Do not stare in unbelief
Or marvel at the moment of a miracle
Rather stand in complete relief
That energy has shown itself completely
In metamorphic perfection
Metamorphic elements in pure perfection
Evolve and become the seeds
The next stage of evolution
Be not in a state of amazement
But content in each moment of the process
(A reflective voice whispers)
In the Dawn of a new feeling of Life,
Maybe even at high school
Did you embrace one of its golden rules
To hold hands with someone you deemed so special
Encouraged by first love's, sweet kiss
For it to then carry you through, to meet the super cool, Twilight of your Life
With the only true one, whose love has never cooled:
And if you're still incredibly lucky, brings you such bliss
Or did the Shadows of Life appear
Smiling like a Nazgûl
Like a dark thief at night
To take back God's divine gift, and leave you scrambling and grieving
Daydreaming of the Dawn and Twilight of your Life
Before something cruel, caused you, to separate and drift
When everything seemed so perfect and nice
Before the deep cut, of The Shadows of Life's
Sharp, ceremonial knife
(C) Copyright John Duffy
Stage One: There was a crime? Oh, please don't offend,
because I'm saying IT NEVER HAPPENED.
Stage Two: Just ignore whatever you read.
IT HAPPENED BUT NOT THE WAY YOU SAID.
Stage Three: Okay, Giuliani, our legal eagle
said IT HAPPENED BUT IT WASN'T ILLEGAL.
(Wait, what? Giuliani's been disbarred?)
Stage Four: Okay, the liberal press did their due diligence
and we have to admit
IT HAPPENED, IT WAS ILLEGAL
BUT THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.
Stage Five: Enough with your fake news bit.
Your reporting's not worth a bucket of spit.
IT HAPPENED, WE'RE PROUD OF IT
AND YOU'RE A TRAITOR FOR QUESTIONING IT!
Embryonic Stage
So comfy and warm
Not feeling a hint of harm
Oh, what’s happening
Birth
Good grief, it’s so cold
O’er and o’er again was told
“Beautiful baby”
Child Age
Play sports, make good grades
Life’s full of adventure days
Hates vegetables
Teen Years
It’s an awkward age
Parents struggle through this stage
Just stay sane through it
Young Adult Years
Leaving home first time
Into unknown, a steep climb
Where will it all end
Middle Adult Years
Work and family
Agony and ecstasy
Stalwart day by day
Older Adult Years
Body , soul, and mind
Seeking peace of special kind
Beyond ever known
Christ said
Judge and condemn not
But people do too much
For us to remain silent
The truth is hard to say
It's also hard to swallow.
Now ponder
You might wonder
Your perception
A reflection of you
Do you know the meaning of life?
Everyone with different story or meaning
I guess none knows the meaning of life.
What are your opinions about life?
You can't finish education
Just as you can't own or know it all
Everyone have their own view or point
As time passes by, season changes
Life comes with stages
Different pages and chapters unveiling it's true meaning.
Am I in that stage of Grief where I’m just angry?
Like how dare you leave me?
You were the glue.
I shed a tear or two.
Then aggression enters and it feels like a big f you
I need you.
But you had better things to do
How is it? The other realm?
I just wish I could see you again
Take some of this pain away
I’m overwhelmed.
It just won’t be the same
I have to accept that before I go insane
You’re dead.
I need to get that in my head
I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).
That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay
Across the years, 400 plus, my stories endlessly play out their parts.
I played not on painted stage, but I knew the human heart -
I captured, with quill and scratch, the passions of laughter and tears.
I held up a mirror, in doublet and verse, to things unbound by years,
like the weight of grief, the lightness of love and the serpents of ambition.
The music of verse, the lilt and fall of words, hold a strange enchantment,
brief spells where fools, princes, witches and kings shared a selfsame planet.
Though my bones lay in hallowed ground, the stories I spun linger yet.
They've played out, in age after age, on a thousand, thousand stages.
It’s well done, If I say so myself, to live on, in millions of minds and bookshelves.
.
.
*Written for a history poem challenge: to speak for a historical figure
Ages and stages
I ponder the pages
Of journal writing wrought.
Wasted musing;
Time I’m losing
Over years life’s lessons taught.
It’s embarrassing to see
The one and former me
Gullible, ignorant girl.
Thought she was grown up
Kept herself caught up
In the wicked wiles of this world.
As I read and I ponder,
I can’t help but wonder:
What would have become of me
If the Lord didn’t wake me
Grab me and shake me
To open my eyes
Let me see?
Through ages and stages
Across journal pages
I see His Hand in mine.
I see attitude change
Where hope remains
Because of His grace divine.
I see as I’m reading
Through pages and pages
In journals reflecting my ages and stages
It’s not wasted time at all.
It’s time for reflection
Soul introspection
And I find that in spite of it all,
Life’s trouble and turmoil
Triumphs and challenges
I see His hand at play.
Things I did not understand
Are clear to me today.
As I look back over the years
Through angst and joy
And many shed tears,
I see His hand in mine
As He works all for good
As He said that he would
It’s apparent to me over time.
~ Judy Bausch
Moonlight shivers
On my cold, rattling pane to wake
Me from my own sleep's winter.
The condolences in this season's life—
She's someone else in bristling glow;
To draw me out, she takes her time.
A frost crescendo
Dropping shadows
Hint of snow.
Moonlight shivers—
She's someone else in bristling glow,
Hint of snow.
When you rush stages.
Journeys take ages:
Cause for correction,
Stops for direction,
Loss to earned wages,
One coolly rages.
You’re now a story.
Not of sung glory;
Rather a byword
Who needs some watch word;
Writers for pages
Many turn sages….
And you’d started it;
Them handed their wit…
When he was Infant Bob
Often had had to sob
For a freely shared cob…
As Grown-Up Wrangling Bob
Angrily yanked off knob
After a half paid job…
Now Climaxed Adult Bob
Would at friends spit a gob,
Each time he missed a mob
That folks attacked to rob,
The lot shutting their gob,
Since they’d dared forget Bob…
Same Bob at each level
His one guide: The Devil.
As psoriasis; old scoros is'
With vulgarity; of method-biz
Darkening all hearkening
Bloated out ego-cankering
Blood money his diocease!
As I sit here looking at my blank canvass of white,
I start to think back about why I started to paint.
Sitting outside, one day, four years ago, in the light,
I remember the sunset as it began to faint.
I wanted so much to never forget the scene,
That I grabbed a piece of cloth and picked up a brush.
I didn’t know, at the time, what it would all mean,
But I wanted to do it right, so I didn’t rush.
The colors came out so very vivid and clear,
And it almost seemed as if it painted itself.
I had never thought about art until just that year.
I don’t know why some talent stays hidden on a shelf.
So, now in my fifties, I meet with a group of friends,
And we sit and paint, unfolding the stages of life.
I wonder what is next for me, up around the bend.
Who knows, maybe I’ll become as famous as my wife.
Child feels so drawn,
Liking, befriending.
Preteen feeling so innocently,
Crushing, admiring.
Adolescent feelings of promiscuity,
Attraction, infatuation.
Adult feeling of committing,
Loving, dating.
Soul feelings of destiny,
Promising, marrying.
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