Hearing Aids

These two headphones,

Are an escape route.

The ears can breakout  

From the streams

Of steady screams;

The incessant shouts,

Endlessly fought bouts,

The attacking tones...

...The delirium inciting disturbances,

Which cause such a perturbation;

Are nullified by the ear buds services,

They offer the psyche salvation.

The

Metrically unregulated

Is

Symmetrically amalgamated.

From every wave…

(The thieving mob

No longer robs

The thoughts train

Noisy raiders

Mind invaders

Driving insane)

…Hearing aids save.

Conceptualizing concentration

Will achieve purification,

Focused aesthetic articulation

Will conceive beautification,

Adverse auditory stimulation

Will receive eradication.

Composed By: A. D.

The Tariff Of Deviating Slugs

 In the eventide air, she walks destitute, filled to capacity with pain and sorrow;

As she passes many people stare, their looks are as cold

As the late night atmosphere. Shuffling along, curious “Will there be a tomorrow”?

The answer remains unclear – all hope has been sold…

…Into a bottle, which she grips tight; it`s her loving baby

Who`ll rock her to sleep tonight. Her stomach is growling aloud,

Roaring to be filled – to be fed. There`s a chance – maybe

As she asks other souls for bread, no longer proud…

…This emotion died long ago, along with the life of her only child.

Previous post-traumatic effects began to show, and then she also lost her mind;

Since then she woefully roamed, appearing more savage and wild.

Her hair is no longer combed, but there is no ferocity in her eyes, any can find.

Only her broken heart – replaying the sounds of paramedics and gunshots,

The ripping of a struggling life torn apart. The doctors would explain

The cause of deaths was due to both: surgical complications and blood clots.

Their last living breath, became the final fatal wound to her brain.

“Get a job” a man scornfully yelled, as she collapsed sullenly on a church stoop;

Her well-worn clothes smelled, as she silently drank.

Utterly ignored except by the man; whose vicious words, were that night’s soup;

In her inebriated pernicious state, her mind went blank.

In her destroyed dreams, she saw her son`s five year old face;

And she felt the impact of his father’s dying yells, in her dreamscape.

She was awoke to sunshine, by an unseen poke;

And she dropped the bottle, which shattered and broke.

Her God`s name, she would thankfully invoke, as her eyes joyfully soaked;

Invisible angels left her large banknote, and covered her in a warm cloak.

Composed By: A. D.

I just wanted to take a quick moment to thank anyone who views the site, and to wish everyone happy holidays. Sorry for the compliant, I just am not doing well; but I am extremely thankful/grateful for those of you who take the time to read the work. I wish you the very best. 

A Token in Honor of Tolkien

“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.” -The One Ring Inscription

Smoking a cigarette, on these New York streets.

Watching the masses pass;

While all the stress is expelled and retreats,

These lyrics slowly amass.

Every time the heart feels defeated,

And all hope has been conceded;

The mind contemplates Frodo and the ring,

Such a small stature and such a tiny thing.

Yet, with the possession of the Golden Ring of Power;

Even the insignificant, threaten the eye in its tower.

Every time the mind focuses and creates a heartfelt rhyme,

The spirit feels as if it escapes the pursuit of the Nine.

Taking the heirloom of the poetic kinsmen, passed down,

The conscious sets out for Mount Doom – there it is bound.

Drifting along, in darkness and silence;

With little signs of bloodshed or violence…

{ { On September 23, 3018, he departed in the dead of night,

Travelling past Tom Bombadil and a barrow wright.

He arrived in the eve, at the village of Bree;

Feeling his spirit, becoming the ring`s devotee.

Resuming his quest, he moved and was pursued non-stop;

Until the night he made camp at a location called Weathertop.

It was there he received a deadly wound,

And felt his life flee as eyes swooned.

The impending death, however, would not prevail –

He was spared, thanks to Elrond of Rivendell;

Through the restorative powers of his spell,

The effects of the Morgul Blade – the elf would curtail.

After the council, he resumed his journey;

Which was a fortitude testing tourney.

In January, he entered the west gate of Moria,

Where the endless darkness consumed all euphoria.

His mystic companion fell, as they fled across the bridge;

He was overcome by sudden solace, his heart was a fridge.

Against the calamity which he was feeling –

Against the painful emotion – his character was steeling.

His company entered Lothlorien, his mind still reeling;

Possession of the trinket, he made attempts at concealing.

