When love's chalice brims with passion's pain
from crooked hands now clenched within your mind
its wormwood draught is less the bile that stains
you spilled to cleanse the earthen floor of time
the rapture of this life now cleans my soul
as it bleeds deep in darker realms of shade
you drove the knife that cut the rose once whole
release my suffering heart as death persuades
this flower keeps no breath within its bloom
now drifting dark beneath the setting sun
flee from this world whose shadows I consume
as my heart dies, its death already done
a crumbled love lies dead inside my heart
buried beneath the lies as you depart
This garden’s neglected, the grass grew too tall
The bushes and plants look half-dried
Cracked slabs lay uneven, the dog’s water bowl
Is covered with leaves and dead flies
Front door’s off the latch, windows wide open
No photos in frames on the mantelpiece
A phone on the table must’ve been broken
Unlikely it held fingerprints
Wormwood and ivy have grown way too large
Almost conceal the brick walls
Everything seems like completely discharged
Unavailable to any calls
Was it the other day I saw you there?
When was the last time we met?
Tomorrow can’t come, cause it’s busy somewhere
No time for tea can be set.
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, the way putrefies
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood spells of bitter taste
Kind ways stagnate weakness and bitterness
Phoenix Sixain excerpt from The Pathless Path 5/20/26
I glide, a heavy, odd glide,
Through a moody weekend,
Its gasps choked, and;
Taste like bitter wormwood.
Fragile hearted, I,
Tears soaked my eye,
A subtle soul rose high,
And still, ended a heavy cry.
I exhaled noxious smog,
My very aura got tainting,
Whatever virtue, I cling,
It's a long glid; I'm strong.
"Sometimes, we don't see the truth, not because they don't exist or are too well-hidden, but because we've never learnt to read the signs that point to it," — poet
How lovely shall all things be
Should life be as honeycomb
When burdens from your path shall flee
And all desires shall yours become
How languid shall all things be
Should life be bitter wormwood
Fair is made all misery
And naught is hope for all things good
Yet should life be bittersweet,
All choices made shall be travailed
Futile as grasping sifted wheat
Unsure if good or evil would prevail
Cannot wisdom be my guide
And speak to me the way to live?
Yet wisdom eludes my sight
That i know not what to believe
For how can i find the way
Whilst so many cry out, “come!”
How can i walk and not stray
To find the path that will lead me home?
The rose of winds point to the hills
But i know not what that means
So i watched the stars and remained still
Forever stranded in-between
You filled my heart's chalice with passion's pain
from poison kettles stirred in your mind
Your wormwood brew drips a bile that will stain
as it spills on the earthen floor of time
Slip away with your dung lit real of shade
seek a newer chalice, your lips can fill
barter their heart with your cold lover's trade
in worlds that lie beyond the farthest hill
where each love will be lost forevermore
to drift towards a darker, colder sun
leave me now, like the shadow I abhor
You used my heart's love, and pain has begun
For my heart will lie with its final breath
Befitting dear, you have seen my heart's death
The Furies in all their rage hath not the vengeance in his soul
Which boils like the maelstrom and spills upon the shore
The tide rising higher and higher
til it fills the lowland of their bitter malcontent
If righteous indignation had the power heaven holds
The sea now wormwood should turn crimson in this night
But darkness has this stake alone which knoweth not the Good
And darkness that comes with the noon blots out the strongest light
Til the sun surrenders all the good that comes upon the day
And nothing grows save inky stain where hatred rules the play
O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.
Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow as eyes on a predator? Pill.
Alcohol, wormwood, erasure, vile vial.
Guns, thy salute. Funeral. Lunge, then still.
Ravine, out back and filled with water. Caught.
Animals afloat, belly up, life flew.
Grey old men, hope is a mystery. Clue?
Sparks, burned out and skittering. Fire, cold. Bought.
Doom, close in on all. Deliverance? None.
Stifled by Fate and Fortune? Withheld. New?
Nothing under the sun, scion. Red run.
Grasping fingers and a quill, quahog. Brew.
Wasteland, receive. Gold, far. Sandbar, choke. Smoke.
Poison, leap from serpent's fang. Deeply sunk.
Peril, everywhere. Round upward, time. Soak.
Continent, beneath water. Ocean, plunk.
Foundation.
With uncertainty flowing like a molten volcano around the world, and online.
Is it within dark times like these, we should try to bring more light into the world?
Title:
A voice in the dark whispers
Lookup
Not down
And be drawn
Into spiritual degradation
Or dark temptations
Linked to politics or the flesh
By the Red Dragon
But to blue clouds
Filled with sacred tetragons
With belief in whatever you know as good, be held
In-Depth
For the son of Cronus and Rhea
Brother of Zeus and Poseidon
Grows ever near
To welcome you into his waterless Barren Lands
Delighting in unimaginable fear
So be
Precipitous
And look up to
Defeat the rolling Abyss
Ruled by Hades
Hidden
Within
Its mists
Espouse goodness
While you still
Live
Like a sweet Valentine's Day kiss
And try to avoid
The Void
Filled with those
Who now pay a hefty
Price
But enter into new lands of Spiritual Paradise
With your selfless acts
Of kindness and self-sacrifice
Will you try to do good?
Or will you follow those who will suffer bitterness, when a star called, Wormwood,
Falls?
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Most often we misthought,
yet understood
The bitter truth
that nothing here is good
Our earthly life,
of reason is unbrewed
That hides the pain
and hurt which we allude
This root of gall
becomes my daily food
And eat the fruit
that turns my bowels crude
My tongue was fooled
by that which could not soothe
For I did swallow
more than I had chewed
For this I stumbled
and became most rude
I was offended
like the multitude
And though my mind
is calloused, I construed
His chastening rod
is made of tender wood
And ceases not until
it breaks for good
A wormwood changed
my bitter attitude
Wormwood and gall
Whatever the ‘H’ it means
~ makes me sick in the spleen
I came back weary from the distant road,
Yet I returned singing, calling it "homeland."
Golden plains, stretching into the blue sky,
I longed for the scent of your wormwood.
Soft, dusty earth, swirling in golden clouds,
From this dust, your child weaves verse aloud.
To my eyes, it’s dearer than fire itself,
The remains of earth huts, the village I’ve felt.
The hearth stamped flat, the yard a perfect round,
To me, this expanse is sacred ground.
The embers where my mother brewed tea,
Held me pondering the glow of eternity.
The wind stirs crimson coals into a gleam,
On the coals, a white kettle softly steams.
In the earth hut, the wormwood's scent is strong,
Outside, the sheep chew cud, humming a song.
The scorching heat slowly fades away,
Stars crowd the black sky in their array.
My parents sip their tea with delight,
Holding sugar cubes, soaked just right.
Time flew by, laughing, as if in jest,
Leaving embers of hope from the hearth at rest.
Though my parents are gone to eternity,
The scent of wormwood lives forever in me.
When the whip of the wind strikes the earth’s flank,
Dark clouds rush forward, dragging low and dank.
Like a female camel moaning for her calf,
The heavy clouds, their big nipple isn't half.
The autumn sky weeps, then suddenly smiles,
The dark clouds drip in a rhythmic style.
Washing the dust from the steppe’s face,
Shaking the heads of wormwood in its embrace.
The poor wormwood stood there, unable to sway,
Shoulders heavy with dust, locked in dismay.
When the cool breeze brushed its face in delight,
Its fragrance burst forth, wild and bright.
Oh, how marvelous, this land so beloved,
Its cherished scent holds all life discovered.
If not for wormwood, so enduring and true,
Every other plant would have burned through.
Wormwoods
Sometimes I have a
large number of
pinkie nail-sized wormwood nodding off in
my arms. I don’t mind. They sometimes rid the
condensation in
my warm bedroom.
(A lone voice whispers)
As individuals, we don't sometimes realise the scope of utter hopelessness, until we unknowingly endure it
Or witness it
But within all that emotional spiritual warfare
A glorious Demarcation Zone always exists
Between
Pain and Salvation
Just awaiting courageous souls to cross it
To reach a new emotional nation
To find a new paradigm of looking at something filled with hope
To cope
A whisper of something glorious
Something to soothe the courageous
So when Hopelessness strikes
Look deep inside and hear that inner voice whisper
Hold strong
Try to stay the course
Cling on to your strength
Let's cross over
The Demarcation Zone
So when darkness looms
When all things seem despondent and desperate
Like Wormwood Star
The Dark Comet
Always remember
Your part in The Great Game
Is not over yet
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
A demarcation zone is a boundary or limit that separates two areas.
In this case, Hopelessness and Hope.
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