull flies above.
Dust taints scent of rain
the wind wrenches gate ajar
lightning splits the clouds—
grime streaks down marble headstones,
as silver names bleed deep red
bouquets torn and flung
petals smashed into the mud
plastic stems snapped clean
weeds kneel and crawl up to stones
claiming what storm has laid bare
the squalls scour angels
driving grit deep into wings
puddles drown vases
pebbles scatter like lost teeth
pathways get buried in hail
beneath all this rage
the dreamless ones stay silent
beyond the storm's grasp—
no pleas get through weighted soil
moored tight in unyielding peace
storms don't bow to the names in stone
don't hear the prayers carved to atone.
the dead can't rise, the dead can't plead—
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
once vague metaphor
now pin pricks with emoji,
with door left ajar~
a notice slips in unnamed,
with ash on breath, match unlit.
fangs lurk in the mouth,
breath pockets the broken glass,
turns mist into sky~
a small rope sways between cliffs,
moored by threads too thin to see.
shadow in step's wake,
plank between the thing and hurt,
it strums without strings~
lips fondle a vague shape
till its fate becomes the wind.
summer season by the lake-water warm
black flies swarm, in boat’s wake
floating dock moored to a stake
mallard ducks follow the drake
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