Lady Galadriel, however, would not be deceived;

Staring into her mirror, many things he perceived.

Though for his loss, he still grieved;

His pain, her words almost relieved.

Having proceeded, in February, from his company he strayed;

And at Parth Galen, by a friendly-faced foe, he was betrayed.

The fellowship, he felt forced to forsake;

Although in his departure, he felt his heart break –

Only Sam, he could not lose or shake;

Together the course through Emyn Muil they`d take.

In that maze, they met Gollum, and he saw his own visage;

So many similarities, in that distorted, wretched image.

In March, Gollum guided their march across the Dead Marshes;

Frodo`s existence, now, unraveled by the adventure`s harshness.

Broken, but committed, they pushed to Morannon – the impenetrable gate;

And at the vile sight – the entrance to a land without light – hiding, he cursed fate.

With a bit of blessed luck, the crew was brought to the window of the sunset;

Where the hospitable graces of Faramir, would be hard for them to forget.

Then again, he watched the same king he gave him a wound, upon the Morgul Vale;

He grew pale with fear, but from his purpose, his feet would not flee – nor derail.

Further along, in the depths of Shelob`s Lair,

There he understood true solitude and despair.

Still, hope remained – Wise Sam came to the rescue;

With bonds unchained – together they`d see the task through.   

Escaping dark servants and orcs, they arrived at the foot of Mount Doom;

And cast away their gear, while heading towards the sweltering room.

But even in Sammath Naur, in that chamber of fire;

Frodo gave in – to the ring`s spell – power`s lust and desire. } }

… Lady Galadriel`s voice rings in the ear,

The message sent, repeats perfectly clear:

“To bear a ring of power, is to be alone”

So the lips smile, and mouth attempts not to moan.

No matter how many friendly faces surround this mentality,

There always remains a loneliness which none seem to see.

They fail to understand how the heart can remain empty,

When (always) it is consumed by the One Ring of Poetry.

From its clutches, the mind is never free;

It circumscribes the spirit`s entirety – endlessly.

True pain felt when not writing,

No other stimulation is exciting.

The harder, the heart fights to disconnect;

The more life, feels incomplete and incorrect.

Whenever the sadness or depression, threatens to steal the joy like a crook;

The hand places the powerful and precious ring on,

And the body disappears – and the conscious is gone –

Hidden, concealed, undercover, and existing only within the pages of the notebook.

Composed By: A. D.

A Battle In Ephesus on 6/10

Ephesians 6:10 "Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might." -KJV

When the flesh and metabolism grow weak

A new source of energy my spirit will seek

A fountain of everlasting light fills inside

In a mountain of immovable protection do I reside

In a spiritual divide, all dreams I shall confide

Where the energy supplied, will never subside

The enemy has no ability to affect my mind while I am there

This safe haven is impenetrable by black arts and desolation

Providing a protective army, though I`m in terrestrial isolation

Faith in both the celestial Son and Father of all creation

Though this fallible flesh is exposed and stands bare

It`s fully clothed, in the armor of God, which I wear

At times darkness will overcome

With a power which is awesome

But, even when all else is stripped

By unseen foes – my adornment is ripped

Onto one final piece, my beaten hands grasp

The only equipment left in my fallen clasp…

…For every defense, which others have peeled –

I stand-fast – with no more than this faithful shield.

Composed By: A. D.

New York Shores

Curious – will your mind be, these verses Fortunato,

Buried alive behind a wall – waves of vocabulary?

The poems distill and spill an amorous Amontidillo,

And their structure is cleaned – refined with mental Brillo.

The lyrical displays are filled with a meek bravado,

From a mind that spends most of its time – solitary.

There are millions of currents, and waves in these oceans;

Which pass by one observant perception.

Each individual wave shares with others – one connection…

(Though perhaps it chooses the way it will roll)

…Together the water forms, comprises and creates – a whole.

An apparent network of billions of thoughts and personal emotions.

Each wave subtly influencing and affecting (effecting) the next,

Much like the choice and voice of diction within a chosen text.

In each passing instant, some waves crest, while others fall;

Some waves are at their best, while others are losing it all.

Though, the overall course is uncertain (when viewed through a narrow lens);

When the scope is broadened (and the perception takes a step back),

It`s easier to see the curvature: all the various ebbs and the different bends –

The small variations in the flow, and the way which the waves interact.

The singular perception spends each and all of its days, watching the movements in the surf;

In silence, it views and surveys – and to their entertainment – through versification – it is a serf.

Composed By: A. D.

Symphony Number 1 (To Lyra)

The PERCUSSIONS of the discussion now primed,

The STRINGS of statements prepped and well-timed,

The WINDS expelled from the mind are well-rhymed;

The orchestration begins, with all instruments combined.

A joyous melody, exceeds the zenith, of the former plausible ascension.

Explicit tones, precedes the implicit meanings, avoiding initial apprehension;

Until one reads and reviews the notes, with a discerning comprehension.

The prevailing tune leaves minds stuck, in a hypnotic state of suspension;

The rhymes and verses – inky black steeds, galloping to escape retention.

Harmony moving at speeds, which overcome the pace of light;

The metaphysical seeds, now implanted, overrun the mental sight.

The music soulfully pleads (still unsung) for life, strangled in a lyrical fight.

The experience feeds the imagination of one, like winds filled with might;

The air the spirit needs to rise, into the sun, in a versified form of flight.

Once the confusion recedes (Blurs undone) there`ll be no enigmatic plight.

Within the depths of the mind`s dark mire, a spark first is created with ire;

Then like added bark into a fire, it becomes the fuel for the stark burning desire.

Racing against time, to the mark; it grows higher, impelled to the arc, upward in a spire.

Flames in a protective ark, so the bard`s eternal flame expelled (without a lyre) won`t expire.

In the composer`s soul - he, often assumes and, presumes some semblance of control;

But understands the flare (which he cannot see), is like a primitive beast: wild and free.

While this untamed blaze, continues its captivating phase

(Like the sounds on sheet music, which a musician plays

The memory of each past position – a remnant – never stays

While each current moment – the present – always strays

Into another, still) the still continuum continues to amaze.

Each new beautiful step is becoming tantamount

To a steppe, no previous pristine plain can surmount;

Although in the preceding plane, the mind can recount,

And attempt to quantify each memoir’s valued amount.

Regardless, no obsolete scorching innuendo, no chronicled crescendo;

No prior ingenious cento, will ever prove to be a more valuable memento…

…Then the elucidation, the will`s conflagration, the mortal consecration;

Of this instant and the symphonic, melodic, harmonic – perfect observation.

Composed By: A. D.

Love Your Enemies

When they used tell him to “delete himself”, yelling

Other painful terms, outside his place of dwelling;

In a violent rage and fury he would fly;

Like a meteor, cast down from the sky.

It once hurt and damaged him to hear the insults,

(Having already felt quite depressed)

Each affront would accomplish its desired results,

Of causing him to feel more stressed

(Yet, now he feels – mostly blessed).

Although his emptiness, is multiplied by loneliness…

…When he descends to the cold sidewalk,

A joyful smile is across his countenance;

Although he apprehends their vicious talk,

He`s filled with a peaceful confidence.

Grinning not because there is no pain,

Joyful not due to the old salty rain;

But filled with something impossible to contain,

A feeling no hate can ever restrain or constrain.

The slurs of nasty energy,

Are LOVE, after some synergy;

Intentions to cause a loss, responsible for a gain.

If only he could explain, he is “sorry they feel that way”;

Upon arrival, none approach, to hear what he has to say.                         

Composed By: A. D.

Projection

Sitting on a stoop, in the dead of winter;

Another warm state, the heart seeks to enter.

These simply sultry-styled verses, wrap around the poem like a glove;

Conforming, adorning, and fitting – snug.

This amenity accentuated is an addicting drug;

The entirety of the lyrics entity, is the intoxicating, amorous effect of love.

Sent from the sedentary location, upon this concrete seat:

Past the present manifestations of this temporal place,

Bent across the hereditary lines, still yet conceived – incomplete.

To the ensuing, viewing generations – some indistinct face.

To bring you hope, a sense of entertainment and ease

To help your mind thaw and unwind

Should your thoughts bind and if you find

The stress of anxiety is rigid, the environment of society is frigid

As the briskly blowing winter breeze, on nights like these.

Don`t let any other chill, kill the strength of your will;

Remain the illustration of an individual,

Not the representation of their residual.

And all things above, fill your heart with love.

Composed By: A. D.

Satisfied To Be

His remarks of an instant, shifts directions like the breeze;

And in all verbal conversation, he feels unsure and unease.

