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.

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.        

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.

Slap-a-Loaf (Pat-a-Cake)

As the full moon was overtaken by the rising sun,

A man`s serious ambition was mistaken for fun.

The baker arrived early to work this morn,

To ensure his products were properly born.

The chilly dawn air was crisp and fresh,

Falling all around like grain within thresh.

The golden rays blared among the bluish haze;

Like a trumpet solo, which a blues player plays.

The baker smiled wide at the beautiful scene,

Everywhere he looked his grin cast a gleam.

He took in this moment, then into the bakery, he quickly set off;

As door hinges yawned, and a floorboard squeaked out a cough.

Once inside, he placed his tired apron around his waist;

And checked all of his friends, with bustling haste.

The ovens were alert, as he pushed their buttons (with power);

The sink and the faucet, first took a refreshing (and quick) shower.

Sheet pans rattled, as they sprung forth from their sleeping racks;

Mixing bowls mumbled, awake - though resting on their round backs.

Rolling pins rumbled, and fumbled, as they rolled out of their rest;

Measuring spoons stopped snuggling together, in their little nest.

Then, of course, there was the Batter of the lazy flour;

Which always Kneaded to be awoken, at this early hour.

Now that all were fully risen, and totally alert -

The group began to prepare, both bread and desert.

The air was filled, with the aromatic sweat of their undertaking;

The luscious fumes released, from their intense, delicious baking.

As the group finished hours later, the first sleepy customers arrived;

But, before the baker opened the shop (to serve products made with pride)

The grinning baker thanked his friends, for the help which they had supplied.

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 Futile Lament for Relief

A man stood on the subway platform, incessantly calling out;

As the trains were steadily passing, and commuter’s amassing.

Destitute, ignored, and socially deplored, he continued to shout.

His eyes were filled with a strange sort of desperation;

From his lips cries spilled, like the liquids of perspiration.

The repetitive echoes, emanated from his continuous calls;

Reverberating like an orchestras performance, on concert halls.

Deep in his Flesh, he knew each of the passerby’s could hear;

And in his Heart – pain, for none would lend a compassionate ear.

Their dismissal pierced, his Skin and Organ, like a fatal spear.

Finally, a young child and her mother, walked past his incessant pleas;

The young girl`s hair, innocently blowing, in the passing cars breeze.

Time would pause for a moment, as the man and child locked eyes;

His were brown as the earth, and hers were azure as the skies.

The virtuous youth, had yet to become a gadget of humanity;

And saw only a desperate soul, where other`s saw insanity.  

She looked at him with curiosity, and her mind grew very puzzled:

Wondering why no other would assist the man who was troubled?

Why they leered, mocked, and neglected; another who struggled?

So, without a moment of further contemplation,

She decided to help him – no indifferent hesitation.

Knowing (without cognition) that a smile, a wave, and a friendly "hi";

Might be the cure, for the stranger, who seemed to internally die.

The youth tenderly prepared to offer, the injured individual, a friendly wave;

But stayed the salutation at the roaring command, which her callous mother gave.

Her eyes filled with tears; as the next train - took the beaten, conceded man to his grave.

Composed By: A. D.

Hardwood Precepts

Sitting outside, and staring at the vast cloudy firmaments;

The heavens are a pristine mirror of the mental universe -

Cultivating another conception from the vision it presents;

Gestating thought as the pen, upon the page, will traverse.

Eyes move now to the once green leaves,

All which remains is the frames of the trees.

Still firm, are the bark`s skeletal branches;

The twigs remind of annual second chances.

Coursing through the grains of entangled bark,

There is an energy, existence’s invisible spark.

Though empty, the large brown husks appear

There is much life, the chill has yet to shear.

Dying above, underground - their activity, concealed roots doesn`t show –

(And like the first stanza`s immeasurable grey skies

Which also lie within each individual`s set of eyes)  

Despite the cold, all things on this earth continue to develop and grow.

Composed By: A. D.

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

The Being`s Bloodshed

In the depth of the evening, he continues to duel;

With little communal incentive to use as a fuel.

Consumed by belittlement and helpless gloom;

He remains adherent, fighting forward in his room.

The lieutenant of his armies is, a glorious ironclad volition;

The only hope for victorious dreams, to achieve fruition.

Feeling the faith fading, in the face of impending doom -

Still, he will only stop trying and battling

When the fingers of death, deliver his flesh to his tomb.

The wind blows, the windows are rattling -

The air rakes, it`s cold chill slithers across his spine;

His hand also shakes, his brow is saturated with brine.

His spirit is steady – No, it`s pulsating, aflame with hot blaze.

His heart stands at the ready, thirsty and throbbing to amaze.

His desire marauding, on the page; all enemies it will raze.

He is nodding, applauding the violent rage – as the combatants engage.

His company strikes swiftly, killing in a gory haze and daze.

Blood spills like ink, weapons flourish like pens, each hand motion delivers death -

As the initial prospect shifts, it`s very vicious tide, and switches to it`s inverse side.

Defeated cries flood, as enemies doubt and disdain are slain – taking their final breath.

The individual stands over the cowards and fallen foes;

His troops raise their arms, crimson stains their clothes.

If he cannot defeat himself, then who can oppose?

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

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

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

An Execution on a Desktop

No tears fell, no fears swell, as the condemned took the stage.

The ax rapidly came down, with the silence of a falling feather;

A shrill chill blew through the air, not brought on by the weather.

Blood fell upon the snow, staining the sheet like ink on a page;

Pointless hope ended, as abruptly, as the final line of a bard`s verse

(The rhythm of life, almost perfect, the only mar is: it’s by far too terse).  

No audience, at this point, only the executioner and ax truly care.

A dream, in the consummation of its crucifixion, leaves a nightmare.

Reality – a jest, or a test?

Life – a lucid dream, a whimsical fantasy,

(Or a moment of apparent sensation and brevity)?

Humanity – ingests and infests.

Eternity – some sort of divine idea of levity?

Death – living answers were found, like metaphors clearly explained…

Death – morbid mysteries so profound, those implications – restrained…

Death – The Reality of Life, which is consuming Humanity for all Eternity…

Death – the executioner placed the ax down and laughed at the absurdity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker