Solidarity

Forging forward, the hope is determination;

Will and dedication – hope`s foundation.

Searching endlessly for some inspiring creation,

To give off a spark of art and beautification.

The aspiration, the dreams see and envision

Is: a procession of words which (with precision)

Evoke in another some sense of joyful respite –

A bit of light for another, lost, in the downtrodden night.

Hopes (through revisions, repetition, verse, and rhyme)

To create alluring and musical sights, for the deaf and blind.

Perhaps harmony and artistry, to free another soul in a bind;

Those individuals who also feel compressed by this time…

… This modern age, and city without pity.

The pressure of the negative gravity (everywhere) is weighing

Down on the shoulders (bearing down on the souls) of everyone – all

(And particularly those who do more than just live and conceal;

Those singular spirits who dream, sense, observe, act, and feel)

Numb bystanders (hope and) laugh as the dreamers stumble and fall,

Hateful judgments (and ridicule) their eyes are silently saying.

Our comfort = our love = our art, let our dreams stand forever together;

Artistic penguins, encircled in the breath of any frigid, doubting weather.

Still, pursuing those broken dreams…

Still, on wounded emotions, stitching seams…

Still, growing by any possible means…

It is by our own minds that we are enslaved,

And by the same conscious we are also saved.

Though (sometimes solitary) in the world’s creative captivity,

Together we are all connected and free, in our personal artistry.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

The Unknown

First, he renders supplications to the almighty – the trinity;

He thanks them for blessing his flesh, with the gift of poetry.

He ponders - how many moments to pay respect have been squandered;

While his spirit and flesh, have steadily searched and wantonly wandered.

With that humble homage and those overdue dues paid,

He begins his vocalization – which up till now has been stayed.

Many verses his heart has complied, in the dark of the night -

Yet, how can other`s see beauty, in what he may expose and write;

When all the art is revealed, without the slightest visibility of light.

Anonymity leaves his mind feeling completely compressed;

Obscurity leaves his ability sunken, sullen, and suppressed -

His spirit utterly depressed, and logic totally repressed.

He traveled through New York`s ambiguity and The Wasteland,

Channeling and funneling T.S. Elliot into his moving hand.

He Frost`s all his artistry with layers of interpretation,

Complex in the obvious – senses of signification.

In his dream within in a dream, he could see no foreboding Raven;

Only observing nothingness, only the formless verses - not graven.

The source of his beauty, is not found in his concrete refractions

(Though the course of the rhythm for many, is the initial attraction

The use of internally cast and end-rhyme or repetitive repetition);

But, in the vast variety viewed in his verbal abstractions.

He attained a level of comprehension and an apprehension, though not formally trained;

Despite the lack of collegiate experience, intellectually stimulating movements are framed.

In this state; the adept, astute, artist sat upon his usual stoop -

Infinite possibilities enveloped, and circumscribed his mind in a loop.

“Should the verses contain traces of geometry or astronomy?

Perhaps psychology, philosophy, or theology”?

He settled for a transmutation, a combination – Alchemy.

His hand began to formulate the recipe

(Instructions for his newest generation);

He delineated, under a perfect jet canopy,

The constructions of a metrical creation.

Using his life of silent study, and diligent observation,

As the main ingredient of his versified equation;

He hoped no adolescent adulteration or pointless pollution,

Would be perceived or received in this simple solution.

In his potion, the energy of the terrestrial sphere surges;

There, in his conscious, a celestial burning bush emerges.

Lyrics are Moses, as his thoughts multiply and grow,

There is a silent refrain, saying: “Let my bard`s go”.

The movement of these verses are driven forward without

Any actual life; they are fueled by cold fusion,

The words which a mind disperses - when it`s freezing out

The art of eloquent articulation and diffusion.

The evocative power of all poetic poesy is expansive and empirical,

It`s impossible to measure the provocative potential of the lyrical.

No measure for meter, forget the function of a foot;

These dimensions in our space are now obsolete and kaput.

He re-read between the lines, and looked among the letters;

Wondered if this tincture, would be enough to impress his betters.

He hoped that good taste and tact would be remembered

When this tonic is imbibed, and each flavor dismembered.

Appreciating all beauty which is found, (in non- and) rhythmic sound

Of the other poets who inspire and astound, as their lyrics compound.

The creation of each of his poems, openly conceals his life`s objective;

His purpose in the lines, which are subject to each person’s perspective.  

