American cheese, if you please
Not Taiwanese or Japanese
Nothing Maltese or Vietnamese
American cheese, if you please
You say I must try Swiss Cheese
Lebanese and Nepalese
At Chanukah, ‘Monterey of Maccabees’
Farvoss?* American cheese, if you please *'What for?' (Yiddish)
But surely you’ll take a bite of Siamese
Portuguese, Pekinese or Paraguese
And how can you neglect Senegalese and Congolese
Not now. If you please, American cheese
Is our diner a narrow-minded provincial
Nisht!** ~ she’s old, a Jewish immigrant NYC election official **No! Not! (Yiddish)
Sometimes the depression is my ruler, but I love
It means love. Life. The life. A demon. Old a time
A time. It’s a memory. Emotions of the past. Loved
Yes. All my feelings are memories, wished home
Live here, live now, live in this time. I am a stranger
I feel myself for an alien. Not for a human. A demon
I can’t find life in humanity, I come from my home
Hell, my original love. Oh, the land, the life there
It was nice. But my sins. My sins! My crimes!!
Yes. I am not clear. I am guilty. Forgive me, Satan!
“You are guilty.” Said Satan. “You must repent!”
“Am I guilty?!” I am only a demon. A forgotten
“Yes. Please, remember your demonic country,
the land, the castle, everything. All was my gift!”
“I am sorry, my dear Satan.”
“It’s not enough! You must live in the human world!”
“I do. You exiled me to the human world.” I answered
“You are my agent. I want to know the human life.”
“I want to be again the resident of hell,” I said
Satan said, “Stay there.”
O map of skin where rivers deeply run,
Thou art the ledger of the years I've known;
The weary eyes that softened with the sun,
And silver crown that time has slowly sown.
I sing of joints that stiffen in the cold,
Of 'measured treads' along the dusty way,
For in this frame, though 'immeasurably old',
A 'steady flame' still burns against the gray.
Speak not of mere decay or entropy,
Quiet strength that rises through every storm,
A 'vibrant vessel' filled with artistry;
Resilience found in every 'weathered form.
Here's to feeling old, a bloom fading away,
Praising 'slowed hands' that hold each memory,
Yet leaves a tender trace of every day;
And a 'soul grown bolder' through its history.
For beauty lives beyond the face, we see,
In the 'unadulterated wisdom' of just being me.
In far away desolate valley of the Himalayan hills grand,
I was driving fast on the soggy road around the wetland.
The car got stuck in the sticky mud, I couldn’t take it out,
I was in for awful trouble in the wilderness, I had no doubt.
Luckily, I spotted a dilapidated manor house not very far,
for help before nightfall I could hurriedly walk up there.
Its door I knocked, a pale man took me into a room stale
that greeted me with smoke of the dim lantern to inhale.
His curled lips quivered, he faintly said, ”you’re hungry”,
and disappeared into the dark, closed the door swiftly.
He didn’t return for long, I explored, saw a streak of light
in a room where I found him stone still, sitting upright.
He held caressing a human skeleton, I was horrified to see.
He saw me, said, “this friend is too old, a new one you’ll be”.
Cold sweat rolled down my spine, I shivered to the frozen core,
ran out of the haunted house into wild through the back door.
The swings, the trees, the blossom springs,
Incomplete without the childish bliss.
When disarrayed, when amiss,
The old dust begins to glint.
The swings, now old, a rusted shine,
used to be the merry time,
for when we cried and laughed our heart.
The swings would never see us part.
The trees we climbed, to reach the sky,
Are no more towers, just plain and fine
The memories on them, stay engraved,
Escaping the grasp of flowing age.
Generations go on without our part,
The swings and trees see a new start,
Another Set of playful minds,
To see some more painful goodbyes.
Now they drift like morning mist,
Moments lost ,yet not dismissed
The Voyage
Milking cows at nine years old, how could they
sending a boy to do farm work, saying it was
to alleviate poverty
Good memories were to lean a sleepy head
against a cow's stomach, sleep until the beast
slightly stirred, not once did they kick
the bucket under the udder of an angry cow
Often, cows are gentle creatures.
packed away to sea at fifteen, how dare they
on the ships of Tommy Robertson, where
Kindness was weakness; the strong survive
Or was it an Elon Musk utterance?
A dark port in the Black Sea, a dark landscape
still filled with the fog of war, a mighty land
recuperating after a deadly war
Poor Russia, how it has been hated through
time by Europe, who wanted her cut to pieces
to get to her riches; how they all failed
Russia is stronger than ever before. How dare
They try to diminish her.
The boy has travelled far, so far that he is now
old, a survivor who listens to the howling wind
The wiping wind on the windowsill knows he
was lucky while waiting for the final chapter
That means the collapse of the world order
Future unforeseen
I was flipping a burger; it was my birthday.
And I was 25 years old, a time I often look back on with nostalgia, reminding the audience of their own youthful moments.
We had our share of drunks and good.
Time, girls, and their behavior-sometimes kind, sometimes not-shaped my understanding of life.
I followed one of them home so they didn’t have to face
The morning alone in the trailer park.
And since it was my birthday, I wondered if I would be
Flipping a burger 50 years from now.
These days, I flip words around, served with French.
Innuendo and tomato sauce made of frustration.
But it could have been worse; I could have been frying burgers.
But now, at 75, I walk home alone, reflecting on the choices that have shaped my life and inviting the audience to consider their own paths.
Once lost in Himalayan forest I spotted a house bare,
before the nightfall I could hurriedly walk up to there.
I knocked the door, an old man let me in a room stale
that greeted me with smoke of a dim lantern to inhale.
His curled lips quivered, saying faintly, “you need food”,
closed the door swiftly and disappeared into solitude.
As he didn’t return, I looked up, saw a streak of light
in a room where I found him stone still, sitting upright.
He clutched a human skeleton, I was terrified to see.
He said, “this friend is old, a new one you will give me”.
Cold sweat rolled down my spine, shivering in the core,
I ran out of the haunted house through the back door.
A poem reflecting on time, ageing, resting, and above all, resilience.
Themes denied to so many.
Occasionally, you can try to do too much.
Title.
Need inspiration?
(A lone voice whispers)
You all know the game.
It's within your power to have an hour.
Be proud to feel old, a fate denied to so many: but never fold.
Recover, then step back into the cold.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
a coin, a vinyl recording
a mirror, a leaf, a door
a picture, a photo of the wall
a day, dawn, moon, clouds
alive, awake, eyes open, floating
ahead, today, tomorrow, a shadow
growing old, a diary, a tombstone
onward, upward, hands up, face up, bottoms up
going forward, with no reverse gear, timely
a book open, uncovered, a calendar, a clock
facing up, fronting up, with soul on sleeve
Ne're be tempted to flip over
to the B-side.
It's Ne're the Same Game
on the Others Side.
Thoughts whisper tales of what has been,
In tenses old, a faded scene.
To pierce that veil, a conscious plea,
Drop mind's chatter, and simply be.
Let senses bloom, a vibrant hue,
The world unfolds, forever new.
Embrace the touch, the scent, the sound,
Where present moments can be found.
And as they rise, both sharp and sweet,
The pang of pain, the pleasure's heat,
Allow them passage, swift and free,
Embracing all that comes to thee.
No clinging tight, no pushing far,
Each feeling is a passing star.
Release the grip, the need to hold,
In this continuum, brave and bold.
For now it flows, a constant
Where past and future gently hide.
In sensing deep, and letting go,
The Now continuum starts to glow.
Something old, something blue,
Aged not old, a odd pairing,
which unfits the mold.
Taste acquiring,
pungent smell,
putrid looks,
uninspiring.
It is the dare that begs one to love it.
One good sense of five ain't too bad,
When you hold your nose,
close your eyes
and taste it,
breathlessly,
senselessly,
there's the rub.
My first car is starting to smell old
Like my grandparents house that they no longer live in
Reminds me of an antique store
With trinkets and wooden and things I’ve never seen
It smells of a jacket
In the back of the closet
That no longer fits
My first car took me anywhere
When anywhere seemed like so much
It took me to games and stores and houses and places I shouldn’t have been
But it always got me out
My subtle savior I never remembered to thank
My first car was old a decade ago
It was rusted and I never heard the end of the jokes
But it was mine.
Mine in a way a lot of things never have been
Mine like a name
Like a part of myself
Of my past
Of my shame
My first car doesn’t run
It doesn’t putter and shutter like it used to
And I can’t curse it anymore
When it doesn’t turn on
It died before I could say goodbye
When I thought we had more time
Seems like an old friend maybe
That just won’t text back
Seems like a dumb silly promise
Like maybe it will whine at me again
If I turn the key
But it doesn’t
And it won’t
Faded Love
Vanishing rainbow, freezing rain, dead desire, broken life
Lost faith, sinking fate, desert life, fear, lost hope, a knife
A blade in a heart, that is dead, lost wistfulness, torn blood
But the love was for blue blood, not mine, dream said guys
A soul carries this misfortune throughout a life, sad lifetime
Always, every time on his way, suffering old, a young guy
My age gone
I loved her
Only love
My age young
Only love
gone
future unforeseen
I was flipping burgers on my birthday
25 years old, a late-night burger shack
we had our share of drunks and good
time, I sometimes followed one of them
home so they didn’t have to face
the morning alone in the trailer park.
Since it was my birthday, I wondered if
I would be flipping burgers when 50
These days, I flip words. around served
with French innuendo and tomato sauce
made of frustration, but it could have
been worse, I could have been frying
burgers be 75 and walk home alone
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