Two-way tongue wagging, his distracted brain feels forced to weather;

While written conceptions, slip from the frame, like a falling feather.

Even when talking to himself, he feels his expression at stake;

Waiting to be silently writing, when the façade can take a break.

In those moments, he can stop the streams of thought;

And decide if he means what he is about to say.

If it is a statement which, confusion and ignorance wrought;

He can change the idea, and rephrase it another way.

No need to appear cool or tough, no superficial presentation,

All the edgy and the rough, is smoothed through concentration,

No social standards he feels he needs to appease,

No passing audience he imagines he has to please,

No ADD impulses ideas sparking into different directions,

Focusing on his meaning (without distracting interjections).

In those moments, sorrow he can turn into productivity,

And anger can be used positively and constructively.

Where his personality is not determined by, a line verbal attractions;

But consists of the intricate web, of his many loving caring, actions.

Where the stain of each mistake, neither composes nor breaks;

The certainty of who he is, and the mosaic his spirit makes.

Where no matter how much damage he takes, underneath his guard;

He can continue to defy the stakes, improving slowly, by trying hard.

Is it weak, cowardly, or erroneous – to expose emotions many feel

(But deny to reveal to another person’s eye)?

Should he seek to dispose of (and in notions which conceal)

His imperfect truth, in favor of a perfect lie?

How can he contemplate the phrases he is saying,

When (in the moments they are spoken

His concentration is torn and broken)

All thoughts – still focused on his silent word playing?

The words which emanate from his indifferent lips

Are as empty as the barren winter air;

But, in the statements of these loving versified trips,

Are flurries of truth falling everywhere!

Sure, there is some honesty in talk, like an actor playing a role;

But, honestly – it`s mostly devoid chatter – nonsense on a whole.

For in each moment, the conscious is consumed, by a passion – sole;

To represent, when the writing is resumed, the passions of his soul.

Composed By: A. D.

Double Displacement Reaction

The black ink lies – now dried (seems it is asleep on the sheet) –

Like those nightmare tears, those water bound fears;

One soul previously cried, after being shredded and torn by deceit –

Once this initial perspective clears, the movement appears

And the liquid, from the pen – separated, becomes complete.

Each letter is awake and active (though presumed inert);

The writing is highly reactive, once it`s caused to convert.

The first chemical compound (found in the words of the speaker);

Makes no audible sound, as it rests (dormant) in the glass beaker.

Step One:

Start with concepts – a solution of vinegar (distilled with amorous vigor).

Step Two:

Add reading eyes – white, crystalline reagents (our own baking soda;

The catalyst is the print, symphonious – from a mind in mental rigor).

Step Three:

Once both unify, the reaction will be harmonious (proceed to the coda).

In the end the still conversation will react;

Through this mesmerizing melody, and the cadence captivating.

The heart hopes to enact a satisfying impact,

Through aimless rhymes, only created to be artfully stimulating.

Composed By: A. D.        

Begin Your Campaign into the Territory of Artistry

Start by closing your eyes, visualizing your goal, and

Departing on innovative adventure.

The way ahead, black – unknown; the end certain – when you find the emerald lawn.

Golden rays in the heaven, are above this grass; where all your dreams will spawn.

Follow the pathway, venture

Further, take the soul past every turn and bend.

In the meadow are untended, enslaved fantasies; which wait to be set free, from the dirt cage.

These previously, planted imaginations can be unlocked and grown, despite any age.

They lie dormant like the (unseen, underground) seeds of flowers, awaiting rain to give them birth;

And their colorful petals will fill the grassland, through the showers of: your focus, love, care, and mirth.

To arrive at this hidden pasture you must: traverse desolate lands, under storm clouds of doubt;

Tempests which turn around, those with hearts unbidden, and strive to keep the indecisive out -

Or keep tentative travelers lost, in the barren desert of despair, and maze of fear;

Sure souls remember, as it seems more hopeless, the closer they are drawing near…

…To a sunny, imaginary, fertile, creative safe haven;

A field where all the inner ambitions you sow

Will continue, unhindered, to passionately grow

(Even when in reality, your sky is colored raven).

There will be two-faced foes in life, who`ll attempt, to dissuade you from your quest;

With sounds of envious echoes, and bitter contempt – your conviction, they will test.