They say the ends justify the means, all love he must send

To poetry, which is all which gives his life meaning in the end.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Composition Of New York (2013)

This composition is structured using a bards` verbal precision

(While simultaneously subject to both rejection and revision).

The faces pass, as the words artistically pile;

The rhyme is transparent, as glass, so is the style.

The poetry, has been placed into a mental alembic;

Distilling both meter and cadence, until they are rendered perfect.

Each poems` failure or success is never (ever) pyrrhic –

All entries are new opportunities to see what to develop or correct.

Humanity drifts, strolls through this gorgeous modern city;

The metropolis and its allure are not found only in beauty –

This epicenter is precisely like a diamond dug out of earth

(At first glance the element appears covered in soil);

The precious stone has yet to reveal it`s true worth,

Until it is given diligent observation and refining toil…

The eyes must first destroy all the superficial sights

(The concrete buildings, the moving steel, and flashing lights).

The material world, which holds no value, must be shed;

Until the artificial is gone, and only the natural remains.

Then, the true beauty will appear in the eyes (within the head);

The absolute perfections, and gorgeous glimmering stains:

The combination of nationalities, into a new society;

The variation of rationalities, to create one perfect reality.

The growing tress, like the developing people, are different

(Each carrying their own traits and personal characteristic);

And yet, in the physical image (which they will present)

Each reveal their own perfection – pure and intrinsic.

Moving to the face of the sky, which will continuously change

(During its diurnal movements), its clouds and rearrange;

The same way, that at the start of each and every day,

Millions of new appearances (some similar - like the sun) come into view -

Crossing each other’s’ path as each heads their own way,

Creating a blend out of each picturesque, pristine hue:

The shades of dirt, on the face of each buildings` bricks,

The black old bubble gum on the grey concrete – sticks.

Each street lights` tall metallic silver trunk – each column,

The artistic shadows which are cast under the moonlight,

Each dilapidated building (still standing) alone and solemn,

The rays reflected in the mirrored glass (sent by the sunlight),

The loud growling rumble (emanating from a grate) sound,

As commuters are propelled forward – speeding underground,

The scent of different cuisines (which conjoin in the air),

The joy, anger, curiosity, or indifference in a strangers stare,

The destitute vagabond who sulks looking for hope or rest,

The resolute business person giving their profession their best,

Students heading studiously to their different universities,

The ambiance of each street an avenue (and their diversities),

The way each borough represents its own microcosm,

The way each person seems separated by a vast chasm…

(The artist, comparing downtown to an expensive stone

All the visions (on the ground) under Hyperion’s throne)

… And yet, each exists and coexists, in a city which is still in imperfection;

Each object, seeking to detect and erect, their own sense of perfection.

Diamonds hidden among the distractions and muck,

Waiting for someone pluck them (with a little luck).

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Glacial Butt

A cigarette butt is on the concrete – spent;

People step upon the filter, without relent.

The chill of winter is in the October draft,

Howling in the hollow sound reception devices.

Pedestrians are bundled up, against the bitter cold;

Every New Yorker is attempting and fighting, to prevent

Their skin from, becoming akin to the wind – Ariel sent.

The old cigarette is exposed and pregnable -

Like each passing figures`, un-covered, countenance;  

But, despite being trodden, it is stoic in the frigid ambiance.

Two eyes stare at the butt, wonder what is meant

By this vision… Perhaps some abstruse ken is lent?

Observations, into verse, are prepared to graft;

Verbal harmony, which is played, will be inaudible.

Each tercet is slowly drawn together – each splices;

Creating a, rather unexpected, sense of consonance.

In the algid atmosphere – a response, as the poem begins to mold;

The reaction raising, redoubling, the lyrical lines rhythmic resonance.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Under The Weather

In the late morning chill,

The poet surges forward still -

His cold is a test of the will.

Feeling weak, as the body attempts to write;

Forehead is burning and frying the mind,

Insides are turning and tying into a bind,

All while alert and asleep duel each other and fight.

Knowing the creations cannot be allowed to stop,

No matter the state of the mental or physical condition;

He adheres, like a farmer still tending to each crop,

A marriage in sickness and health, traveling toward perdition.

He`s building verses into stanzas – no stopping the developing,

The rhymes in his frozen mind, the rhythm of ice in his veins,

The tundra of dreams (with sleet of imagination) are enveloping;

These actions cannot be confined, to his physical apparatus and brain.

Like a runny faucet - the eyes and nose are dripping;

With each cough, lungs feel as if they`re paper ripping.

Something as simple as end-rhyme becomes a

Rubrics cube - “red/head, blue… what did I say”?

The brain feels totally lost and confused -

The pain is one cost, and it is also fused

With torpor, the total price leaves the flesh abused;

While rest offers a pleasant retreat, there is a problematic confliction -

Which the heart, to the mind, entreats: Isn`t writing asleep a contradiction.

So

He ignores all distractions on this day off;

Including the nose and lungs, which cough.

His flesh is an iron mesh, his bones are tempered steel;

The winds which thresh him, he simply - refuses to feel.

Though the shepherd may have been weakened by a cold;

He still works these words - his flock of sheep

(They represent his verbal herd), and he shall tend to his fold.

His dedication is pouring, waters extremely deep –

Fortitude (to his profession) fill his flesh, his well.

He draws the liquid, from below, bringing it up -

Onto the grassy page it spills, and there it will dwell;

He adamantly refuses not to strengthen and develop.

Remembering a universal truth

Our professional command (rising still – resolute);

Into the heavens (by our will and demand),

Every action must continue to shoot,

And all trials we should weather and withstand.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Growing a Dream

Repeat the action millions of times,

Reproduce and reconstruct many lines;

Until new development, begins to reveal -

Then, without any satisfied relent,

Pursue the dream with even more zeal.

If what is initially generated, isn`t good enough;

Remember the first impression, is usually rough.

With tireless application of diligent revision,

The next attempt might encapsulate your vision.

It`s like a seed, hidden in the earth -

Which has yet to reveal it`s true worth.

Let the others turn their nose up,

While you continuously develop.

As your artistic command grows more grand and deft,

You`ll begin to understand and expose beautiful shoots.

Ground once thought to be bereft, holds your allure`s roots.

Study endlessly – weaving creation with your mental progress,

So you`ll never regress in your chosen art`s generation;

Then, soon you`ll be budding, flooding each piece with prowess.

No matter what happens within your life, every trial every test;

Never give up and always attempt your absolute best.

And remember, even with massive success, the most beauty

Is found in: remaining true to your work and endless humility.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Sailor, Holds Fast

In the people who stroll slowly by

He detects each roll of the eye;

But those he sees (their poorly hidden snickers)

Are the breeze, through a trees leaves

His trunk unmoved still, his verses still spill

The page is hungry, so he doesn`t wait

Leaving the ridicule to the sneering tricksters

Perhaps, it`s that he looks grungy, regardless his mind generates

Well-polished poetry – and these words in patterns, he disperses.

Their mocking – the sea, and he – a boat

Though they are rocking him as they gloat…

His vessel`s not stopping, he`s still afloat

Every attempt to cause him to sink, to push him to the brink

Is: motivation to elevate, what he will think;

Leaving trails of ink, repetitive ripples smoothing each kink.

Every so often his ship is lost in a storm, of hatred and scorn;

Leaving his spirit worn, the mind torn, poetry – forlorn -

Yet, as the tempest is shorn, new momentum is born.

And, once in a while, as the stanzas pile;

All furious animosity and woeful regrets –

He rapidly releases, drops anchor and forgets;

When he is met, with some stranger`s friendly smile.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Tempering Adherence

The smith opens his anvil, his workstation.

Hammer in hand, mentally, attempting all he has planned:

To form another creation, based on observation.

Creative steel – in demand – yields to his every command.

The hard work will undergo many an alteration;

Creative designs, revisions in the mind.

Decisions based on the ornate eloquence,

Thoughts realigned; impurities cause frustration.

Fiery red metallic ink – new sparks will flash,

Under the pressure of each hammer crash.

Pushing mettle to the brink, with line;

The work is slowly forming to his preference.

Forcing past each new mental block,

Racing against mortality`s cooling clock.

Into the raging fire; there focused, his seemingly blank stare -

Which holds purpose beyond compare, fuelled by pure desire.

Knock after knock, the heart keeps pounding;

Shock after shock, the mind keeps rebounding.

A craftsmanship rather rare; for when situation seems dire,

When the face is in the mire, he still sees all things fair.

Crafting, sweating – though others may not understand;

Steadily, readily – forging forward with dedication -

Until, every strand, of what started of barren and bland;

Has become a gilded creation, of his fruitful imagination.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Positive Poet

Feeding off ridicule and all the negativity

The mercury in his verbal transmutation

No more than a tool in crafting positivity

The energy sent to him – ugly

Is re-wired, by poetic desire

To power the circuit of beauty

All the evil, angry, and critically cast looks

By basic division and revision

Become quotients of happiness in his books

Every moment of personal despair and resent

Through simple magic and complex logic

Is turned into joy and motivation, without relent

The projections and vocalizations, every voice that hates

Sound in the ear canal, and somehow channel

Into cheer without drear, in the compositions he creates

Every pointless fear, felt in the sweating cold

Is purified till the tonic is clear, all abuse denied

Then drinking the supplied mixture, he grows bold

Every single feeling of being contrite, felt in emptiness of night

Through line and pen and rhyme, are turned into sunshine.

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

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

Unyielding

Have these words caused harm

To any single one of you

Then I`d first ask forgiveness

For all that I verbally do

It`s hard (I truly know)

To let go of the past

Yet old wounds can heal

Like a bone set in a cast

If I were to reflect

The worst crime I can see

Is I run but never walk

Like water, at least mentally

That is one way I choose to say

My thoughts were often expressed rash

Anger caused within a moment

And into the future I would passionately lash

There was a time when arbor for wrongdoers

Was my most effective fuel

But feeding off pure hatred for enemies

Is the action of an ignorant fool

It was with this idea in mind

That I reset my poetic duty

Searching my heart to only find

Expressions of some verbal beauty

I prayed to God

To grant me the will

I took to the books

To refine my skill

-

Patience was born

-

No feeling forlorn

Now, though it still hurts

When others sneer and laugh

I still wish strangers the best

On their own chosen path

Into the white barren soil

I plant the seeds of my desire

Daily I tend to them and toil

With a will of steel and fire

-

 Never forgetting

-

Within the Leaves of Grass

There was a song of me

And from my mind - so crass

I soon became - so free

To meld into the air

And follow my destiny

Without one fucking care

I create my poetry.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Silver Lighting

In the developing obsidian night

The pale paper provides light

Every single letter laid down

Causes the magnitude to grow

The ivory becomes a silver glow

Enveloping the entire reception

Under each new verse`s inception

This poet`s night light is all-around

Revealing every phrase – profound

The light will always be able to show

Things the dark will never know

The sheet is filling with illumination

A shimmering, sterling infestation

Can you just sense it surround

Admire with astuteness, as it astounds

The way it glistens and flows

All the beauty it can expose

It`s resplendent inspiration

The miraculous manifestation

Can`t you observe it compound

No matter the moments timing

Paper always offers a silver lining

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Shipwreck

The happiness is only found

In the empty, barren sound:

Which envelops all around.

Within this page, soul`s bound.

There is a joy in hopelessness,

A strange and empty bliss.

The ship that sailed this empty sea,

Was found shipwrecked, unexpectedly.

Thunder and lighting, a foreshadow

Of an incoming destructive shadow.

This was followed by an onslaught icy rain,

The chill numbed the surviving man`s brain.

He was headed initially for new land

When the bold captain assumed command.

When storm appeared, the vessel was already lost;

And the sedition and starvation had taken its cost.

Now, the incoming deadly squall;

Ominous, sent by a demonic thrall.

The hull was sturdy, sound,

As the storm began to surround.

The decrepit remaining crew; were salty and true;

And yet, still found to be fearful as the storm grew.

The waves, of deep blue, began to swell,

Within the eye of storm, a glance of hell.

The brazen captain rallied the men, to “hold the line”;

His voice compressed, by taste of the savage brine.

The pressure from each proceeding wave,

One by one, took the crew to their grave.

Black was illuminated completely clear and bright;

By howling, resounding cracks, and flashes of golden light.

Of all on-board that painfully now remained:

Captain and first mate, on wooden the frame.

The once fine, limber, timber;

Creaked as it began to splinter.

Chilling rain coalesced with frozen hail,

While splashing surges rent ship frail.

Broken planks of crafted wood

Abandoned the ship for good.

The plumb set mast

Was horizontally cast.

Poseidon was still deciding

Fate of two still surviving.

Zeus sent a blast of light and thunder,

That wrought the wreck asunder.

To the liquid, the craft began to sink under;

Slowly, to conjoin with the lockers plunder.

Two souls were tossed in the torrent,

Of the abysmal, unrelenting, raging current.

Cerberus was foaming at the mouth.

Waves foaming tossed the men about.

The men held each other’s hand,

Devoid of hope, they`d reach land.

In their demise, they cried and screamed aloud

Calling out to God, tempest-humbled, not proud.

The ocean provided no quarter,

The captains’ breath, it would slaughter.

The solitary first mate was left, as the storm died;

And reaching land, he felt ecstatic to have survived.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker