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

Feign A Brain

The ink creates steamy silhouettes on the paper…

These symbols are no more than an optical illusion,

There is no message hidden in their vapor…

Or is this a smoky lie, a plot to cause confusion?

The shadows speak to any who view:

“Don`t attempt to find substance in us;

There is only stupidity - emptiness too,

We are like a choir without a chorus.

Keep reading then, if you have decided, you would…

We will leave you mind divided – the same way:

A falling axe could cleave – easily – through wood.

Do you imagine a calling in anything we say?

All we will bring (if even this much, we should):

Is collusion and such – poorly written word play.

There is no reason, you should continue with reading-

Steak without season, is on the menu, each of us is bland.

Everything your eyes have heard is lacking true meaning;

Not worth tracking – there`s no sort of lesson on hand.

Come! Come! These fragments. Erratically streaming,

Will only grammatically lessen, your verbal command.

Fine! Since you followed the end lines, line by repetitive line;

We suppose we can attempt to impart something worth rhyme:

To create tons of confusion, follow this each simple rule:

Use us daily, along with a fusion ignorance and intelligence -

Be intellectually inclined but act out the role of the fool

(Or, put another way; be educated, but sound really dense.);

…

To blend in with the crowd: wear a perplexing shroud,

Sit quietly, looking lost, and never boasting aloud.

…

Write like a mule in each public diffusion -

And execute prowess, in solitary revision.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Empty Poet

For every poem that is shown

Six poems are hidden away

For every flower that is grown

Six seeds in the earth still lay

For all the various emotions

Which are poetically expressed

The one that occurs most

Which is mostly repressed

(Not to brag or boast)

Is the feeling of indifference

This life is rife

With strife and pleasure

There`s leisure and labor

Which create feelings

That come in every flavor

In these emotional dealings

For all the various emotions

He personally prefers to remain empty

When he is not immersed in poetry

For if he didn`t cloak his mind in apathy

Then his mind would bring him insanity.

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 Sparrow Into The Sun

"Apollo be my sole guide,

Most valued muse;

In your craft I confide,

This vessel – use".

Under the falling sunshine of this day,

This world of electrical lights and sirens – surrounds.

The concrete structures and movement of steel,

Numbs all the senses and the cognition – it confounds.

Diluting free formed expression and wordplay.

This Face in a Book, constant attempts to conceal.

My mind repeatedly will ask:

How much of what is now being perceived

(The mentally relayed data and information;

The sights, scents, sounds, and thoughts received)

Is anything more than a momentary mortal manifestation,

And what is the purpose of this fleeting task?

This is the great weight on my shoulder:

Since, beauty is in the eye of the beholder;

How is Venus poetically revealed,

If within another`s eye she is concealed?

At times it feels like the pen is staring into the sun;

Glaring, blaring, binding, and blinding its vision.

I`ve followed Athena and her invisible owls -

Through the cold dark of midnight,

With the many verbal and written prowls;

Yet, for all the intelligence and knowledge,

The essence of allure escapes all I write.

To your craft, my heart – I repeatedly pledge.

Committed to this labor of love,

Immersed in it every single day;

With not a care or concerns,

As time degrades this body away.

The soul is sent to the sun high above,

While the rising heat continuously burns;

Purifying every single imperfection,

In each inscribed altar`s erection.

Still, steady in this poetic toil.

The pen is my inky hoe,

With which I till the lined soil;

Though it is muddy, soaked,

Saturated in lonely woe.

My hearts throat is choked,

Strangled by the wires of despair;

Still these verses of fire are prepared,

Each ember word has been stoked.

To you Apollo, I`ve rendered another sacrifice.

More dues and homages are tendered,

Here on this page, in this technological age;

Where papers and screens rapidly splice.

My mind and heart, I`ve dismembered;

With meticulous calculations, no hate, no rage.

More alchemic calcinations, made by

Movements in versification;

Yet, another supplication,

Of poetic creation is sent to the sky.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker