Another Pawn Promotion

The only point of view an artist has is their own;

Each work delivered, from their perceptible zone.

There are Kings and Queens demanding (or requesting),

That your eyes start serf-ing – a little momentary investing.

When you place two-cents, into their bank;

Then, they smile wide, and politely they thank…

When you tell them something is “not quite right”;

Then, they demand your opinion, leave from their sight…

…However there are a rare, chosen few –

Who only care, about the work they choose to do.

Not nonchalantly building, without punctuation onto the next piece;

But, ensuring the schema is well-thought, and constructed without a crease.

Nor, crafting a metaphysical design, with abstract profundity;

Structuring an enigmatic metaphor, with comparisons spread abundantly.

Their days spent, coloring their developments with whatever little hue

(Which at some point in time), might float in and tint their “TINY” view.

… Guess they need some regal or vain sense of corrective vision,

Much like the "Kings" and "Queens" need some humble revision…

While these pawns, who assemble clarified concepts, might seem narrow;

You can tell with each new step in the display, that: the art is part of their marrow.

Composed By: A. D.

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.

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.

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.        

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

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

An Appetizer of Implication

“Here is some sustenance to sate the appetite

To abate the hunger, while on the next course – you wait.

 The flavor profile has style, it`s crisp and bright;

A sensual aroma rises, detected, perfected on the hot plate”.

The multitude of main dishes are receiving stylistic garnish.

The dishes are decorated with a sort of intellectual flair;

Their silent notes must flawlessly flare, and brilliantly blare.

The dishes resplendence must be lacquered, as in varnish;

To ensure their presentation is revealed without tarnish.

“Can you sense the appetizer`s implication,

The analogy`s comparison and correlation

(Are the metaphors, which were previously wrote,

Too ambiguous, too arcane, - and too remote;

Or are the mental angles, which are supplementary,

Too elementary – the symbolic juxtapositions rudimentary?)”.

“Does the customer prefer Robert Elliot or T.S. Frost? ...

If the label is not definitive or specific (cryptic),

Does the calligraphy become hieroglyphic?

Are the suggestions (other than the conspicuous) too intense?

Does the creator, and artist, no longer have any poetic license?

… If the appropriate arrangement is altered

(If the rigorous regulations are reciprocated);

Is the fundamental, essential, and indispensable lost”?

On the surface, each dish (thus far) has been delivered

With a simple, satisfying, savory taste of symmetry;

A meek, yet meticulous metrical show of geometry.

Beneath the uncomplicated structures - concepts figured…

… Are intricate suggestions, webs variegated in complexity.

The cook has created many dishes well below his capacity -

Hoping that someone might notice, and fathom his (yet revealed) aptitude;

(Hoping to attain exposure, through an accessible composure)

His true artistic character, remained restrained - concealed, hiding it`s amplitude.

Never has he had desires for obscene opulence or complete celebrity –

His only wishes: his dishes were no longer consider works of levity,

And to receive significant approval, as an actual creative entity. 

“Here is an appetizer, created wearily, in silence and obscurity”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Quasar Of A Mind

The mind is sent into the universe to drift;

The images it initially receives, and sights it conceives,

Are distorted and contorted by red shift -

Still every conception it perceives, it diligently retrieves…

The ingenuity set out on an intergalactic expedition,

To perform some astrology and cosmology;

(Exploring the extragalactic) with full intention,

To correct the course of the psychology.

It lifted past the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere,

Thermosphere, and exosphere – far beyond the atmosphere;

Leaving the local super cluster and the nine planets behind.

The mind would muster all the ambition, in the hopes to find:

Some new intellectual inspiration, and profound luminosity;

On a stargazing migration, travelling with extreme velocity.

The mind traveled at “impossible speed”;

Faster than light, it would somehow exceed.

It was moving so rapidly that constellations, and heavenly bodies fused;

Yet, to decrease the speed of the vision, it would not – it simply refused.

All of a sudden, it saw the flash from a supernova;

The dying star ahead, (instantaneously) became a black hole.

The conscious felt like a sort of universal Casanova,

Penetrating this beautiful rift ahead was its sole and only goal.

The mind didn’t think twice, and was inside,

And on an awesome current it would ride.

The consciousness felt this excursion was orthopraxy,

As the hole lead him to a whole new-found galaxy.

…By mediation, the mind found astronomical focus;

By dedication, it arrived at the galactic locus.

   

In zero gravity, in dark matter, a gaseous nebula appears;

The electromagnetic spectrum shifts, and the red soon clears.

Before the mind, in the seemingly formless cloud;

An indescribable structure - is hidden in the shroud.