Your expedition, will take you along many sorrowful miles;

And the adversaries will highlight each time you slip,

The rivals will ridicule and laugh as your eyes drip,

Setting up snares and pitfalls, with many wily guiles.

Even, your own pride (may) cause you to backslide, so the ego – strip;

In your own God confide, and recall the reason for your artistic trip.

You will learn to shed all the socially conformed concerns,

Staying steadfast; as others try to lay waste to your arable, aspirations space

(Endure the heat of the fire, although it sometimes burns).

Through dedication, you will paste an astounded, dumbfounded look on their face;

When they realize with haste, how they helped make cultivable - the land of your place.

When you arrive, simply smile and take pleasure, in your magnificent perception;

As you bring alive, with personal style, every measure of your vibrant conception.

Composed By: A. D.

Righting Write

,Grace your for thanks gave I as

.Right write to how learned I

;Face holy your to glory gave

.Insight with, me filled thanks

!You as much as failure forgive none, for

;Light holy your, compassion limitless your

.True and through, space fallible this, grace

.Right write to how me taught you

,Inscribing pointless the all for, and

;Write to how knew never I

,Backsliding endless the all for – learned

 .Contrite “truly” feel to how

;Due is honor all, Lord dear, you to

,Tonight soul my on will your write

.Knew never I that of path the right

(You teach me still how to write right!)

A. D. :By Composed

Hymn 86

In times of peace, I lived and did thing my own foolish way;

No concern for the commands you made.

Ignoring the black and white, seeing selfish shades of grey;

This is how the game of life was played.

I was unable to shed my sense of pride,

Letting devilish demons reside inside.

ALWAYS in your graces, I didn`t abide;

Of the two masters served, I didn`t decide.

Yet, in times of need I called upon your name;

Expecting you to bring peace, unto this frame.

This weak flesh, the soul`s accouterments plain;

And enemies threatened to drive me insane.

Still, each time I felt halfway into the grave;

Your love and forgiveness continued to save.

I understand the error of my indecisive ways;

Truly, awoken from this confusing mortal daze.

So, of the two masters, I choose the three;

The Father, The Son, The Ghost – The Trinity.

Slowly, steadily, I continue to shed the old existence;

Following your loving ways, with a new persistence.

I only pray for your guidance, teach how to better walk upon the path;

Neither left nor right, straight and narrow, leading away from wrath.

Composed By: A. D.

A Koch Snowflake

-https://www.khanacademy.org/

In the snowy downfall, flakes create a stream of white,

Which washes away all the dark visions of midnight.

The alabaster snow has made its silent descent,

From the vast silver sky, through which it was sent.

The frozen sleet wraps around the ground,

A blanket covers, but no warmth is found.

The atmosphere is amplified, by tones of ivory;

On this newly dawned day, in this modern city.

This environment – a pristine sheet of fresh purity;

Yet, untouched, unblemished, presented perfectly.

The eyes watch the passage of time, and each falling flurry;

The scene transposes before them, in a rapid, flashing hurry.

The dust and gravel falls slowly and softly, in the arid weather;

Magical drifting downward, each speck is a descending feather.

Precipitating particles, stream in motions, like the flow of the Nile;

And float below, to the river bed, where they multiply and pile.

Grains of sand, are creating small dunes, which mostly lie inert;

But sometimes, they dance actively, in the winds of the desert.

All around are infinitesimal powdery pyramids;

Multiple formations, composing veritable myriads.

Conclaves and oases litter the Egyptian landscape,

Providing refuges where one can make an escape.

Like city storefronts, safe heavens from blinding sandstorms;

Frigid, rigid grains which pierce the flesh, like stinging thorns.

Suddenly the environments of two – the divisor, and the dividend;

Form a quotient of one, with no remainder – together they blend.

On the face of New York`s blank slate, in the reticence;

Each passing soul leaves, remnants behind, an artistic imprint.

Each person’s paces lead off into various remote directions;

Creating an intimate web, a variety of distant connections.

To the pale hue, they add their own beautifully colored glint;

Shadowy traces, in debossed spaces – the evidence.

Stranger’s stories which end in unknown destinations;

Inscribed trails, to explore or ignore, on the concrete shore.

Each step relays, to an attentive observation, the moments of embossed tale;

The fables are, composed of figures and symbols, written in a glacial braille.

Décor is galore, adorned along this icy, wasteland’s floor;

Creative impressions remain, on the earthen foundations.

