Poems by Christopher Di-Filippo

Art Offers Tomorrow

Art is on my fingertips –
smearing, for the search of a need;
a truth, that marks the years,
a lie etched into my fingerprints.
Accomplishment forgives the
struggle; a sustenance of
obsession, redeeming creativity
with the offer of a promise. A feeling
that concedes separation,
and awakens each new piece
with a greater distant to self.
Art is the misstep into appetite,
a fortune that impedes
upon solitude,
crafting potential in slow
beats of uncertainty;
unjustly offering a moment
in the distance, until
purpose becomes your
centre of attention.
Like citrus in the eye of a
dream, it pierces creativity
with definition;
making freedom an act
of agony, until life is
sacrificed on a promise –
‘Tomorrow greatness is born’.
Simplifying the words to a
eulogy of inner piece,
art barters the soul
in payment for inspiration;
until the final tally,
reveals the bounty of achievement,
an ocean that surrounds
the choice of each new day.
There is no apology, no sentiment,
just a name remembered;
a work that hangs in inspiration,
for the few passing eyes
that meet its purpose; justifying
the hours that were burnt
out in brilliance.
As the ashes of experience
sit in wake of a life
that could have been lived;
it all disappears with the
next idea, the next temptation
to create; holding all the possible
threads of a dream together,
until the next work of art is born.

By Christopher Collingwood ©

The Drive

The Drive is my vice –
an asphalt solitude,
promising distraction in the
highway of change. The space
moves around me, taking thoughts
that linger; the white lines,
guide into an endless nowhere;
allowing me to follow, if I chose,
on forever and forever.
It is a calm like no other –
a manmade reclusive; separating
all things by distance, until I can’t
help but seek its offering;
a silence tempting,
without the need of radio, or talk
of relevance; the drive gives
me motion, and a life without
the need for something else.
I steady myself – barely
aware of the wheel, I glide
upon the asphalt, compromising
logic for the will to fly, remembering a
rhythm, a feeling, that was there
once, but slowly lost to routine;
which is where I find my end,
at a purpose; I retreat from the
asphalt river, and surrender to the
thoughts that leave me parked,
waiting in a time, and a place;
where life starts, and stops and changes,
and that’s all that I remember.

By Christopher Collingwood

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