The conscious found this distant quasar,

And collected its treasures like a bursar –

Finally, it returned to the corporeal essence,

Where the imagination has achieved quintessence.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Perfect Period on Paper (Triple P)

There will never be another moment in time like this –

This second when two sets of eyeballs became one.

With passing iteration, the last – is more so missed;

Yet, it is cemented in this verse - to never be undone.

Like the way our urban scene appears in the solar glare,

The architecture rising high into empyrean –

Into the firmament, adorned in cerulean.

Each (currently) modern edifice, which is so massive,

Standing like a titan in the elements totally impassive;

The stone slabs and brick, so inattentive, yet so aware.

The mosaic mural of each passing pedestrian and their countenance…

Native and foreigner, each leaving their own impression –

Another succession in the previous others` procession.

Though their current physical likeness may dissolve,

Each cerebral facsimile, nothing can absolve or resolve.

… On the canvas of the landscape, they leave their eternal resonance.

No matter what the prospective possibilities may convey,

No matter what the impending future may reveal or portray;

This soiree, this occurrence, will never be cliché or passé:

The two optics encountering each other, in this poetic display.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Death In The Theater

(The man dove into another description…

To the blank sheet – (as always) his life, he gave;

With a feeling the page would become his grave,

Still his hand traced another depiction.)

Starting a new page, revealing a fresh blank stage;

This is where we start the show, under a fluorescent glow.

Each letter plays its part, as we raise the curtains and start:

The setting is a place called New York City

(The time - the director is intentionally forgetting),

As a soul drifts, among the human race –

Inside his mind, he is feeling pretty sh*tty.

He is consumed by this state of emotion…

His tone emanates with the sadness which escalates,

The cause and reason for this is not the gloomy season.

It`s due to the time which has been lost,

As mortals are moments are too few;

And the past is something we can`t mime,

So each passing second carries a heavy cost.

Like rhymes in a bard`s sad lonely song…

Which are slowly fading from everyone`s sight…

Time can`t be written again, no matter how powerful the pen.

His thought is focused on the prior – the past,

To all the dreams – the prey he never caught.

Failed accomplishments, consume his cheer, like locust;

Lost opportunities, make him shiver, like a sudden icy blast.

His ponderings are unfinished – a sudden interjection -

As the audience watches but the ending is incomplete,

Yet - with a sense of puzzling confusion - they are met.

To the shock of their viewing perception;

From the ceiling the curtains begin to retreat,

The play was perplexing, and the curtains - are set.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Poetic Pebble

The tinctures – the repetitions must be continued,

The old end-rhymes restructured and reused

(All the new formulas and old procedures, must be fused),

Until they achieve sublimation and creation is renewed.

The failed attempts (which frustrate, but) are refractions,

Subtractions, adjusting his path to the zenith – by fractions.

On fifty-third and third, the people of an elevated class;

Smile at each written word, (on looking) as the diligently pass.

Those of the poets’ financial section, nod (with a heartfelt appreciation) at his toil.

They share an unspoken connection – like the rows of the auburn and emerald trees,

Which also strive to grow into perfection - our roots under concrete (unseen in) soil.

They (humanity) all form a collection; leaves, on the brilliant boughs, blowing in the breeze - - -

He is finished with the paid play, so his pen begins the true work.

The conceptions are sail off - far away; to attempt and rework

The sights (the glass and steel city), the eyes believe they perceive.

He fights, and writes whatever he can potentially, poetically conceive.

The pen begins the poetic calcination, while invisible smoke rises

From his secret fires’ generation. With beautiful metaphoric disguises;

The illustrious illumination, still remains almost perfectly concealed.

His words slowly simmer and congeal, until honesty sophistry is revealed;

Mercury gives way to iron (steel), yet he already possess gold. This poet is an adept

(Though he seldom appears as such, using “dumb diction”, around his elders and peers)

A master of combining the abstract, to create a common precept…

He is an embarked captain, on the vast sea of poetry, his versified vessel he steers.

His ship is wisely named: “The Stone”, sailing from home (with steady repetitions)

Each day - resiliently sharpening – honing an error in his precious craft.

The verbal boat, is kept afloat through the paces, it`s purity he conditions.

The imitating commanders, are dammed (to the labyrinth) and quite daft;

To attempt (to replicate and) understand - comprehend the cause of his course

(Unless, they have already ascertained the keys – which unlock the source).

… Still none of these concepts or any comment, remains long in his concerns;

(He left behind regrets) as, without relent, the progress and flame still burns.

Outcast, downcast, he lovingly outpours in torrents of inscribed emotions

(Through his constant abstractions), he continues his personal putrefactions.

The captain unloads his entire creative stores, with his daily written devotions.

He attempts to avoid the tireless distractions (the many modern pollutions,

Those anemic adulterations), which (endlessly) seek to destroy his store of solutions.

During the day (without sextant) and Apollo’s sparrow, he`s directed in both sinew and marrow;

While at night Athena’s owl, provides insight, and allow him to prowl (though devoid of light).

Through understanding, his navigation, has grown;

And now this captain is commanding “The Stone”.

He apprehended the gist – the various elemental compositions;

All vision (which was contained), is no longer shrouded in mist.

He refined his sight (in solace) with precision by (laborious rigorous) revisions;

God made every verse more vehement and vigorous, and strengthened his wrist.

Still, there are those lonely times where;

He sits, among society, with an empty stare

(It may appear, to others, that he located there;

Yet, his mind is lost in heartbreak, beyond compare).

Not over some “love”, which most confuse for lust;

But because his minds’ mettle, life has caused to rust.

And when his spirits sink, all he can think

Is (through the constant mental trials): If only he could, he`d leave the flesh behind;

He would separate the immortal succulent fruit, from the mortal inedible rind.

He sits (All joy he forgets)

Searching for something more (among the ocean of the cosmos) – without relent

Yet

In reality, there is only the moment, and no discovery is more absolutely pure

Then he lets go of regrets

Also, he laughs, remembering that the future he (we) had hoped to find;

Has always been there – latent, misunderstood, and confined in his (our) mind.

- - - Finally, as the poet observes, each set of (apparent) passing eyes;

He sees the universes (behind the differences, the colors - which disguise).

He silently converses with strangers (despite any momentary or monetary disparity),

And in each individual (no matter who they might be) is TRULY a star in our galaxy.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Inconsequential

On the side of a quiet New York street,

This composition is rendered;

Among the throngs of shuffling feet,

This dream develops unhindered.

Fantasies grow without a sound -

Limitless, beyond any imposed bounds.

The stanzas and lines compound

As the heart, almost inaudibly, pounds.

The sky of encroaching obsidian,

Is arriving fashionably late.

Thankfully, darkness has yet to set in;

While the rhymes duplicate.

Expression, digressions, and explanations;

All seem too deep, and unnecessarily complex.

“Le art, pour le art”, or creation for creations

Sake; this does not complicate, frustrate, or vex.

Evening wind, softly caresses and blows

Through deep green, and thick bushes.

With no greater secret to impart or expose,

Or deeper meaning, for why it pushes -

Much like this hollow rhythmic prose.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Annihilation Of Segregation

The mind is curious, as to how it should start?

What written descriptions should it attempt to impart?

So, the poetry ends up being begun, by outlining

The initial thoughts (which the mind thought).

The hands and ink are soon visually defining,

What the creative conscious, previously wrought.

The various universal ideas grow and slowly pile,

Delivered with a residue of restricted personal style;

To create a broad mosaic – composed of lyrical tile.

The collage contains a hint, of the hues seen

In the multiple faces (each tint), passing by the eyes.

Yet, all these superficial complexions – are a disguise

(All that appears perceptible, is a dream).

Just an archaic, ancient, outdated system of control;

A way for humans to draw barriers, to isolate – and separate…

To take both apples and oranges – fruit,

And overlook that both start with a root.

… To take the color of skin, sexual preference – and segregate.

Differences in the flesh, similarity in the spirit and soul.

Stepping back from the paper and individual face,

To admire the entire spectrum of the human race;

Beauty, allure, and absolute perfection is crystallized –

In every potential variation, which is possibly visualized.

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

Discontent

Keep the illusion of fame and appreciation -

All those fragile, perishable commodities -

Which are subject to decay and deprecation,

The words will take acclaim from the oddities.

Do these verses not fit the political correct cookie cutter?

Do they stick to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter?

Perfect! These words are done searching for any approval,

Please reject them – pending some critic`s poetic removal.

Like a lost dog, they searched for a heart and home;

In ridicule and despair they wandered all alone –

And the domesticated rhyme, searching for acknowledgment temporal;

Has become content in grime, happily savage and ferociously feral.

So, frankly “F*ck validation”, some half-hearted affirmation;

Of their lyrical ability. These poems are now self-sustained

By their empirical capacity – no longer held and restrained,

In the quest for consent (never again to be pent)…

These symbols are their own lone resistance,

Continuing their march, with an unyielding persistence –

Their only purpose, reason, cause, or intent

Is (in their angry, fed-up, focused descent):

To express to others opinions, their utterly aloof dissent.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

An Imagination of Phlogiston

The deprivation of quiet respite it how this starts.

