Red Sulfur

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty" Psalms 91:1

In a world of fantasy, two men in hooded black-leather cloaks entered a cave.

I

A magician and his apprentice entered a dark barren cave;

Moving like shadows, it`s black depths they would brave.

The magician was a man who was intelligent and proud,

With a brazen confidence, he spoke fearlessly and loud.

“Lucid, my lad, there is no cause for ignorant fear

To the center of the cavern, we are drawing ever near

Forward now, without any hesitation – we must continue to steer”!

Lucid, the apprentice, may have appeared (to some) as weak;

But of his many strengths, his greatest was that he was meek.

“Sir Aphotic, you mistake my cautiousness for cowardice;

And with you my master, by my side, I feel far from powerless”.

“No better apprentice, my boy, anywhere to be found”,

Aphotic responded, with his usual air of sounding profound;

And, the two descended further and deeper underground.

A wisp summoned between them, provided their eyes with light;

Aphotic walked along the Left, while Lucid favored the Right.

Aphotic carried a whimsical staff, and Lucid a sword and supply pack

They were delving further away, from the worn and beaten track.

Lucid, was once an alchemist, but now, had begun to learn magic.

Alchemic recipes, calcinations, and tinctures; seemed to restrict

His potential. The man`s unquenchable curiosity was intrinsic.

Not daft, in his craft, he had travelled from Mercury to Saturn;

Then on to Jupiter and Venus, learning every various pattern.

Before long he unlocked and comprehended, the secrets of the Moon;

While stuck inside his laboratory, in desolate loneliness and empty gloom.

With great effort he eventually found his way to Mars,

But before the Sun, he grew tired of ingredients in jars;

And sought an art to take him beyond the universe and stars.

It was at this point, Lucid became an apprentice to Aphotic.

Aphotic was a conjurer, quite conversant in all forms of magic.

His ultimate goal was to master the elements of creation;

He pursued this dream with tireless, sometimes rash, dedication.

Aphotic sought steadily, without the slightest sign of relent,

To become the commander and controller of every element;

And to achieve this fancy all his energy, was endlessly, spent.

The two entered the cave, to attempt to open an unseen door;

Which lead to a realm, most of their kind had never tread in before.

Aphotic had recently acquired an ancient grimoire, stained with blood;

And in the previous days, he poured over the book`s pages like a flood.

Now, the arrogant magician, had come to firmly trust and believe:

(That the text`s inscriptions and runes did not lie or deceive)

Should he chant the spell within, then creation`s power he`d receive.

After a descending amount of time had eventually passed,

The magician and his student, had reached the center at last.

Lucid reached into his pack, and pulled out some candlesticks;

And Aphotic dismissed the wisp, as Lucid lit the waxy wicks.

Lucid listened to Aphotic`s every detailed instruction,

First clearing the site, of even any minor obstruction;

Then going to work on the ritual`s, vital, altar construction.

II

Lucid finished his work after about an hour,

And the altar now stood, pulsating with power.

Aphotic stood up, abandoning his staff,

And took a swig of some wine held in a carafe.

“Lucid let us make one final check,

To ensure this area, we did correctly bedeck”.

“Your wand, a cup, a pentacle, my sword,

And encircling the floor – the name of a Lord”.

Lucid stepped back. Aphotic smiled, for his apprentice had done well;

And reading from the unknown grimoire, he began chanting the spell…

“Se Sahasrara –

    Se Ajna –

        Boro Na Anazitisoun –

              Vishuddhi…”

III

With the incantation, which was spoken,

The two magicians received their first token.

The candles flames had softly fluttered,

With every syllable which was muttered.

Aphotic smiled wider and paused for a brief moment -

Then continued with his repetitions, insistently persistent…

“Dous Mou Anahata”

Wind had begun to steadily rise,

In every word the man spoke.

Now, the very power of the skies,

Did Aphotic steadily invoke.

He continued the mystic, ancient chant;

Sounding much like a madman, on a rant.

The harsh winds blowing, tore at Lucid`s robes,

And still faster and stronger – the air arose.

More violently and viciously the wind blew,

Like an incoming tornado, the torrent grew.

Lucid looked on helplessly, powerless, and unable to defend;

Against the developing sphere, swirling around his good friend.

Around the magician and the altar, the air seemed to somehow bend;

Despite it all Aphotic`s chant did not end (nor his high hopes to transcend).

Aphotic had no other perception,

Except his desire for sovereignty…

“Dous Mou Manipura”

Fire came forth from the cavern floor,

In a large spire of burning hot blaze.

Rolling, twirling, swirling and more;

Ever higher and grander, it did raise.

The magician`s brow had grown damp, very wet;

The occult incantation had caused him to sweat.

The flames which gestated from the ground,

Seared Lucid`s skin, as they swam around.

Fire charred his clothing beyond all repair,

As it now joined in dancing, among the air.

Lucid struggled, to watch the tempest of furious fire.

He knew this summoning was his leaders’ hearts-desire;

Still, he feared, for the situation looked somewhat dire.

