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. 

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.

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

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

Necromancy

Through the gently blowing air, which lingers like the breath

Felt in those final moments before death,

These words laid their lives bare; and with the same transitory tension,

Magic - they pursue, with hopes of apprehension.

Their ink – their lifeblood is distributed lifelessly along the page,

To be contained for all eternity within this tomb – this papery cage.

The sheet (filled with symbols inactive) appears to be their grave…

… Yet, that image is a reactive illusion (to the immortal path they pave).

The seemingly mundane letters are activated

(Their runic magic is cast and fully generated);

When their encasing is viewed by two - your pair of eyes,

Inertia – proved as lies, as they shed their morbid disguise.

The incantation carries with it, a heavy cost:

As this spell is produced – the poet is reduced,

Until all physical apparitions, are forever - lost.

Until there is no more back, and no more white;

And all poets become, when our days are done –

Is the rhythm of each track, and the message we write.

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

Power Is Out

The light flickered on and off

A man blew out smoke

Followed by a harsh cough

As a woman spoke…

His eyes were fixed upon the light

Transfixed upon the bulb of glass

When brand new, it shone – so bright

But, then, time must always pass

He remembered when it was first installed

The brilliance of it, he reminisced

Recollecting that thought, he also recalled

Her radiance and illumination – he missed

In the somber silence after sunset

The trusting moments of the past

He smoked the cigarette, with regret

Till she spoke, finally – at last

… “I do not love you” and more

“I only cared about you” to finish.

Yet, only the echoes of what came before

Repeated, replayed, and did not diminish

Heartbreak numbed his weary mind

No words, no response, could he find

And without warning, no alert, the end came about

The bulb, the light, the love – were all snuffed out.

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

Each Day Is New

Sometimes people will pass, laugh, and insult;

If you let them affect you, what is the end result?

Some may claim they want to fight, by why even begin to fear;

If they truly wanted to dance, why does only chatter appear?

(I know avoidance seems like cowardice,

There are times when, even I feel like this).

Avoid, (unless they attack you)

Even if it makes you sad and blue;

If you fight and maybe win, you lose

For your hands will still receive a bruise.

Don`t let them get you down, with words;

Leave the squawking, for the arrogant birds.

True strength is not in the hand,

But in the will at your command.

Smile when it`s darkest out;

In the cold, lonely, black night.

For, if you do, when the dawn comes about;

The new day will never be as bright.

Do not fear the end,

For it will have it`s way;

Only try to spend

In good time, your time today.

Above all else -

Be of high hopes and good cheer,

When unhappiness does appear;

Cause when joy you outwardly send,

You`ll find happiness becomes your best friend.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

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

A Blank Page

A land of hopeless despair.

The emptiness was everywhere,

There was no love or care;

For once again, naught was there.

Then what happened, if you believe:

In the land grew, something to perceive;

That, perhaps, would never leave -

Unless the vision does deceive.

Form the white, there came a spring.

An inky flow it did verily bring,

Evident as a bumblebee`s biting sting.

Black water gave life to many a thing.

There was verbosity, and diversity in liquid manifestation;

With intelligent gestation, it enacted dream`s creation.

No cessation to the diurnal divination of imagination;

Without placation, ink pursued poetic procreation.

Slowly seeping into the smallest spaces:

Those once silent, spacious places

Completely consumed, as the current paces -

As the creative flow cultivates and races.

Before most knew, the once empty land, grew.

Once desolate, now flourishing with things new.

Animals crawled and sprawled, birds up high flew;

On a ground glorious and green, and sky bright and blue.

One last thing for the waters to do,

Which is:

To show this land, to all of you!

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Point Of View

Nothing seems real

All is so surreal

No one seems to feel

Compassion made of steel

In the very end

We all depend

On the love others send

The peace we all rend

Each person has to coexist

With others within their mist

A truth some might desire to resist

Still the honest truth will persist

Even if we deny honesty

And refuse blatant destiny

Living in a world of fancy

Reality will just be a fantasy

We all pass subconscious judgments

That make in our outlook subtle dents

The problem comes when these thoughts create

An atmosphere without love, consumed by hate.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Journey

Whispers echo within the sleeping mind

Their voices utter words of inspiration

Steadily the attempt to supply

Readily deciphering trying to apply

Starting to transcribe with all perspiration

The lyrics of sleeping head so sublime

There was a boy who developed tirelessly

Towards a goal proceeding forward endlessly

His labors left him with an empty gestation

That in time would come into full manifestation

He was a maker of rhythmic words

A quilt weaver with threads of nouns and verbs

Each and every day he sought to do more

Then the diurnal rotation of before

With colors that ran the gamut

And hands expressing artistic depth

He`d delve into the deep mental store

He`d look in darkness for the lost Lenore

With no raven in sight, he comingled with the night

No safe haven with warm light, caught in his perilous plight

Still each day inside the subconscious realm

He`d steer his craft, a captain at the helm

Using quatrains as fine dye

Inspecting meter with the eye

To ensure each quilt and product built

Was given every inch of love that he spilt

Many enjoyed the heartfelt works of evocation

Expressed by the fullness of his dedication

Then one day he found, as weary feet traversed the ground

That his mindset was turned around, now a man, without a sound

He was moving in a brand new direction

On a quest for the epitome of perfection

The apex of which was still far away

To the vertex, he`d head without delay

With no less than every drop of imagination

He`d never stop pursuing absolute creation

Searching for daily gifts of motivation

Practicing the craft with no cessation

Even if the world and life passed him by

Like a white cloud in the vast blue sky

Reflecting in a young hopeful child`s eye

So his word could live even if he did die

The man had grown for a youthful stage

Matured into peace, no longer filled with rage

A thought had grown within his chest

Generated from the organ behind the breast

In all his actions and attempts to find

Something he sought and thought was so divine

With all the love into rhyme he had invested

Someone TO love him, had never manifested

Composed By: Andrew Drucker