At first a restless feeling it imparts,

This verbal conflagration, burning through the night.

This dark destructive fire uses ink as its fuel;

The page burns, with heat burning higher.

The paper is conductive, the inferno`s binary tool.

Every new line swells the blaze. The growing flame

Creates a lyrically designed maze.

On the sheet, warmth dwells; sparks all along the frame.

Every symbol is an ember, all formations – coals,

Each verse vehemently rolls,

Stanzas flare – so nimble; and together they dismember –

The face of the pristine page, laying it to waste.

The initial mildness, is now a rage;

Searing all over the place, spreading with haste.

-Yet-

Deep within the frenzy`s wake, remains a strange charred vision;

A rather odd sort of “l'art pour l'art”,

The destruction (the fire would begin) is leaving a creative provision.

The insipid initial perception (which was weary) has quickly departed,

Left an alertness, from what the scorching started.

The consuming conception, only, selectively removed what was dreary.

And as the combustion starts to fade, silently without an audible sound;

A crescendo of an artistic, sight lays upon the ground.

The retrospect will hopefully reflect:

A fairly simple path (of rhythmic construction) appears to have been laid.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Twenty-twenty

The apparent and seeming madness,

Are only the senses heightened;

Uplifted in the lengthy solace -

Frightened, but also enlightened.

“In the late empty night,

Filled with all-seeing insight.

Knowledge not used for destruction or power,

Though much seems void – in this desolate hour –

This artistic vision, is breeding positive construction;

Once blind sight employed, is now without obstruction.

While unable to see the present clearly,

Looking beyond the sea of the evident;

Fantasia is visible, almost perfectly…

In Utopia, the eyes are a resident…”

The instant, Life and Death,

Every exhale of warm breath;

Are just more momentary metaphors,

Purchased from a neurological store.

Every sensual and physical reception

Has no effect on our core.

The pain the heart endures

The blissful – every conception

All emotions, through time, are fleeting

Every object, in slow decay – retreating.

It often seems, for all life gives –

That bitch also takes away;

But in the dreams, all beauty lives

For eternity, never to see a ditch

Dug down six feet - it`s never ending,

The journey, into a world of play.

- Artists are the dreamers -

The hands of mortal time

Are rendered into no more;

Than imagination`s secret door,

In the artist’s frame of mind.

Even the concrete building, rising, in its absolute mass;

Is born from the same material, which gives us glass.

A passing, accelerating automobile;

No longer is moving modern steel,

When entering the artist’s second view –

Just a cloud drifting out in the blue.

For it is observed that all objects in the universe

Are composed of atoms, molecules;

Which are in a base way, quite the same…

So, to the “nutty” poetic frame of brain;

All objects exposed to metaphor`s rules,

Achieve the same comparison when placed in verse.

As this realization is reached, what seems like insanity;

Fades from view, and becomes no more than: perfect clarity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Ask, and You Shall Recieve

As the poet closes his eyes, and reflects

The symbols and sights, project – all connects.

The conscious, though alert, is taken off afar;

All of realities visions, lines of divisions – mar.

It`s hard to decipher, everything he sees;

Returned to the flesh, by an evening breeze.

The worn legs are bent, ninety degrees;

The eyes are at the right angle -

To attempt to unconstrict, untangle -

His inner conflict; which begs, to present

Evidence of: the truth without disguise,

“Reality without the lies, Please”!

Unseen spiders weaving their webs;

The illusion ebbs, through the current of time -

Like a masterful poet, weaving the internal rhyme

The simple focus entirely on the end line;

While others, the entirety, is on their mind –

The visionary; the outside–insiders.

Then, the bard stares high into the beautiful night sky,

Reaching a realm of pure serendipity -

Then, again; prepares to string his own alluring lie.

Silent music, his life`s only mission;

Expressions without any permission -

Words given to him by the divinity.

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

Destruction breeding Creation

The waves of air rush over this dreaming head

While ink is expelled from a plastic paper`s mate

A concrete jungle built on the graves of the red

While staring around at this once hallowed native ground

The mind wanders as it ponders the beauty we create

The ingenuity is so prevalent it can easily astound

Sad…

Yet, destruction that breeds new creation

The cars burning gas, as they rapidly pass

The materials consumed weaving the clothes we wear

The bottle destroys a beach to create it`s glass

A person is fueled, the evidence? The core of a pear

A dead tree for inscribing poetic manifestation

Humanity is building dreams and massive towers

That are stretching and reaching into the clouds

We inspire another, in constant streams and showers

So much beauty for everyone to enjoy and to view

The absolute allure, so pure; covers and shrouds

Is seen in every new sight under the high ocean blue.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker