(A lone voice whispers)
And soon it will come to pass without the sounds of love and laughter.
A few hours I'd rather forget, now our true love lives in the Great Hereafter.
The day my soul walked alone on one of life's many grey, soulless parapets.
Cold and wishing Valentine's Day wouldn't come.
For it always reminds me deep inside why I became so numb.
When it finally comes around, with memories of chocolates and red roses, without their usual sounds.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
her gaze pinned on that crumbling silhouette~
ribs of stone gnawed by centuries
as violet bleeds through the parapets
When a pair of fighter jets
Buzzed over the parapets
They woke up the entire block
Though the pilots had regrets
But still the neighborhood frets
At each ticking of the clock
This deafening sound they battled
Their dishes chipped and rattled
And went crashing to the floor
With nerves all spent and addled
The block packed up and saddled
No one lives here anymore
Allocation, O ally?
Resources put where?
In the heads of those who fly?
Worry, hast thou care?
O ye spirits, I collect!
End Times, be my Muse!
Golden gods to genuflect?
Dare to disabuse!
Wrath of wind, thy cyclone?
It really must blow in.
Heaven and Hell, hie to hone!
Drenching downpour, din!
Ramparts of old castle?
They're slippery when wet.
Gods of death, call thy vassal!
How could we forget?
Tomb of ancient pharaoh?
A curse is on the door.
Folly thus to enter? Go?
Doom, thy pinafore!
Mercenary armies!
Become, O lords of hell!
Storm from thy cemeteries!
Legions, lead thee well!
Soar, O mighty eagles!
O parapets, take heed:
Fate and Fortune, full the fools!
Grind them in their greed!
Ache in heart of bygone race?
Lulled within thy chase.
Dithering is thy disgrace!
Seize the skin of face...
To that shadowed city round
Come those that are sorrow bound
In their multitudes alas
Through a Terminus so vast
For a city grim enabling
Their eternal laboring
From the parapets looking down
Cold and timid souls abound
To shed their tears in torment rife
That shed they not for all their life
And from the masses on the wall
Does that gentle misery fall
It stains the heights in colors woe
And settles heavily on those below
Who join the marchers in their toil
Redemption seekers one and all
They wail and walk an endless path
Divined here by no mortal wrath
Their tribute to a city sown
By their tears and ghastly moans
For they seek in the hereafter
What risk rewards and all its laughter
For they in life with trouble severe
Found not the will to persevere
And made a choice by many before
To embrace a simple life and ignore
The treasures offered and wisdom attained
That adversity's teaching hand ordained
Esuries (L)
(A lone voice whispers)
Has love's incandescent crimson light bulb
Illuminated your lonely soul yet
To help you forget
Those quiet years
When you walked upon fragile parapets alone
You'd rather now paint
Using poetry as your only form of catharsis
Before you are called home
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Esuries translated:
Hunger
Image shared under fair usage policy
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
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running,
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off only ourselves.
The gulls are low, not skimming,
but surfing spray
just above
the rise and fall of crests.
Beaks scythe and catch
tracking troughs.
They seek the in-between fish
thrown
between tumbling parapets
of ocean.
Trawling gullets
scoop,
gulp the spew.
Swigging necks
do not glance back
but plow circles of light
upon the water,
then they dive upwards
into
the wings of the wind.
Daddy never came home,
he kissed mommy goodbye
and hugged sister and I
as he flew out the door
and went to work in a tower
that reached the sky with power.
Daddy never came home,
our phone was ringing all day long,
mommy looked sadder with each call,
she looked out the window for daddy
hoping he was at the front door,
in her heart she knew he was no more.
Daddy never came home,
all three of us cried for a long time,
it was hard to go to school and not sob,
teachers passed tissues around for everyone,
they told us that our nation was mourning
as many lost their lives without any warning.
Daddy never came home,
seventeen years have passed since that day,
each year we visit the World Trade Center site,
bronze parapets have three thousand names
including daddy who we still miss so much,
recalling the time and his loving touch.
(I Will Never Forget Contest)
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off not only Him
but ourselves.
I built my shrine ...
My brittle heart, sheltered to hide
Choked so often by trust's entangled vine
Strong stones, placed side-by-side ...
I raised each wall sound and tall for my castle keep
The parapets high, the foundations sure and deep
Yet ... it all crumbled to a heap ...
With but a single soft press of your lips ... to mine.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge 1, June 2019, Crumbling Rhyme" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.
* This is a form called Crumbling Rhyme, created by the sponsor *
(Syllables = 4, 8, 10, 6, 12, 12, 8, 12, counted at HowManySyllables.com)
Some orange, purple and magenta...
Some crimson, yellow, red...
Cascade walls in soft rainbow shades.
Fountain of colors flow rooftop to balcony,
parapets and gates in gorgeous radiance.
An awestruck seduced bumblebee,
in abundance of pink champagne, cried
"My god, you are so beautiful"....
The bougainvillea vine, a triplet cluster,
unassuming small petals, dull, pale, white.
"With no fragrance in my poor heart within,
only a cosmetic trick of colorful bracts.
Leaves in disguise show off bright camouflage,
beacon butterflies, they come close to me.
Paper glamour withers, brittle, soft, thin,
My beauty is deep, only up to skin !"
Dated 15th April, 2019
Craig Cornish 's Bougainvillea Contest
The glittering gold and shimmering crystal of palatial proportions
Scarlet red carpets, as if the blood itself were loosed
Quivering pulsation's wracking the soul to it's core
Like the walls of Jericho before their fall
Armored knights, swords aloft, defending the parapets
Shaking with hidden fears, hoping for truce
Knowing in reality there must be a great toll
The whole Earth trembles at the destruction of such beauty
For which, shame must fall upon man himself
In seeking such glory, to conquer worlds, to have it all
Never content with riches and splendor
Nor one another in complete surrender
Destroying what's good, enveloping that which will destroy the soul
Self destruction on such a grand scale
Never content until he burns in Hell
Deflected, crushed by the social retardation,
Not loved, ‘cos he’s altogether unaccepting,
Active learning the robot’s mouth action,
So he can't contextualise, there’s no blessing.
Neither me nor him meet and we sweep by,
There’s no connection from his ANDs and ORs,
Only citadels to weather the reactive cry,
When my nouns are pocketed by many cursors.
Where’s the memory bank and why the chat?
The bus is long gone and I'm open, vulnerable,
There’s no room for social construction’s mat,
To yield identity’s dynamic, recursive turntable.
Yes, microchips and logic gates shouldn't enable,
Machine learning at the cost of root foundations;
Your group, community, your niche and fable,
Ignite the necessary conversation of care situations.
Ok, so can we build a robot? A care robot?
Indeed care assistance is definitely reducible,
To only a small number of abstractions, clot,
‘Cos love does not evade the comprehensible.
Doors class as access, also pavements, steps,
Only three types of garments, two of people,
Friend or foe, but a cloud for certain parapets,
And who’s boss is said before, it's programmable.
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