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. 

The Generation of a Columbidae Migration

This verse begins, and is written precise;

This vocabulary (used) is terse and concise.

The words – (which paste, sticking, as they fall onto this page) –

Are birds flying, with haste, since set free from their mental cage.

These wild fowl are drifting, though the papery air, into the empty spaces;

La colombe are floating, with a focused stare. They travel further south

Silently – moving without articulated sounds – or some squawking mouth.

The congregating flock compounds, an audience from many different places.

The (current) atmosphere in the stratosphere is (in winter): hazy, cloudy, and chilled,

But the (concurrent) skies and direction remain clear, so doves course ahead –

Guided onward by an empirical imagination – their experienced wings are lead.

Left in the herds wake is a creation – their detached feathers, downward are spilled.

There are many pinion leaves, (which in the winter season) fall, in the frigid vapor;

When one plume, mentally conceives and, decides: it will break free and softly land…

…Next to some already scribbled lines (which now lie latent, upon this cold paper).

Then, the sky-sent image sets down and combines, with the thoughts the moving hand.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

Monsoon Of Gloom

The winds around the tiny ship were growing.

The captain stood at the helm all alone,

As Poseidon`s breath was violently blowing.

The coward crew had abandoned ship

In a frivolous attempt to swim home.

Precipitation, from the clouds, began to slip.

The true fury of the tempest had, only begun to show.

From aft to forecastle, the vessel was tossed;

As the savage waters, cast the steel hull to and fro.

The captain, as a first mate, survived A Shipwreck before

(The experience, on his soul, was eternally embossed),

So he held his course; although he was still unsure…

… Of what the payment for this journey might be.

He looked up at the sky, and was filled with uncertainty;

As thunder from the black, flashed above the sea.

The captains` disposition was dedicated and humble,

In his heart he fought any sort of self-sustaining vanity;

So his commitment to his mission did not stumble.

The fact, that his own life (to him) was of little value or meaning;

Caused him to steer the ship further forward –

Deeper into the adverse waves, rumbling thunder, rain streaming.

Some might say he was suicidal, and others that he was bold,

But as the craft, into the squall, moved toward –

In his heart the captain felt (of his life) totally indifferent and cold.

The deluge pouring from the clouds was now increasing,

And the raging typhoon had grown – more vicious;

Still, the captains` progress was not close to ceasing.

The wash, now consuming the deck, continued to swell;

And the voyage began to appear - more pernicious –

Yet, the commander feared neither death nor hell.

Doubts of survival began multiplying, rising in the interior;

He felt an intense fear of the craft becoming overtaken,

As Zeus and Poseidon wrought calamity on the exterior.

The pilot knew others were depending on the cargo

(And their reliant trust, could not afford to be forsaken),

Which resided in the holds down inside and below.

The worn vessel was no longer under the skippers’ control –

But, some strange spirit kept the boat afloat and advancing;

Pressing through the behemoth blasts, and each riptide roll.

Suddenly, the man saw ahead, a developing tremendous tidal wave.

He knew that: he and the ship, with destruction were dancing;

And that this last step, enveloping, would drag them to the grave.

In a series of flashing moments (which felt like an hour) –

With the moan of aqua and steel; the ship was submerged in the brine,

By the flood of pressure, from Poseidon` pure power.

Held within the savage drink, there was no air generated;

Sounds and sights were distorted and deafened. After some odd time

Had passed, with the captain in this condition, he suffocated.

The captain felt the life leaving his body, and felt a new fear.

The fear was not due to his current form, now passing;

It`s source at first, like his vision, was occult – and unclear.

Soon however, the reason became evident in his dying mind –

He thought about the souls, with their agony surpassing;

He felt terrible, a new source of hope, they`d have to find.

His sight, in death, grew dark as night, then was bright white.

He was lost in utter stillness – an emptiness beyond the storms` violence.

The place reminded his spirit of staring directly into sunlight.

Formless, he drifted, not feeling a thing – beyond absolutely numb

He attempted to discern a direction, in this realm of light and silence;

And soon felt as if he was falling asleep, to this feeling he`d succumb.

In a moment his vision rejoined the obsidian, and flesh he was feeling.

Opening his eyes, he saw the celestial sphere – the terrestrial ceiling.

He felt the sunshine, and heard the cry of a gull, as he awoke from the lull.

The five senses (at first dull), were detected by the receptors in his skull.

Slowly standing, erect on the deck, he looked ahead and saw port and land;

How he and the battered ship pushed past the tempest, he couldn`t understand.

The only thing which the commander knew, in his heart – through and through;

Was he hoped that the vigorously contested cargo brought joy – to at least a few.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Umbra Duplicates

These visions were organized by creative provisions,

Though the mind is in turmoil. All these artistic seeds

Have been planted in fertile soil. Imagination needs

Experience to develop; if the expressions are to envelop,

And captivate the well-adjusted person`s perception -

To activate their node for aesthetic reception.

Through personal pains, pleasure is what now - frames…

Once upon a New York street, along a pathway of concrete;

There was a manly boy, whose heart was filled,

With only joy (from within this emotion spilled).

His care: to find a woman, with whom he could share

His elation. He searched for her everywhere,

But only met frustration, for she wasn`t there.

In time, he felt incomplete; as daily, he`d meet defeat.

There was a woman of cheer, who lived without any fear

Of potential heartbreak (though she was hurt before).

In every step she`d take, she hoped for love that’s pure;

Wishing on the stars in the sky, that she`d meet her perfect guy.

Time steadily flew, and as she looked around;

She began feeling blue, since this wish wasn`t found.

These attempts had left, her cheerful heart - feeling bereft.

This night, under the silver moon, magic would occur soon…

The man carelessly strolled the moonlit gravel, with no course.

His stomach rolled with excitement, due to a yet unseen source.

…Two pairs of eyes would soon greet, upon this New York City street…

The woman aimlessly drifted, along the rough grey stone;

She was now feeling so uplifted, for reasons still unknown.

… It must have been fate – as the man and woman met in the hour – late…

Soon, after this the two began to date.

From the first encounter and forward,

Perfect love, they both moved toward.

Two souls had found each other`s mate.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Ant and The Tree

The overhead is filled with grey-white fog.

In a bog, the direction, tosses in the head;

When through the clouds, sunlight breaks.

“Courage, to say what`s right, is what it takes…”

The way to coalesce the classes,

The truth which combines the masses,

The life – no longer discriminated with strife.

The poet studies, the trinity`s word

To gain, the gift of wisdom

To attain, the right of freedom

Within every noun and verb

Accepting his personal imperfection

Adapting and refining his direction

Gratefully, accepting all correction

The light, is purified within the blackened heart

Till luminosity, is generated in all the rhythmic art

Within the sheer dark, it`s gaining more luster

To receive this spark, all bravery he must muster.

Knowing what every hateful critic will say

Bringing up the past, and the yesterday;

Still, from this purpose he refuses to stray,

And along this path he will remain and stay.

Behind the veil he, once, would hide;

Unable to ever allow his mind to take flight

The never-ending sorrow became his plight

Over taken by fear – which was grasping tight…

Until, the Son`s love came down, washing over his skin;

And awoke forgotten emotions lying dormant within.

Repeating couplets, triplets, and quatrains –

Enduring the dry heat, and cold rains;

All physical elements, and psychological pains.

The old was shed, and born again – anew;

By blood, he bled, and tears that flew.

Old anger – red, hurt – depressive blue.

He saw this ever-forgiving affection;

Was now ever-giving, a positive reflection.

This love imparted without any discrimination

Was the cipher, the last and final key –

It led to perfection for all humanity –

And the ability to render beauty, among every nation.

If none see any race, or inclination in sexuality;

Looking beyond sex and every face – and every impurity

To see each other for what we are,

Each one a universe, each one a star.

Within the iris, the gateway to the soul – the essence;

Against such love, there is no possible defense.

Even the small ant, ascends the bark of a massive tree;

To reach the apple and apprehend, full circle, its destiny.

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

"Mon Cheri Ami"

Some days the happiness,

Seems so far from here;

But, it`s always so near,

The source of blissfulness;

Was right inside the mirror.

Past the eyes, the windows;

Past the mind, happy wind blows;

Straight into the heart,

Dwelling place of something dearer,

The birthplace of a magical art:

Love, love, and admiration!

Love, love, what a grand station!

It courses through the veins,

Numbing all pain like novocain

It`s the drug of particular choice;

If only these words had a voice,

They`d shout like fireworks up high!

Thunder of love, sounding in the sky.

Love, love, and admiration!

Love, love, what a grand station!

Love is not an elusive spy,

It moves openly for every eye.

There`s no killing love, it won`t die;

Even though many people often try.

So be grateful for what love gave:

It showed death`s hidden door,

And handed us, the key to the grave.

Gave a gift worth so much more,

Than most foolish ones, ever noticed before:

Love, love, and admiration!

Love, love, what a grand station!

Love lead hearts to creativity;

And there they dwell for eternity,

And there they shall achieve immortality.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Lonely Smiles

A smile is premium gas

The heart, is an empty car

Giving the engine class

Letting the auto, go far.

Hearts can drive for many miles

On just a few hopeful, caring smiles

A glad grin given to a person heartbroken

Can take that heart quite a great distance

Even if the heart doesn't hear things spoken

It will be filled with amazing persistence. 

Composed By: A. D.

Psalm

He sat down to fashion

A new-found expression;

With all his passion,

And no further digression.

The night air was calm,

With little breeze;

Composing a religious psalm,

With relative ease.

Creativity was expelled,

Negativity was repelled,

Bitterness dispelled,

Till the only feeling left;

In his hands so deft,

Was that of comforting peace,

Which each successive line did increase.

No conception could compare,

To the wind in his hair;

Erasing every ounce of despair.

With honest heart he did declare:

“The greatest feeling every expressed

Was the comfort within his chest”. 

Composed By: Andrew Drucker