Promise of Flight #FindingEmma #EmmaFillipoff #Missingpersons #Canada #Victoria

Promise of Flight

Emma your ghosts are coming around again
Your family in the forms of investigators
Do they not understand where missing souls go?
I lost a brother, he’s not been in touch for 20 years

I will never know the reason why he left
I do not panic, it’s his freedom to
Go and be who he chooses to be
The truth is, there are no missing persons

We are all connected, and share elements
Of the tragedy and heroism of the human story
While we all flee from something
The workaholics are avoiding something

The obsessed mothers may feel guilty
But each human being is their own microcosm
Emma, your ghosts are not truly yours
They are the bridges you burnt

Along the path to nowhere
For we all arrive at the place of who we are inside
In the privacy of our souls, perhaps
Even we do not know the answers

That made us do the things we did
In the quest for independence, salvation
And purity, we fled into a simplicity
Of another way of being, it can be hard
For others to understand.

Posthumous #quotes #artist #art

Posthumous

Everything in our lives is writeable
But did we script in free-will?
Without recognizing consequences
I talk to God but the sky is empty
I followed philosophers who were out-dated

My lovers do not know how to
Protect me, from my worst enemy
Who is the breaking of idealism
The broken wheel of pragmatism
And cynicism of aging in the school

Of real-world hard knocks
Can you understand? That we loved
Our tragedies as poor substitutes to living?
That we needed deeper lows to
Experience and appreciate higher highs

What is an artist, they are who
Most desire the things that will destroy
Them in the end, like a fanaticism to beauty.

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted ##SundayBlogShare #poetry

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted

Someone, somewhere
Can understand me
I’ll never meet them
Not be loved like they could love me

I’ve so much to learn
About finding the right people to love
God, but life is loneliness
Despite all friendships made

Inspite of grinning faces and passing stages
‘Parties’ with no purpose in truth
Loneliness of the soul well
It’s an artistic condition some

ii

Suffer from it more than others
Like allergies, a more unique brain
Someone, somewhere
Has a brain a little more like mine

I’ll never meet them, but sometimes
Knowing that they exist, helps me
Get through the day, writing
Like an unabridged journal from me to you

iii

It’s overpowering and horrible to be self-conscious
Making up narrative and plots, inventing them
All the time, like spirit-chatter
Why so festive, why so gloomy
Because my inner voice is powerful.

Author’s Note:

This is a tribute to all human beings who suffer from the condition known as “poet’s brain”, please share it on facebook, twitter and other social media. There is some evidence that writers, artists and especially poets have more challenges regulating their emotions, lifestyle, anxiety and subsequent consequences of struggles with mental illness sometimes leading to breakdowns, and even to premature deaths by suicide.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Poets_who_committed_suicide

http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous_poets/suicidal_poets.aspx

Featured Artist:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Esencia-Primavera-527848910

Units of Identity

Units of Identity

Everyone is more or less
A translation of who they used to be
That being said, don’t get so

Settled in your own skin
Better to try new things
Find new people, mingle a little?
Everyone gets simpler as they
Ease into their own skin

It may take a few decades
Uphill and then downhill
So they say, so let go a little

Everyone is more or less
A poor translation of who
They wanted to be and resigned
With serendipity, they find
They can accept more than they once

Might have tolerated, it’s called
Life as a compromise, it’s the
Human journey, so we finally

Learn not to measure, judge, label
Inner peace is more valuable
Than analysis you might say.

Composing Poems

Composing Poems

Now, we take the sun
Into the center of hearts
With bright alien eyes
We are not surprised
Life on Earth prepared us

For all possibilities
We take the moon into
Our amygdala of imaginary
Anxiety, and we let go
With the seasons of the cycles

We were given in freedom
However a conditioned brain
Might find freedom in
Urban slavery, in service to
A corporate elite, we had

Plenty of luck for love and leaves
Leaves that drank red in Autumn
And had green buds in Spring
We cannot be too careful
At the risk of not living

We cannot grasp infinity
Least of all with mere words
Having dreamt of living would we
Ever dare to truly live, it’s
Slippery to live a life less messy

Sometimes all we may expect
Is to learn how to trespass into
More simplicity, more coaxing calm.

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

Angel.
Dissolve my tears
My drama is too personal
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me
The torment is without
Fruit, or just reward
Winter is the night copied
When all the stars are blind
God.
Leave some birds
The seeds that were dreams
Have been wasted
Youth.
Let go of me now
I am no longer a virgin
Or opportunistic or idealistic
Time.
Needle in the water
Of my health
Do not think we do not see you?
Melting the sun like a great center
A snake of flesh
The wood-cutter does not know
When, my heart grew pale
With stress, or
How the silence became moist and wise
Beneath the burden
Of the escaping years
Angel, woodcutter, God, youth, dreams, time
Do not imagine just because
I am now old, that I know
What experience is
Perhaps, perhaps I was hiding all along
From living.

Dead Poets’ Legacy

I’ve been stalked by God and Suns
Haunted by wild furies and ghosts
Loved by nature’s shyest beasts
Adored by words slick in subjectivity

I’ve drunk the magic of life
In all her deep-velvet verities
And the fabulous beauty of even
Despair, and the psychic knot of tragedy

I’ve been visited by calamity
Survived through bankrupt bed-ridden
Poverty, seen the ceremony of
Heart-break unfold in slow scrutiny

I’ve loved those conversations
Among the ruins, as if that was also
Part of my destiny, but as a Buddhist
I’ve taken it all in stride, and in a whirlwind

Of havoc and the empathy that comes
After significant suffering, I can only say
I carry with me the legacy of poets
I’ve read carefully those who committed suicide

I’ve felt their prominent warped humanity
And learned from their last grip on romance
I’ve been stalked by Metaphysics and Death
A tentative existentialism sweet as

Writing poems on napkins, when nothing else
Is available, I gave heavenward and married
Art it seemed, when all friends and lovers left me
Poetry is what I fed upon, to survive

How shall I tell you the story then?
Of how my retrograde stars nudged me?
Or how the mild light enfolds as I stooped
A lonely guest in this anonymous world?

We Should Die Except for Death

there is a solitude beneath
street lamps and through
novembers that are anonymous
as abandonment whose elements

are through many places
once cherished, and many faces
once beloved, though
there is a time for loneliness

in the human life cycle
a time to get stronger when alone
just to know that there are no
permanent realization, even love

can be taken away at any moment
we ask for what means most
and have it taken away
I wanted the river to go on

flowing the same way, and somewhere
in wanting to possess
I lost the thing I most valued
among many other stories

in the city, death cries slowly
in the long years that drag
in our prodigal decline we
might summarize all we ever thought

in a flash of voices, in a
gesture that meant everything
and nothing, that everything
was symbolic, even the perennial

lessons in experience, mere afterthoughts
like the snow that softens moments
after it hits the pavement
the pavement that belongs to nobody
that snow that belongs to all.

Spectrum Disorder

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.
~ John Cage

In the penthouse of cool August
the trees have begun to whisper Autumn
the fragrance of anniversaries

an instinct to catapult meaning
into some creative form, some relationship
where the banter of everyday
might be fulfilled in a forfeit of identity

no matter how long the hiatus
these street lamps remember me
but the people I knew are gone

we’ve gone our separate ways
you used to laugh at my love of writing
but I still sweat at the writing desk, love
these clarinet-oxytocin dreams

where I learn to be merciful with myself
my precious psyche deserved better
my rhetoric of sweet-salts left

the flower of my being coming into view
an orchid of failed seductions
a white rose of broken-hearted
love that no longer requires human love

summer was meant for vengeance
and humanity was made for loss
but my timidity is satisfied by
a more divine neurochemical
than sappy serotonin or dull dopamine.

Photography courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-471797211

INGREDIENTS FOR CHANGING MEMORY

I am not sad anymore; I am the saddest happy person
I am the rooftop of my cheer leading squad
The bread and butter of poetry
With friends coming & going
I can’t keep track of my traditions
That are dying, my shells of laughter
The forms that gave me pleasure
I am not sad anymore; only despairing
Of the same things that no longer
Make me happy, I am a soul excited in time
Not for longing or possession
But for the exceptions and synastries
That keep me alive, young, in joy
The hallways always open for me
Dynasties of love getting me there.

Ode to Percy Shelley

Lucid are the wild silver keys
Past the fountain of tears of youth
Where the spirit drinks

Ecstasy, till the brain is wide-away
To put to sleep a thousand fears
That once tormented us hourly

O’ like a drowsy child is now
Laid to rest in flowers of sunshine
Thou who were the ‘food of Love’

Talk to me sweetly of the stars again –
That I grew in thee with Music murmuring
Till the sweet self measures divinity

Every word a fragment from the golden shelf
Where the world’s great age begins anew
In each young person’s dissolving dream of soul.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/stare-400830786

I Walk a Secret Way

I lived my days apart
And I cared for those that lived apart
For I knew the dreaming of solitude
The songs of God, which quickly

Were delivered by laughing angels
I knew how delusions could crowd
the glory of the heart
We all needed friends

To keep us whole, grounded, unified
Covered with the tyranny of strife
We met those days, with
Illness flashing in our brain

Neurotransmitters outnumbered hours
I lived my days apart
A mystic soldier of my private art
I knew the fury that smites the air

Of music that runs igniting clay
Neuron to spirit, grief in my brain
I wanted to hold the world in my arms.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/The-power-of-imagination-376439633