Montreal, The Ruined City


HMCS Ville de Quebec docks in Old Montreal Port

These cities they smell
Of advertisement, new degrees
Of invasions of privacy
The flashing lights

Do not complete me
The anonymous crowds
Do not seem reasonable
These cities they

Have forgotten how to smile
I am alone in them
While surrounded by
People on their mobile outlets

Each connected to their
Private reality, which is artificial
They click ‘like’ on an
Imaginary event, a poor distraction

For living, and I realize
I am impoverished socially by this
The augmented reality is
Digital, and I could be anywhere

But do I want to be here?
In a culture, that refuses
To speak the common tongue
English, in a city with a poor economy

These cities they seem to be
Getting more impoverished
As the decades celebrate
Cheap technological progress
And the provincial politics
Of the human condition continues.

Like Memories of Seasons


25

I’d kiss the spring
For death’s immorality
Is near as the cherry’s rising

Sun, at the core of hope
I no longer have faith
Nor does grief carry

The flag of my destiny
I’d kiss the sea’s laughter
If I lived near the ocean again

It’s been too long
Since I knew my ancestors
In my own blood

The yellow explosions
Of Autumn, only leave
Joy in the middle of a dazzling

Symmetry of experience
That is gone too soon
With memories suspended like

The collapsed birch branches
Of solemn winter
There will come a time
When all my kisses have expired.

Missing Person #EmmaFillipoff


Emma2

Have you ever been touched by someone who has inexplicably left your life? Do you know someone who went missing? Share your stories here, please retweet and repost this and share this on facebook.

Emma Fillipoff is a case in point. I was so touched by the documentary (Watch it below) and her mother’s dedication (https://www.facebook.com/shelley.fillipoff) to finding her daughter!

 

This poem is dedicated to Emma. Thousands of Canadians and Americans go missing every year. What can we do to help? Spread awareness. What are the signs that a person is vulnerable to running away or feeling isolated-alienated? Recognize these, and reach out. It could save a family, from a daughter running away. It could save a senior citizen, from taking their own life…

Emma Blog

 

Missing Person

You have gone missing and
I miss you, trapped inside
The alienation you must have felt

I keep listening
for news of you dear
Though I know all souls
Are in the end the same energy

You have gone missing and
I miss you, your photographs
Burn in my imagin-admiration
For the woman you became

We are all geniuses inside
But in missing you
It’s becoming more clear
Who you are, who you are to me

I’m tired of theories about
What happened to you
Or the last place you were seen
You have gone missing,
But you live on inside of me.

Emma turns 29, on January 6th.

Emma

Please like the following facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/shelley.fillipoff

The documentary was aired by the 5th Estate:

http://www.cbc.ca/fifth/findingemma

Anonymous


24

Love is not a name
I give away easily
Though I worship the
Days like a fine wine
There is a sacred thing
Born in me a hundred times
That I recognize doesn’t
Come from me at all
Your name is my name
In your name my name
Identity is interchangeable
Empathy is transferable
Love is software
Swift and sweet energy
One day I will download memory
And I will know who you were
At a picnic of your inner beauty
I’ll say the word to you
One in the other Unnamed.

Slogan while drunk


23

Stillness,
At the breath of first morning
White as swans on the river blown
Time adrift among the roses
Europe’s balconies spilled
Over into new moments
The tide of experience
Flooding, flowing, caressing
Consciousness and wiped clean
Stretching out into
The obscene and vague concept
Of tomorrow,
Nothing moves larger than dream
When hours are large and oval
It’s promiscuous to plan too much
And somewhat foolhardy
In the whirlwind of days
Nothing is sure
Not work, love, or existence.

Language of Owls


22

Fair and listening Owl
Against the black sky
How you soar high
How you spy well

What pretty thirst for silence
On what tree of rest
On which horse ranch
Do you like to spy on best?

Far and listening Owl
Who out on a limb
Does watch the moon rise
And claws tight full of wisdom

An old hoot for a nest from the sun
Who can tell what
Hoot is thinking?
An owl named “Who”

Who loudly repeats the woot
Speaking a language of owls
With eyes to mourn and songs
To sing, ringing in the forests

Extinct and noble Owl
In some dry recess now
Of the museum’s memory
In what fantasy books
Did I see an owl-reading?

On the pursuit of Beauty


21

Beauty is not
In what words you use
But in that which you say
Without having to use words
My rhetoric never felt

The true impact of silence
My naked veils never
Completely came undone
So I remained an imitator
An imposter of art

Armed with repetition and homage
But in art, there is non one
Behind and no one ahead
We are alone on our own path
And beauty is neither here or there

That is why we must continue to write
That is why we became writers
Became we felt alone
And in finding our way
We felt the beauty

Of the passing years
In a whole new way….
Beauty is not
In what fine craft you make
But in the effort to love your craft more.

As the Sun Sings along the Navels of Prophets


Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Prophet-26476972

20

But now he sleeps without end
His potential buried forever
Now the moss and the grass
Flowers the dreams of what

His life would have been
Better maybe than some fates
The dew will simply blanket
Darkness, his soul will retreat

Maybe one day to take form again
And he will seek a confident profile
And his goal will bewilder him
And his beautiful body will carry

The tiger-thirst of the multitudes
And he will play his role
Below the stars like an actor
And the horse-clouds will see him

And the groups of silence
In the corners of the Earth
Will whisper of him
Like Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus

Or Kalki whoever, it goes on
A lament for what a man stood for
A symbol for what truths can mean
Across generations; a philosopher,

A poet, a prophet, an innovator
Because, tomorrow’s love does not wait
Evolution does not falter
Her veins of coral are never mute
But flow with the pride of genius itself.

The heart was created to speak, you tell me


19

The heart was created to speak, you tell me

Being close to you is like
A monsoon of words
A translation from Arabic
Into the light of your signature
Meditation, these faded eyes

Know you, recognize
The idealism, of being nine-teen again
You who give blue alms
To the broken horizon in me?
A penny of a star?

A volume for spiritual food?
Being close to you is like
A monsoon of words
Is this twilight constitutional?
That I would wish to hear you

Speak, gentle, softly, as if
I could relish the bird-voice
Of your girlish philosophy
With your breasts to the wind?
With your throat to the cosmos?
Whispering of atoms and immortality?

Inner child metaphor of a tree


18

The trees they rise up
As if up from their own free will
Into the light, wild, happy
Strong, if only I could be that way
But nature did not make me strong
And I was not born free
But chained, enslaved, shy

But what if the dreams
Were grafted to my branches
Like fruit and I could see
The horizon with replanted forests
What if I could breathe clean fresh
Perspectives for breakfast?
Fit with buds for birds to ransack

Or pollen to spread nature
The true nature of our spontaneous
Selves, the inner-child without her mask
The trees they rise up
For too many generations, with
The secret of the ancient taste
From our growth what silver fir

Reveals the truth that was our destiny?
It was not the water, wood, air, light
These were only elements
Of how we found what we were made of
It’s just that way if I am a barren stem
I won’t be blown around as much
Nor catch the eye of creatures

But what could I then become
In an open sunlit field, left as I was…

The ghost writers


17

Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Salzburg-s-unicorn-499959719

But as for me, the smell of books
Is perhaps enough, my bride
The gracious literature

Who does not threaten to leave
Or say I do not make enough gold
The holy emblem of this art

Whose pen is its own reward
A kind of artistic altruism
That plunges itself without restraint

On a canvas, spelling “freedom”
Over and over until
My heart might warm divinity

From the cold world’s touch
But ah, the libraries are lonely places
And the authors must fight

Lofty ghosts, that swim in the brain
For to write is to sacrifice, I know
It well, so find delight, go

In cheaper things, more easy investments
For this is a passion not for the meek
And this is a love that is not
As fickle as the illiterate barbarians out there.

For Michael Brown and Fergusson


16

Beneath a black moon
I bled for the mountainside
And for the homeless
In the city of the valley
Where night spurs

In black flanks
Piercing the stars
With the cold whisper
In my throat, life had been
The scent of a flower on a knife

Survival had not come easy
Far away and alone
The black moon did not know
How to shriek for bonfires
The voice that did not know songs

What do you carry, oh
Black youth, beaten by police?
Mixed with your blood
But the true roots of Africa?
Beneath a black moon

The white man, the young race
Is still privileged, but these
Salt tears are not for them
Not for men in suits
Born of privilege and an easy life

I bled for strangers
Killed in a chase-down
Slaves to poverty and ghettos
Where children carry guns.

Dirty Gold


15

I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent

That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone

Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?

A woman likes security
That’s right…

The End of Family


14

How long do other speak
If we haven’t spoken in a while?
How long do true friends
Remember your character?

What is the name of winter
When loss and gain becomes irrelevant
And abandonment and solitude
Cease to exist for the mortal heart?

In the sum of all yesterdays
What is that feeling abundance
Called tomorrow really?
How long do others love
If anyone has ever loved us?

Where are all those names
That were once so dear and tender?
The faces have come and gone
These substitutes for love
And imitations of family.

Questions in morning


13

Is the rain naked
When she washes the streets?
For spring and flowers
For returns of prosperity

Is the snow cold
To visit the earth?
The wet dark earth
That has nothing to give
But shelter and a place to land?

Is the rose afraid of being seen?
With her lips turned into petals
And the moist dew
Clinging to her wings?

Does the heart regret to love?
That caused a woman so much pain
Is there anything in this world sadder
Than the old man pursued by
Only bees, without belonging?

For the environment


12

At the feet of altars
Beneath old trees
At the foot of where
Rivers join, I feel
The sentence of hard labor
Served in me, the words
From the lips of the great sea

The smell of salt in the water
And the feel of grass
Between my toes
All that I can create
Is nothing compared to the world
The world we used so indiscriminately
While we talk of imaginary profit

We harm the thing we love
By how we live, and that’s
The stupidity of being
An animal that cares for self
For nuclear family above
All else, we have been socialized
To be selfish, to hoard, to exploit

Though in the vivacity of time
I know nature will return
The balance, our debts
Grow like burnt forests
They grow like poisoned oceans
They grow like crowded cities
And I can’t help but wonder

Does the rooftop garden
Know which master it serves?
Do the storms know
They are a weapon of karma
Upon an arrogance of man?

The seeds of poetry


11

The seeds of poetry

I write with the lips
of eternity, the passage
of naked centuries move in me
history’s whole body
expresses itself in my writing
the incandescent center
Of soul in language
Of literature on the brink

Hungering for incarnations
I wait for the arrival of
Transcendence in metaphor
The sublime traction of syntax
Paragraphs heavy as trees
With golden birds, cursive
Mischief, glyphs of mandarin and Korean

The fragile bride of words
Is in my hands, I’m a beggar
Of flowers and pauses
And green humming vitality
In verse, I am the wandering roots
Of linguistic music hoping
For the stars, petrified of the silence

I hold so dear and sacred
In-between poems, the excavated
Galleries of legends and symbols
The myths I live in fill me
But they do not fulfill me
Not like the carbonized drift of
Free-verse, not like the vagabond
Architectures of poem-magic.

Ballad Before the New Year


9
Ballad Before the New Year

The children sing
In the quiet night
Of the Christmas cheer
In the little square
By the fountain lights
“What joy does your divine
Heart celebrate?”

They chant in whispers sweet
For the lost people
And the clear streams
And the families that know
How to give to each other
The winter wonder
Still holds their hands

As we listen to their
Little voices for a while
“Drink the tranquil water
Hear the antique song
Where your soul meets
With the Universe….”

Earth-Love


8
Earth-Love

Oh what an effort it is
To love you like I do!
Or not effort at all
For love of you

Is simple and clean
It is true, this grief as white
This joy as pure
The air is in my heart

My blood is born of sunlight
My handkerchief made of
Ocean, sound reverberating
In my crown chakra

And my cotton pants
A comfort for the dry and green
Days of gratitude and good weather
The Earth, that’s what I love

Her wonderful sustainability
Her waist is slender and her
Seasons are ever young
A tree, a town, a meadow and birds.

The Pleasure Before and After Poems


7

What is poetry?
Poetry is the night-magic
Of prayer, the last resort
After reality has hit

It’s the splash of appreciation
For beauty as the eye of
All tenderness and last lyrics
Poetry is the sound device

Of your heart as it
Smiles in metaphors
And transforms in tone
To the pattern of your genius

There is no good or bad poetry
It just exists, like language or
A calligraphy of sense and style
Mood’s personification in

The haiku of lasting resonance
A punctuation of grace
A syntax of serendipity
What is poetry?

It’s the last smile of movement
In alphabets, in the joy
Of laughter for any age
Poetry is what we feel

Before we say it
It’s uncensored melody
With a human voice
It’s the flower on a page

Of what we love in word-play
It’s the gratitude of being able
To see beauty and cherish the sacred
What is poetry which does
Not save nations or people?

Require a boost


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Thanks

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The Message of Poetry


6

What is poetry?
Poetry is the presentation
Of your inner life
The partners of your
Deepest thoughts, they

Are seen there to celebrate
All that you are
Poetry is freedom in literature
A final frontier of knowing
Yourself, like no other art

All the tribes have written it
All the mystics found themselves
Speaking in it, and countless
Others stumble across it
Like a strange fruit on a

Famished day, it has fed
Travelers, monks, mothers
Don’t waste time with explanations
Simply do what you love
Poetry is that gift

That was given to you
When all other avenues
Were taken away, so what
Will you give to her?
Poetry is a language of the soul

And each poem you write
Is one lifetime
So how will you choose to live
Your inner life, what melody
Will you pronounce

What energy will you align to?
Poetry is born like a trance
Like an unexpected visitor
That surprises us into dancing

Poetry is the love
We always wanted to give
And never had a chance to receive.

Poetry is the First Pleasure


5

What is poetry?
Poetry is a whisper
The quiet voice of dreaming
That can never die

So long as civilization
Makes art, poetry spreads
Poetry is the eyes of things
In the soul of words

She is the ancients
Transcending time itself
Poetry is beauty
Unchanging unlike truth

A rhythm of sentience
On the face of rhyme
She is the admired song
Of the sweetest voice

She is the heaven-rapture
Dancing on the tip of bliss
What is poetry?
Poetry is of the wood

Poetry is the making
Of water and stone
She is the building of
Literacy in a world

Of discrete poems, where
We originate, create, evocatively
The poisis, the first-awakened
A realized feeling expressed

For all our eternities
So imagery, form, rhythm and sound
Might trumpet, flute and come
Alive in the music of our
Deepest lack of inhibitions.

The Pleasure of Poetry II


4

What is poetry?
Poetry is a painting
That requires not logic
Or sequence, it is
A painting heard but not seen

It is the vowels that are
Fully oval, that heave learned
To find inspiration
In tragedy, poetry
Is a reset button in the brain

It is magic and dreaming
Half-awake, in the author’s
Trance, it is the fragrance
Of verse, brightly lit
On a surface of pain

It is the white page
Begging for a lesson from faith
It is not rap, it is not spoken-word
It is not clever lyrics
Poetry is aesthetic, intelligent

Intellectual, asking us to
Redefine who we are
At every breath, it does not
Simply mimic, or repeat
Poetry is that life

That we could not live
That we did not dare to realize
In everyday course of events
Poetry is the mirror
To the inner life, and door

To the very psyche of the author
It does not require audiences
Fans, likes, or even acknowledgement
It’s the journals of the Earth
The earth that is never dead

But will keep writing
As long as the human heart beats.

Pleasure in Poetry I


3

Art by AF-studios (http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-Within-Me-155600530)

What is poetry?
Poetry is the silence
Burning with all-time
History echoing in the

Shadows asking them to dance
Poetry is the first memory
Of language, when women and men
First began to distil symbols

Using words to fill emotions
With light, but we forget about the light
A poem begins as a spark
In the brain, a neurotransmitter

Of homesickness for something divine
For a present with beauty
Poetry is the least imposition
On silence in a world of chatter

Where information is censored
And the truth is not to be found
What is poetry?
It’s that which drives my soul

In a precise thing like mathematics
To reach beyond language for the stars
With audiences that were literate
Asking words to become butterflies

From the usual caterpillars
Anyone could be a poet
Poetry are thoughts that breathe
And burn in our minds until

They hit the page softly
Uniting pleasure with truth.

These Natural acts


2

The sun and its hammer
The light, bathes the Earth
Not unlike, how I enter you

Natural, visiting your gardens
Like an eclipse of our relationship
That is never ending

And will continue in countless
Females and males, two parts to the key
Of creation, vivacity of moments

We enter a drop of water
To form a precious bond
We transform from individuals

To couples, like a point of abandoning
The futility of being alone
This naked embraces celebrates that

The rain and its festivity
The flood, erases the messiness
Not unlike, how our sexual sharing

Eradicates poor romantic memories
Creating another layer
Of love to the feast of life

This spiral of hours leads to this
The world half-opened on the branch
Of spring, the you and me

That is so meaningful in the end
And salient to evolution
A muffled drum of the blood

The gift from our ancestors
We continue their rites like
Kissing or touching

With hardly a thought
We simply follow our nature.

I Seal Your Sex


1

My day exploded in your night
And my letters came to life
In your bed, all the poems
In my heart took shape their
In the undressing of our lives

Silently we approached
The hour of the Goddess
And all my dreams
Of platinum literature
Took root in the tree of your womb

I open the lips of your night
Without speaking, but with
A lifetime of poetry carried
In my soul, like golden grapes
I give to you the shadows of the moon

The whiteness of infinity
Your rose burns through the snow
Your flesh dangerously close
To the dawn, and we repeat
The cycle eternally

Male and female, active and passive
Lovingly with all the sleep
And literature and art in our bones.

Karma Dragons


83

We all invent a face for ourselves
A life to lead, experiences
To intrinsically alter our
Soul’s DNA, our evolutionary quotient

We lived and died
And were reborn as other people
We all required a narrative
To live in order to get

Where we are going
That which is at the heart of learning?
We get wrinkles on our faces
Our wrinkles have no faces

We are a spirit luminous
Trembling in a garden of flesh
How the trees lean together
And whisper in the night

We should know social bonds
Not simple be, a single
Monotonous intensity of identity
But know, what we experience

Others experience, symmetrically
We all invent a life for ourselves
A path to tread, a body of experiences
The calligraphy of the birds

Or the dire poverty of
A marketplace exploited by others
We were animals with
Radiant hands, and still had

A good land for dreaming
And I still begged for moderation and simplicity
To be tied to time with a light thread.

Gold Years


82

Gold Years

No need to take hold
Of the ancient image
We will decline with the day
To enter the turquoise tunnel
Of life’s wisdom and observation

After labour, mating, breeding
We know what comes next
Art, spirituality, high beauty
Animal, mineral, wood
We have reincarnated back

Into stars, and fixtures of light
No need to remember the past
Our purity is in our gratitude
The service we offered to
To the assemblies of singing universes

We were a bit of everything once
We sampled the goods
And came out with
The vague idea of infinity
And recollections of eternity.

Invitation to Experience


81

To posterity I give prosperity
Unread verses, anonymous scripts
Of the law of love encoded
Hardwired and entranced

Who will be born tomorrow?
I would write for them
Tell them of their hearts
And the dancing histories of humanity

Time is long and the worlds are wide
The path of the ancients
Runs in our acts, everyone’s path
Fate is not a solitary act

Beauty is not a generational event
Truth is not owned, liberty is not bought
I have never won, by sword or pen
My freedom, only in the future

Can you be free, not today
I wasted my life in insolent loneliness
Only to discover pure experience
Requires greater risks, greater acts

Of self-determination
Than I was ever capable
Traveler, hurry your steps
Be on your way, for you may

Not have the time later
To do truly what you want
To posterity I give prosperity
Lyrics unchained of two gardens.