He felt the quest could cause Aphotic to, somehow, expire.

Aphotic had no other perception,

Except his desire for sovereignty.

Spurred onward by his temptation,

In frivolity, without any modesty…

“Dous Mou Svadhisthana…”

And so, water from the ceiling entered the fray

(Quelling the quite tremendous heat)

Undulating in every direction, it would spray;

And yet, the wind and inferno did not retreat.

The magician felt not even a hint of fear;

Still, speaking the recitation perfectly clear.

The liquid raining down from the stone ceiling

Forced Lucid to the ground, and left him reeling.

Splashes repeatedly blasted Lucid in the face,

Drowning and smothering his cries for grace.

Lucid`s mind was spinning, as a vase of a potter,

Under the pressure of the onslaught of water.

He felt his life drain, and mortality beginning to totter;

Feeling much like: a spotter at a loved one`s slaughter.

Aphotic had no other perception,

Except his desire for sovereignty.

Spurred onward by his temptation,

In frivolity, without any modesty.

Never assuming any miscalculation,

Ignoring the ferocity of the cacophony…

“Dous Mou Muldhara…”

Declaring, earth now be generated –

Instantly the cavern began to shake.

Rumbling which could not be abated,

The source of it, was the earthquake.

Earth and stone, smashed Lucid`s body and head;

His skin was ruptured, and from every incision he bled.

Welts and bruises, embraced and defaced his flesh;

As soil joined the sphere and together did they mesh.

Every sense of potentially hopeful mirth;

No longer held, for Lucid, even the slightest worth.

All positivity was crushed under the immense girth;

By the assault, the myriad, the sheer power of earth.

Aphotic had no other perception,

Except his desire for sovereignty.

Spurred onward by his temptation,

In frivolity, without any modesty.

Never assuming any miscalculation,

Ignoring the ferocity of the cacophony;

Yet, his confidence veiled the ultimate deception.

“Latechoun Mou Me To Thanato”

And with those words, Aphotic did shout -

Following immediately, Lucid passed out…

IV

Lucid awoke, after some time, from his present concussion.

His head was pounding, like an instrument of percussion.

The cave was completely leveled,

Strange accoutrements disheveled.

Lucid noticed the strange space was still dark, but also barely lit;

Lucid felt the environment was simultaneously cold, hot, dry and wet.

Painfully, rising to his feet, Lucid noticed there was a strange red glow

Emanating (and the source of light) among the turmoil`s eerie laconism.

The soft light, was indeed ominous, and amplifying the cavern`s woe;

It was reflecting and deflecting, on every crevice and every schism.

Lucid saw a man, wreathed in a magical red hue, on the caves ebony base;

He thought “Where am I, and who is this stranger lying upon his face”?

The man`s lifeless body seemed unharmed, but was smoldering;

Lucid felt a familiarity, like the two were reunited kin, or something…

When suddenly, memory brought to Lucid a great sense of grief;

Not physical pain, but one to which there is no alleviating relief.

All the events mentally, would repeated replay;

On the cave`s cold floor, his loving felled Father lay.

As, Lucid stepped forward to check on his biological master

The old magus, Aphotic, sprang to life; upright like a pilaster.

Lucid jumped back in both joy and shock,

Upon seeing his kin rise from the bedrock.

“Master, I cannot fathom how you are alive

The possibility of this – I could not contrive”!

“Alive and well, my concerned apprentice -

This power I feel is quite momentous”!

“After seeing your body`s fog and radiance scarlet

In your stillness I fancied you became a human garnet”.

“Young son, I do assure you, I am no ore;

Still, your concern and imagination I do adore.

This vermillion bloom, I`d ask you please ignore.

This is the effects of my new power – nothing more”.

“I thank the God Virtu for you security,

And for saving your body from any impurity”.

“No need to pay dues, to your fragile God;

For with my new power, I`ll prove Him a fraud”

Just then, Aphotic coughed up sanguine fluid.

“Master! What is wrong!” exclaimed Lucid.

But, before Aphotic could render any sort of answer;

He began convulsing, like a stoke-suffering dancer.

V

Lucid limped towards Aphotic, to check on his spasm;

But, his movement was obviated, by a growing chasm.

The terrain shook violently, as it was being torn sharply in half;

Even in the tremor, Lucid was confounded, as Aphotic began to laugh.

This reaction was followed, by a shriek and a painful wail;

Even in the dim light, Lucid saw Aphotic growing pale.

Aphotic`s glow disappeared, with one final agonizing scream;

The cavern became onyx, like the precursor of a dream.

There nestled deep, in the stone and earth haven;

All Lucid could perceive, was a silent lull and raven.

Soon after, two blood-red eyes appeared, glowing within the jet;

Upon Lucid a vile and shrill voice, would now apprehend and beset.

“To this realm I shall bring annihilation!

You Magi shall be delivered to eradication”.

Lucid was filled with unease, and felt much trembling terror;

But his loyalty Aphotic, caused him to address this ill bearer.

“No such fate will occur while I still breathe;

Now return my master, or your heart I will sheathe”.

At Lucid`s rebuttal, the eyes now thinned and cackled.

“You are ignorant to the terror you`ve just unshackled”.

The glowing amber eyes, unto Lucid, were drawing nigh;

And as the moved closer, they sent him another evil reply.

“You are facing the immortal Aziblis, you foolish anemic humanoid;

Now, please enjoy the pleasure of being the first one destroyed”

The two smiling eyes slowly closed, joining in with the fade;

Lucid heard footsteps closing in, as he reached for his blade.

Though Lucid`s spirit was emboldened; in his current physical condition,

His attempts to fight back would be: pure folly and utter fruition.

When Aziblis re-opened his eyes, they were in front of Lucid`s face.

Fearfully Lucid struggled, while upon his throat, two hands did encase

Lucid was broken and weak, fighting back with punches in vain;

And one hand was still reaching for his sword, with great strain.

Then his memory, again, brought gloom; which enveloped his brain.

With only an empty sheathe, his death he could not deny;

With the little he had left, in his shrinking air supply

He let out a loud cry, presuming he was about to die.

“Please save me Virtu”!

VI

Lucid opened his eyes and was staring into a strange alabaster slumber.

His pain and death, he felt moments ago, seemed to no longer encumber.

As his vision grew clear, it seemed he was frozen in time, in the now candlelit cave;

Standing outside of his flesh, watching his master about to send him to his grave.

As he curiously examined the scene, a voice quite calming whispered in his head;

She sounded powerful and gentle, and to Lucid, this is what she lovingly said:

“Lucid, my love, your life I can now still deliver;

For above all the things I AM, I AM a giver.

Unfortunately, Aphotic will have to perish;

For this I am sorry, for I know him you do cherish.

If life is your wish, swear fealty to me on a knee;

A servant at my command you`ll be, do you agree”?

Lucid asked, “Who are you?” with astounding awe and great trepidation.

“Are you so dense, my love, you cannot make the simplest correlation”?

With the oblivious, obvious, overlooked revelation;

Lucid swore on his knee, with no further hesitation.

The voice spoke once more, “Your faith and trust shall not go to waste;

For even as we now speak, my servant draws near, with divine haste”.

Then, Lucid was transported back to his body;

After the peaceful experience, his flesh felt shoddy.

VII

Before Lucid felt any of the once chocking pain;

A blast from the ceiling, blew the two men apart.

With the opening, the room was flooded with light arcane;

And every inch of darkness within it, was caused to depart.

Lucid`s normal vision, in time, had slowly returned;

Though, his eyes still felt as if they were burned.

Looking into the center of the illumination,

Lucid saw what looked like a man`s manifestation.

With cloud-like ivory smoke and a silvery flash,

A hooded angelic figure appeared, amidst crash.

The winged creature was dressed in ornate shining armor, and plate.

The part of his visible face, was filled with purpose and devoid of hate.

The man stared in the direction of Aphotic, with his blank look;

And when he spoke, the cavern gently (once again) shook.

“Aziblis you are commanded by Virtu to release the magician

Or be dispatched from existence, in a bloody tradition”.

“Metathronos, you frail and utterly powerless knave

I`ll crucify you too, you unintelligent, feeble-minded slave”.

Then, the possessed magus ran to attack the seraph;

With the intention of collecting a deadly, fatal tariff.

As Aphotic charged in a wild yell, Metathronos held out his veiled hand;

And instantaneously, there appeared a gilded sword, without any verbal command.

With another flash, Aphotic’s flesh was allocated into two;

And Lucid cried, wishing he could have only said “Adieu”.

As Lucid, over his fallen father and friend, cried;

From the body`s gory mass, new wonderment, Lucid espied.

Among the fresh maroon liqud, there was something seeping;

From the deceased, sloe mist and vapor, was now creeping.

The wealth of smoke, without any form;

In skyward motions, began to swarm.

With collected red lightening in a contained violent storm,

A corrupted mirror image of the angel, would conform.

A black hooded creature, with tattered attire, finally appeared;

After the, encompassed cyclonic, tempest was finally sheared.

In the incubus`s hand there was a nightmarish scythe,

And Aziblis spoke, both lethargic and with blithe.

“Meta! Face to face. It has been an aeon since we last spoke!

How`s Virtu – that twit, that whore, that coccygodynia and joke?

This event is larger than us two, what these Magi have invoked

The wheel is in motion, and what`s written cannot be revoked”.

“Aziblis you are an ignoramus, a cretin, a puppet, a tool;

You are no more than an attendant to Phosphor, you fool.

All you forsaken have betrayed the all-powerful legitimate and It`s rule

For what? Phosphor`s prophecy! I pity you, now let`s finish this duel”!

Lucid listened to the exchange, and watched the fight that began,

This contest consumed every morsel of his attention span.

Metathronos and Aziblis raised their respective arms,

And said incomprehensible words and strange charms.

A loud crash rang out with each strike,

Lucid watched the savagery slowly spike.

Sparks flew in starbursts, and twangs rang in the cavern atmosphere.

The caliber of each grunting combatant was in the same stratosphere.

In one particular blow, Aziblis swung his sickle, and with a sharp metallic clatter;

Planted the point of it in Metathronos`s chest, releasing divine inorganic matter.

Lucid gasped, Metathronos`s shriek was painful;

And Aziblis`s grin looked, even more so, baneful.

Before Lucid`s mind could process and assess the situation;

The two rapidly resumed fighting, with a moment`s cessation.

Lucid thought, the bout was growing more pernicious;

As the jostles, gleams, and rings became more vicious.

Lucid was concerned the angel, being wounded, would fail;

But in that same moment of doubt, Metathronos would prevail.

He dodged a slash, and impaled his sword into the demon`s head;

As all fear fled from Lucid, as he was sure the beast was now dead.

To Lucid`s bewilderment the shade somehow survived

(As if some sort of necromancy, had kept the body alive)!

Aziblis fell to his knees, completely dilapidated,

And spoke to Lucid of ideas (seemingly antiquated).

“Lucid, someday my comrades will bring your spirit along -

For you know as well as I, it is with Phosphor you truly belong.

An officer with significant rank among the ten-thousand strong;

Though I may die, the prophecy has never been proven wrong.

Well Meta, as they say, this battle has been won;

But, you know as well as I, the war has just begun”.

The angel said “Goodbye once old friend.

It`s not for us to decide, when it is the end”.

The angel moved into position, and prepared to drop the sharp edge;

Metathronos beheaded the demon, as a gardener trimming a hedge.

Black liquid spilled out like acid, out onto limestone;

With crimson flashes in it, like a strange brunet rhinestone.

Metathronos stood over the fallen, with sadness and majesty;

Then turned to the beaten, former practitioner of alchemy.

“Lucid, hold fast, to all your mortal sanity -

For we must depart from this realm quite rapidly.

Through time and space, far beyond the galaxy

Into a place of deadly delirium and fantastic fantasy

 Prepare to journey, into the Realm of Apathy”!

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Poetic Ambrosia

Once again Apollo descends

To the poets, his mortal friends.

Modern bards enact his ends,

With their plastic and metal pens.

Visions seen in creative dreams,

Give inspiration and the means

To construct verses in streams;

Pouring out lines, in endless reams.

The skies candle shines, and glares;

Every golden ray captivates, and ensnares.

The broken hearts, it`s illumination repairs.

Just one gift, from Pheobus`s many divine wares.

Poetic ambrosia, to steadily uplift -

This is Shootafar`s most valued gift,

To poets lost deep within Nyx`s rift.

With it, like cherubim, they may drift

High above the terrestrial stratosphere;

Where the atmosphere is supremely clear -

And to his face, they may draw near,

Without even an ounce of falling fear.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Gaia Is The Playwright

A singularly gorgeous golden ray,

Breakthroughs into a vast array;

Shattering the lime green canopy.

Ebony ink flows upon an ivory page,

Where two eyes now set their gaze.

This processed fallen tree, is the stage.

Words and ideas, roots that grow,

Deep into the grand bronze earth;

To a creative wood, they gave birth.

The setting, is this newly revealed forest

Nature provides the players for the show;

Reciting their lines, much like a chorus.

The wind roars, cymbals clash,

Nature’s percussion and brass;

Beating against the sapphire grass.

The evening curtain is now slowly rising.

The audience paid, their time is cash;

Moonlight, the spotlight is now shining.

The play is currently underway,

The lines, the actors recite perfectly.

On this new, still, and peaceful night;

There is awe, created by the playwright.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Brooklyn Bagel

I approach the fueling station,

The fumes of toasted gas

Fills my nose. A petrol infestation

Is lingering en-masse.

The consumers wait in a compact long line.

Each one wants to travel fairly far,

They drive up to the pump in their car.

So many choices swim in their vision

Each wonders, which fuel is the best decision;

The correct choice, so their engine runs fine.

The station attendants are attentive,

Servicing every possible auto need.

Filling the customer`s hungry greed,

They understand the various desires

As some pump, others prepare tires;

Customer satisfaction is their incentive.

I wait eagerly as the line dwindles down;

Watching my blinking fuel gauge,

Draining with a grumbling sound.

This emptiness, I will assuage.

Finally, it is now my turn -

With a coffee and bagel in my hands,

I`m ready to meet today`s demands;

These tires are ready to burn.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Foreman

The ink makes everything in reality,

Conjoin with realm of imaginary.

Using only these letters and simple vocabulary;

To create new structures, inlayed with complexity.

Each stanza the constructing poem will inject

Is made, verbally, of

Steel beams; which the thoughts connect,

That are placed with love.

The structural inclination,

Of poetic delineation,

Appears to be didactic;

But this is just a trick!

The true nature of this humble poetry,

And of the construction workers dedication

(The job description of this verbal vocation)

Is: to use English symbols in the creation

Of rhythmic, descriptive high rises;

Built into endless creative skies.

A sight for all the reader’s eyes,

Of simple – partially - metered beauty.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Constantly Chasing

There is one purpose that incessantly remains;

One goal unachieved, coursing through the veins.

The combat has been mental and physical,

An unrelenting fight – that never ceases to thrill.

Time proceeds along, unhindered, without pause-

Chasing the deep-seeded desire,

Without requirement of a monetary cause.

This aspiration will not expire.

There is an accomplishment

These words have yet to achieve.

A pain, these verses have yet to relieve,

Which leaves the heart despondent.

This unaccomplished vision, which remains unseen;

…Apart from the sights, within a recurring dream;

The apparition occurring during sleep, silent and serene.

There the eyes beheld the image`s shimmering glean.

…Without cease the wish manifests,

Without rest the passion infests,

The driving force behind each composition,

The only reason to continue inscriptions,

The only alleviating, unpossessed prescription,

An energy that surrounds my heart

Is:

The pursuit of perfection in my art.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Unresolved

Within this once empty space

Is where my soul, I place

This paper is my once smiling face

Fading daily, till gone from all grace

The only pristine paradise

I seek in the afterlife

Is eternity in a poetic device

So ink and blood I splice

The heart is also combined

And connected to a rhyme

The vocabulary along the spine

Is my essence visibly defined

Yet, even after every inch that has been revealed

There still remain more concepts concealed

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Inscribing

The lonely silence fills the room

Happiness is found in one place

Where solitude, can never replace

A smile can rapidly

Turn into a frown

Just as quickly

Up can become down

Still here, joy is in full bloom

The solitude of being unknown

Is the loneliness`s favorite zone -

Yet, there is no need to mope

There is a friend who`ll give you hope

Asking for no recompense

Providing you with it`s comfort

Soaking you in it – till dense

Always there with support

Providing you with the power

In the most desperate hour

This friend that`s always inviting

Is found IN, a little friendly writing

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Alone In The Night

All alone for another night

Seems a good time to write

When friendship is out of sight

A pen and page offer a friendly light

When no one is happily calling

And the spirits are slowly falling

And the emptiness is sprawling

And the hope is rapidly dwindling

Poetry will never-ever abandon

Prose remains silently understanding

Journals and notebooks are not demanding

Letters and phrases remain, by your side, standing

No matter the night of the week

If ever the heart is feeling weak

Then begin a quest, and work to seek

The verbal apex and rhythmic peak

Whatever may be your personal need

It lies within this words, ready for you to weave.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Tower, Weathering the Storm

Sitting on the side of a concrete river,

Searching for even a slim sliver -

The tiniest ray, of any kind of hope;

To help my mind, attempt to cope.

The glare of the tall street lights,

Don`t help to ease this dark plight.

Trying to somehow detect,

The purpose of the stanzas I erect…

Other people passing with their friends

And in my solace, I prefer to pretend;

That, I too, was one of them;

As if, I was one of the newest trends.

Yet, I am lost in my own distant zone.

The emptiness has already grown;

It spreads like a cancer inside -

Slowly, painfully - eating me alive.

Still – nothing can possibly overpower

The fortitude in this fleshy tower.

The various exterior elements are insignificant;

Though their assaults, may cause an occasional dent.

Still - the tower stands, never spent;

Decaying daily, but yet to be rent.

Those howling winds, that hate, attempts to deploy;

The malicious energies, that are employed, seek to destroy.

Laughing at each new attempted volley;

Which strikes the tower, with utter folly.

All the prolonged, vast, empty blows;

Leaving damage that only superficially shows.

Failed attempt, after pointless try;

Lacking any strength and true creativity -

No more than just a vivid dream to me.

I`ll bring down the very sky:

To show them compositions, composed of cloud;

Lyrics to envelop, circumscribe and humble the proud,

With verbose flashes of vehement lightening -

Forever this tower, will ever remain fighting.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

It`s hard to smile back huh?

Tonight I figured let me try something different. I am about 7 beers in, and feeling pretty bold. At 8:00 I decided to head downstairs, to conduct a test. The results of the test are as I expected, though most New Yorkers would probably deny the truth.

I sat on 25^th and 8^th, while sitting there I wore the biggest grin possible. The first thing that is clear is I have nothing better to do with my time. The second thing that became clear is people are very guarded in this city.

I sat on the metal fence for an hour, and literally smiled at everyone who passed. In that hour a total of 241 people passed by me. I did my best to reveal the happiest, most delightful grin, that I could. I created two columns: people who made eye contact, vs people who made no eye contact at all. Then I broke down people who made eye contact into three categories: Smiled back, Ignored completely, and Got Angry. The results of the response to my smile are as follows:

Out of 241 people,

43 made no eye contact at all

7 got mad that I was smiling (ie: called me a fago**/ cursed at me)

39 returned my smile with a smile of their own

And

152 made eye contact, but acted as though I don`t exist/ ignored me

Well there you have it! Who knows what this means, and who really cares. I for one think the entire test was quite fun, and don`t care that others find it hard to just smile back. Keep smiling New York

Silhouettes

Watching the shadows pass

Upon the drab concrete;

Silhouettes in mirror`s glass,

Each shades movement is fleet.

The images move in silence.

Object are bending

The light, defiance;

Twilight, they`re rending.

Reflections made in the night;

Exposed by black ink,

Upon a page of white,

They slither and slink.

And though the shadows move - so discrete,

As they journey through the dim lit street;

Their casters bring sounds of pure elation,

As they leave the stations of their vocation.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Debate

Two poets were having a debate-

The first poet, told the second poet:

“To abandon the construction of rhyme

Is the same as poetic treason.

A destruction, the most profane crime;

I really see no reason.

The abstract allusions,

And hidden connotation;

Are annoying illusions,

Revealing only frustration.

“I am the enigma

Born in a bloody brook

My birth was a stigma

From the waters took

A swan becoming a duck…”

What the Fuck?

Look, metaphor is fine by me;

But without rhyme I`m not happy.

Metaphors are eclipses

If used just right

Add in an ellipsis

And turn out the light…”

The second poet responded, to the first poet:

“So you think that the abstract

Holds nothing of value?

Then your hands have never seen dawn

The light shimmering on a white sea

Never drifted on a motionless mirror

The ship creating ripples in it`s wake

Your mind has never tread across

A field, in the first winter snow

Leaving it`s imprints for eternity

Your heart is not a spaceship

Traversing zero gravity and

Surging through black matter

To find another universe and reveal

To the world, the evidence of it

Your eyes are blind to the invisible

Your ears are deaf to the silence

Your mouth is mute when you speak

Your nose can`t smell the scentless

Your feet are adorned with concrete

This ocean of poetry is vast

So I`ll just laugh as you fail

In attempts to replicate the messiah.”

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

To the Poets

Perhaps, it is all just perception;

This life we live, within

The confines of the mind’s deception.

The possibilities swirl in every direction;

They whirl and twirl,

To avoid any logical mental detection.

Still, poets impart written projections -

Through which their dreams, now begin;

To see pigmented, inky, visual conceptions.

Pulled from a distant, unseen direction;

Drawn in, they unfurl,

Without any verbalized inflection.

To create a cutting poetic edge,

The life is sharpened upon a ledge;

Till there are new heightened senses,

And there are no more dull pretenses.

Reality is composed of tiny molecules.

Poets looking at life under a microscope,

They will expose many hidden rules.

Starting out, in the dark, they grope.

So like a person with a looking glass:

The obvious, near, and clear

A poet looks past; till discernable, is passed

And with excitement and fear

The obscure becomes plain, at last.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Eat Me

Every verse that`s constructed is so hot

That even after being removed four hours later

From an ice cold and frozen, refrigerator

They`ll still burn your eyes on the spot

Each line, into your mind, will sear

A poetic cook, a verbal version of Bobby Flay

Each stanza, grill marks on your brain inlay

Leaving their evidence quite clear

An adept in enclosing every rhyme

Each noun is a kernel of brown rice

Not bland, BAM, Emeril adding spice

Verbs, and modifiers are the thyme

With diligence, constructions sauté

Each dish these letters fashion

Is marinated purest passion

Ready to eat, without any delay

Prepared for each and every taste

Produced without erroneous haste

So not a single word goes to waste.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Frivolous Supplications

Often distracted by the lack of friends;

From being unemployed, and having no ends.

The afternoon is the current setting

For some momentary, present forgetting.

A distraction from this enslaving reality,

Attention is now shifted to triviality.

Looking at the timeless, strong trees;

Swaying with ease in the gentle breeze:

Their trunks are almost perfectly still;

Yet, they are growing each instant still.

Their branches reach further into the sky,

Hands outstretched to the heavens high.

With written supplications doing the same,

Then, working each idea seen, into this frame.

Distilling these conceptions further, and ever more;

To create compositions unadulterated and pure.

Drifting further into each observation,

Proceeding forward with little procrastination.

The clouds above drift along, high above, without a care;

In the daily daydreams, the essence is also up there.

Three sparrows hop along the ground,

Even the cloud dwellers must come down;

Still they chirp out such a joyful sound.

Smiling no matter the despair.

Grin becoming a pair of wings,

To fly with them through the cool air;

Amazed by what joy the flight brings!

Finding a source of great wealth:

In happiness and daily health.

Rich in written rhythmic composition,

And in lines of metered precision.

So in the afternoon, when lonely and alone,

To friendship in nature the heart has flown.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Expression Per Se

The words materialize on the page

By focus of dedicated will.

With hints of calm and also rage

These fearless verses spill.

Into the paper he pours his soul

Outlined in black ink, it sinks.

The pigments pursue his mind`s only goal:

Defining what he thinks;

About this life, through lines of his poetry.

He continues to compose

Structured rhyme, but also verses freely.

The words are not quite prose;

The structures are mixed, in-between.

Like each conscious sleepy moment,

And the alert realities of dream;

They pour out endlessly, without relent.

Expression for expressions sake,

Was the primary objective

Of all the he stanzas he`d make;  

Just ideas from his perspective.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Sweating Bullets

The poet started out that night with a few simple bars;

Outside his window, the only sound was passing cars.

“Soon they will arrive to torment -

The unseen voices, echoing without relent.

Insults falling in a steady torrent,

Ridicule calling leaving me spent.

To the paper I`ll run and hide,

In it`s leaves I`ll safely abide;

Till the verbal attacks eventually subside,

Within these verses, I must now reside.”

His life and soul, he would gladly return;

If only in doing so, he wouldn`t have to burn.

He tried to smile, all the time, throughout it all;

But the harder he tried, the harder he`d fall.

Keeping the feelings inside each sunlit day;

There they would reside; hidden away.

Each night, voices incessantly insulted him, groups of friends;

Their distant ridicule, which anointed him, knew no ends.  

With only his book to keep him company;

In his solace, he felt, already in purgatory.

He never felt an emptiness, which was so filling.

Slowly, his life`s dullness was becoming thrilling.

A tempest of torment and emotions filled his hollowed mind;

But, an onset of anguish, was the only feeling he could find.

The silence of the night, he had grown to fear;

For in the darkness, the voices became clear.

On this particular evening, after the darkness had set;

Silence was broken, with suicide`s calling, his hearing had met.

Whispering taunts in his sunken ears,

“Do it, you pussy” is all he hears.

Yet, his heart failed to complete the deed;

So, chants continued from the demonic breed.

“You fucking bitch” they, now, repeatedly did yell;

These relentless, restless nights, were his living hell.

 Closing his lids, still hearing their reprise;

And then came the flashes of hate filled eyes.

He stared at them, eyes shut, with a will of steel;

The fear of death, and of violence, he did not feel.

He lay steady and at the ready, to attempt to defeat;

Any demonic or human foe, which he might meet.

With all his might, he attempted to do what is right;

But with violent temptation, he fought a losing fight.

He was tired of being called a fearful coward;

His inert raging energy, had now been powered.

Up from his bed, his body was furiously sprung;

Like a bullet from a recently shot, smoking gun.

His hand grabbed the closest makeshift weapon.

From that night`s battle, he would not run.

A knife and a bat, infuriation - tremors in his hand

To their death, he would send the incessant band.

It was 3:30 am, and he was on the concrete;

No intention, or ideas, of peaceful retreat.

He saw not a shadow of a person in sight,

Met only with the sounds of the dead of night.

So his eyes filled with a flood of tears,

Experiencing - the worst of all his fears.

For all the visions and words the voices said;

Were only the ruminations, and creations in his head.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

In the Sky at Night

That night, her face was initially hidden among

The thick grey crowds.

I caught a glimpse of her exquisite white face;

And my eyes began searching, giving chase.

When suddenly I saw her smile sprung,

From the mist which shrouds;

She was there looking at me,

And for a moment I felt free.

Her body was full of allure; an infectious beauty, without a cure.

Every feature of hers was transcendent;

The epitome of absolute perfection, there was nothing impure.

Her shining aura was so resplendent,

Her gradual, but obvious movements, revealed she was demure.

She was there looking at me;

And for a moment I felt free.

She saw me looking; and though I was shy, she smiled back boldly.

Her grin made me feel warm, even though the wind blew coldly.

I`d dance with her, all night, in outer space;

If only my body would let me leave this place.

Gravity has anchored my stubborn feet;

So, it seems, that only our eyes will meet.

She was there looking at me;

And for a moment I felt free.

Sending supplications to the universe

Asking it to intervene

Perhaps if I became a well-known star

I wouldn`t have to view her from afar

“Cosmos let this man converse

With the flawless one, Selene.”

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The White Rabbit

On a seemingly mundane September night;

A poet lay in bed, contemplating what to write.

His head was teeming, pondering the various poetic notions;

His subconscious was dreaming of rhymes filled with emotions.

Closing his eyelids, the flesh felt something enchanting;

As if starting afresh, his body began transplanting.

The journey, initially, brought visions of bliss;

Artificially induced aspects, with nothing amiss.

Yet, fear had appeared, as he approached an abyss;

 Drawing near, joy disappeared, encroached by remiss.

Descending, he declined, into the vast unknown chasm;

Contending as he twined, aghast at the unexpected phantasm.

While blind and tumbling through the dark void, he felt like a pioneer;

Stumbling down, courage he employed, though the outcome was unclear.

He landed on the bed of the ravine, to his surprise, so gently.

His perception expanded, and he saw the scene differently.

Upon the surface of the expanse was a myriad of verse;

And lost in a trance, for a period, his mind he would immerse.

He reappeared in reality, to describe the manifestation of this magical place with his pen.

Often, he returned to that locality; to imbibe and embrace imagination, every now and then.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Calling to The Man of Sand

No dreams came when he went to sleep

Only emptiness filled him within -

While his mind drifted into the deep.

The barren black would now begin…

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again -

When he was a young boy

He had dreamt of only joy.

Accomplishing the impossible, like a hero

Summoning forth heat from absolute zero.

Battling dragons and demons to save his queen

And once with her, innocent love, nothing obscene.

Imagination, creation, and total elation;

Encompassed every unconscious sensation.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

From saving the whole world

His dreams began to fade.

The straight becoming curled

His peace began to degrade.

In passing time, he would soon come of age;

The passage of life had made night a painful cage.

All of his happiness was fully sheared;

Nightmares of fear, had soon appeared.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

Dreaming of lovers who had cheated;

Their heartbreaking actions, every eve,

Were constantly and tirelessly repeated.

Making him feel futile and very naïve.

Dreams of unfriendly faces slinging derision;

Of their ridicule, each night he`d envision.

This clamorous sleep, he started to disdain;

For the vociferous rest, had wracked his brain.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

In the present even torment had dissipated.

In sleeping fantasy and midnight thought

His essence had no longer participated;

The gateway to Morpheus was shut taut.

No dreams came when he went to sleep

Only emptiness filled him within -

While his mind drifted into the deep.

The barren black would now begin,

And yet inside he did not weep;

Smiling as he silently fell asleep.

A look of satisfaction rested upon his grin,

For a state of dream, each day he lived in.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Variations

Today is the perfect day

For you to give your heart

To a special kind of art

The simple craft of wordplay

Some like to call it “Poetry”

Others like to say “Prose”

Personally, I do not suppose

That the writing cares either way

Letters are your paint

With a canvas of paper

There you can taper

Expressions without restraint

The pen is a guitar

Each word will denote

A different musical note

You can find in each bar

A slab of rock-hard, white marble

Chipped by consonants and vowels

With no need for squares and trowels

At verbal masonry, others can marvel

Combining the vocabulary with alchemy

To create a proper tincture

And evoke a clear picture

Verbose golden works of chemistry

Your eyes can be a telescope

The words a star formation

With astronomical dedication

You`ll soon improve your trope

Constructions use mathematical precision

Through each addition and subtraction

Multiplying, dividing (and occasional retraction)

You`ll fractionally improve every decision

Such beauty you can easily fashion

Each poem will become your own gleaming ring

When given to others what joy it will bring

Tailoring to your personal passion

The stanzas will allow two minds to dance

With movement and perfect grace

Another’s sadness you might replace

If only, you’re both willing to take the chance

Medicine delivering the perfect cure

An elixir in a written vial

Treating afflicted with your style

You`ll offer when your poetry`s pure

No matter what else, you decide, that you might do

No matter what life might, have put you through

There`s one thing that remains eternally true

Poetry is an art, and friend, which is always waiting for you.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Poet Phoenix

Into the fires racing

Failure he`s now facing

So no looking back

The poet took the dive

Searing is the pain

A reminder he`s alive

No thoughts to retract

Falling like the rain

Once again pursuing the dreams

Anguish envelops the soul

Sleepless nights took their toll

In silence he violently screams

Chanting “Fuck the fear

Let my death draw near”

Releasing all he holds dear

Through the waves of tormenting flame

His body he will readily choose to maim

Tumbling flesh torn against each cliff

Each new wound creating a glyph

Every painful and bloody rune

Is joyfully inscribed and hewn

Exposed bone tempered into steel

In each new jagged collision

His flesh ruptures and starts to peel

Blood runs, blinding vision

Spiraling through the fiery sky

Like a comet he did fly

The angels silently gazed

As he fell through the blaze

The demons wickedly laughed

As he tumbled down the shaft

The poet thought-

If two are against you

Do they remain two?

In that moment he was born anew

And lost to all that he once knew

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Perception and Deception

The sun moves across the sky

Like a pen upon paper

As the day passes slowly by

The ink glimmers caught in each ray

Discerning the night - from the day

The paper is coral and wide

Clouds are horizontal

Along the page, they divide

Within the shining deep, there is more to see

Like the connotation in verses of poetry

The dawn is creation

The dusk the conclusion

The light our illumination

Sun`s movement the illusion

As eyes move when reading words on a page

So Terra is dancing, her pirouettes on a stage

When midnight sets on your dreams

And your`e caught in motionless stagnation

And every attempt you make seems

To conclude in hopelessness and frustration

Do not give in, to the darkness`s deception

Keep moving forward

Until your motion, changes your perception.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Apollo

Whenever the heart sinks down low

It turns to the perfect art of Apollo

The metered guidance it will follow

And it`s vision becomes less narrow

From the sinew to the marrow

Spirits fly, like a small sparrow

His voice, the wind, gives direction

On the search for poetic perfection

Constructing each verbal conception

Built for another`s iris inspection

Each whisper lifts the soul to the sky

Upon the azure the heart will soon fly

The years of tireless, dedicated creation

With all to show for it, only frustration

Leaves the heart all to ready to quit

Yet the will and spirit cannot submit

The mind often stands at upon the brink, the edge

Thinking similar thoughts of a jumper on a high ledge

It`s when the heart is prepared for the fatal fall

It is halted by hearing some form of Apollo`s call

Composed By: Andrew Drucker