Drifting Into Nirvana

I changed from plastic and ink, to wood and graphite;

To add some new texture,

And to seek fresh tones.

Glyphs on ancient bones,

An old pictogram picture,

Old tools and symbols – have given modern insight.

Carved within, the fine wooden grains of my pencil;

I saw the adventure, of something inconsequential…

Driftwood floating upon the sea;

Attempting to engrave its own path,

Through the waves of eternity.

Immersed in the liquid dispersed,

In the aqueous flow of infinity;

Steadily the timber revised its draft,

Constant correction a necessity.

Under the light and dark, it drifted along,

Passed by many different cultural ships.

Once part of a friend ship – it was strong,

Misfortune gave it a new portion.

Like the echoes of a melancholy song,

Each wave cracks, the sounds of whips.

In ebony and ivory, can mahogany belong?

It was unsure, from which tree it descends;

So, the entire ocean it had adopted.

In the state of loneliness, with so few friends;

Moon, Sun - the celestial sphere was its only boon.

Studious, still – there is so little it comprehends.

For social solace it unwillingly opted;

Like, a poet forced, into the company of pens.

The plank had been soaked, to the core,

Its composition was continuously rotting;

The condition of a heavily trafficked floor.

Still, remaining firm in the course of its will;

Despite the erosion, its heart was pure.

Tossed and turned, but forward plotting,

Its way to the (currently) unseen shore.

Each incoming torrent was a bitter test,

Nature sent storms and tempests;

Many new trials faced, which it must best.

Dreaming of distant golden sands gleaming.

It was drifting, with little sign of rest –

Salts, searing wounds – sodium pests;

And little hope, in which it could invest.

The azure scenery did not seem to change,

And it wondered, if there was any progression;

As it stared out, into the ebbing blue range.

Hopelessness, it embraced – in the endlessness.

Until, the wood detected something strange;

Within the continuity, a subtle digression.

Its feelings, like the form – slowly rearrange…

…As the movements and moments transition,

The broken lumber perceived a new position;

Now it was drawing close – almost in reach,

And could see the shore, of Nirvana’s beach.

Composed By: A. D.

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