Each residual track is an unintended memento,

Each personal print is a measure, of a pacing tempo.

Revealing the natural artwork of humanity,

On a snowy canvas where all eyes can see.  

Footsteps endure (for a time), left behind like ancient sacred writing;

Deciphering the hieroglyphics, tells of adventures which are exciting.

Composed By: A. D.

Slap-a-Loaf (Pat-a-Cake)

As the full moon was overtaken by the rising sun,

A man`s serious ambition was mistaken for fun.

The baker arrived early to work this morn,

To ensure his products were properly born.

The chilly dawn air was crisp and fresh,

Falling all around like grain within thresh.

The golden rays blared among the bluish haze;

Like a trumpet solo, which a blues player plays.

The baker smiled wide at the beautiful scene,

Everywhere he looked his grin cast a gleam.

He took in this moment, then into the bakery, he quickly set off;

As door hinges yawned, and a floorboard squeaked out a cough.

Once inside, he placed his tired apron around his waist;

And checked all of his friends, with bustling haste.

The ovens were alert, as he pushed their buttons (with power);

The sink and the faucet, first took a refreshing (and quick) shower.

Sheet pans rattled, as they sprung forth from their sleeping racks;

Mixing bowls mumbled, awake - though resting on their round backs.

Rolling pins rumbled, and fumbled, as they rolled out of their rest;

Measuring spoons stopped snuggling together, in their little nest.

Then, of course, there was the Batter of the lazy flour;

Which always Kneaded to be awoken, at this early hour.

Now that all were fully risen, and totally alert -

The group began to prepare, both bread and desert.

The air was filled, with the aromatic sweat of their undertaking;

The luscious fumes released, from their intense, delicious baking.

As the group finished hours later, the first sleepy customers arrived;

But, before the baker opened the shop (to serve products made with pride)

The grinning baker thanked his friends, for the help which they had supplied.

Composed By: A. D.

Aggrieved Each Nightfall Ad Infinitum

With great effort his essence sought to deny each and every pleasure,

The variety of distractions which his body often found in leisure.

The only actual joy, which his heart would still value and treasure:

Subtle improvements of his dreams, by an incremental measure.

His tormented flesh, called for him to cease;

The endless pursuit, of his imagination`s release.

Still, the objective`s capture, he`d continue to increase;

Despite all the temptations, which plagued his peace.

His social existence was in a barren condition;

No time for any, except personal ambition -

And, while he acknowledged this lonely position,

He did not attempt to make any public addition.

Pouring his entire heart, and every ounce of his soul,

Into the attainment of his one (and only) lifelong goal.

Willing to pay and suffer every single solitary toll;

While in silent solitude, his momentum continued to roll.

He was insulted daily for his foolishly followed aspiration,

Ridiculed relentlessly for his hopeful sense of dedication,

Labeled with many brands for his steadfast concentration;

But, against the endless enmity, still chasing artistic generation.

Comforted by the knowledge: if he died before the vision was achieved;

In heaven, hell, or nothingness – his spirit would be content and relieved.

He felt that, though success might be an illusion which lied and deceived;

Throughout all the doubt and slander, he always attempted and believed.

Composed By: A. D.

A Futile Lament for Relief

A man stood on the subway platform, incessantly calling out;

As the trains were steadily passing, and commuter’s amassing.

Destitute, ignored, and socially deplored, he continued to shout.

His eyes were filled with a strange sort of desperation;

From his lips cries spilled, like the liquids of perspiration.

The repetitive echoes, emanated from his continuous calls;

Reverberating like an orchestras performance, on concert halls.

Deep in his Flesh, he knew each of the passerby’s could hear;

And in his Heart – pain, for none would lend a compassionate ear.

Their dismissal pierced, his Skin and Organ, like a fatal spear.

Finally, a young child and her mother, walked past his incessant pleas;

The young girl`s hair, innocently blowing, in the passing cars breeze.

Time would pause for a moment, as the man and child locked eyes;

His were brown as the earth, and hers were azure as the skies.

The virtuous youth, had yet to become a gadget of humanity;

And saw only a desperate soul, where other`s saw insanity.  

She looked at him with curiosity, and her mind grew very puzzled:

Wondering why no other would assist the man who was troubled?

Why they leered, mocked, and neglected; another who struggled?

So, without a moment of further contemplation,

She decided to help him – no indifferent hesitation.

Knowing (without cognition) that a smile, a wave, and a friendly "hi";

Might be the cure, for the stranger, who seemed to internally die.

The youth tenderly prepared to offer, the injured individual, a friendly wave;

But stayed the salutation at the roaring command, which her callous mother gave.

Her eyes filled with tears; as the next train - took the beaten, conceded man to his grave.

Composed By: A. D.

Hardwood Precepts

Sitting outside, and staring at the vast cloudy firmaments;

The heavens are a pristine mirror of the mental universe -

Cultivating another conception from the vision it presents;

Gestating thought as the pen, upon the page, will traverse.

Eyes move now to the once green leaves,

All which remains is the frames of the trees.

Still firm, are the bark`s skeletal branches;

The twigs remind of annual second chances.

Coursing through the grains of entangled bark,

There is an energy, existence’s invisible spark.

Though empty, the large brown husks appear

There is much life, the chill has yet to shear.

Dying above, underground - their activity, concealed roots doesn`t show –

(And like the first stanza`s immeasurable grey skies

Which also lie within each individual`s set of eyes)  

Despite the cold, all things on this earth continue to develop and grow.

Composed By: A. D.

Temporal Undulations

Silence is the momentarily suspended sound, it`s tones set the mood.

The melody lingers in the midnight atmosphere,

The perception of it, is all the ear can audible hear.

This imagination admires each chord, of the hypnotic music playing;

The pitch and timbre of the instruments, and the vocals inlaying.

Silent purpose, not apprehended, yet to be found – still being pursued.

The passage of silence resonates and rebounds endlessly;

Like the unseen emotion, passing within a new parent`s first kiss,

Or parent`s passing, now unseen – the true emotion within “miss”.

All the while, time flows onward drifting like a stream;

In the stillness, time`s movements can almost be seen.

Time briskly bubbling forward, in swift silence eternally…

…Each moving moment, silent ripples are given birth, in time`s invisible wake;

Each passage of the present, new directions, the newborn streams visibly make.

Sitting here upon the embankment; skipping rocks across the water`s face,

Creating little vibrations (rippling tiny dreams), to which the heart gives chase.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Being`s Bloodshed

In the depth of the evening, he continues to duel;

With little communal incentive to use as a fuel.

Consumed by belittlement and helpless gloom;

He remains adherent, fighting forward in his room.

The lieutenant of his armies is, a glorious ironclad volition;

The only hope for victorious dreams, to achieve fruition.

Feeling the faith fading, in the face of impending doom -

Still, he will only stop trying and battling

When the fingers of death, deliver his flesh to his tomb.

The wind blows, the windows are rattling -

The air rakes, it`s cold chill slithers across his spine;

His hand also shakes, his brow is saturated with brine.

His spirit is steady – No, it`s pulsating, aflame with hot blaze.

His heart stands at the ready, thirsty and throbbing to amaze.

His desire marauding, on the page; all enemies it will raze.

He is nodding, applauding the violent rage – as the combatants engage.

His company strikes swiftly, killing in a gory haze and daze.

Blood spills like ink, weapons flourish like pens, each hand motion delivers death -

As the initial prospect shifts, it`s very vicious tide, and switches to it`s inverse side.

Defeated cries flood, as enemies doubt and disdain are slain – taking their final breath.

The individual stands over the cowards and fallen foes;

His troops raise their arms, crimson stains their clothes.

If he cannot defeat himself, then who can oppose?

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Recession of Depression

The poet places all the depression in recession,

And

For a moment – reveals more unseen progression!

So for this silent exaltation

With one last exclamation!

The poet enacts a cancellation

The poet subtracts punctuation

There are times when the obscurity and loneliness

Leave every ounce of the flesh in a state of hopelessness

Yet, each day poetry develops - harmony steadily envelops

In social emptiness the verses find purity and joyfulness

Poetically lighting the (once) impenetrable darkness

With the fire of constantly burning dedication and desire

Every physical aliment is spiritual irrelevant

Every current moment is a destined present

All impurities requiring correction

Are accepted as personal perfection

The many obstacles – which stood in resistance

 Are overcome by the execution of persistence

Logically the poet knows there is no chance that this feeling will last

But if it`s true the past remains the past

And if it`s honest “Alea iacta est”

Then until the next serendipity – may this emotion remain unsurpassed.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker