Sophia The Poet of Arcadia

(John 7: 37-39)

Sophia had been drinking liquid from many different rivers;

Cocytus, Phlegethon, Lethe, and particularly Acheron – 

And each new sip both burned, and brought chilling shivers;

Enslaved and suffering congelatio, to hypothermia a pawn.

Pursued and lost in savage, rough, stern, dark woods;

Enthralled and tormented, in the depths of a vile prison…

…Like Alighieri; saved by Virgil, Angelic, and Divine goods –

Like Redcrosse; by Arthur`s hand, returned and arisen.

Six carbon, two hydrogen, three nitrogen,

Six oxygen, one carbon, and three hydrogen;

Is the chemical composition of her dialogue,

Although, it`s shrouded in an analogous fog.

Through patience, Sophia is learning to achieve verbal valence;

And

Through assiduous pondering, each equation achieving balance.

Sophia knows that: plain allusions aid in overall appreciation and accessibility;

But

It is challenges – resolved: the facilitation of the congregations’ cerebral ability.

Sophia now decides to consume her aqua from a new source:

The streaming Euphrates, Hiddekel, Gihon, and Pison;

The spring of these heads is where her soul will siphon,

The only soothing solution to cure her spirit – which was hoarse.

Composed By: A. D.

A Brief Kiss From The Grey-Eyed Goddess

These verses begin in the mind, a dark space of jet and emptiness;

But, like the rising sun, which begins intersecting the horizon –

Its golden rays thawing the morning frost and blades frozen –

The composition (of this place) is filled with warmth and gladness.

Within a state of lonesome visibility,

She brought her visions of utter lucidity and bliss;

Such as in the unbroken tranquility,

The moments before two true lovers share a kiss.

Aphrodite may have her beauty and her aphrodisiac;

Which makes the average man (to you) an amnesiac –

To this poet, there is no allure more divine and perfect;

Than every sensual, arousing curvature of your intellect.

That passionate tension between two set of eyes,

The strange suspension of the time which (often) flies…

The axiom behind, the mathematics of conscious division;

Where two sets of sight, are reduced to one solitary vision…

Both rendered helpless, against the power passion supplies;

Their senses soaked in an amorous liquid, which never dries…

Controlled the chemical reaction, of the irrepressible decision;

Receptors stimulated, as the both connect, a captivating collision…

When our connection is made, all those prior moments are left in the past;

And to the instant the entire attention is focused – on her fervor, which is vast.

A mortal fastened here, with the third daughter of Zeus, enamoured and holding fast.

Composed By: A. D.

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.

Flame Imperishable

"You cannot pass," he said. … "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass." Gandalf  LOTR - John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Sitting amidst the glow of candlelight

The tiny flickers are guiding, despite

The lack of any overall sense of illumination;

The mind recalls the heart`s plight,

And hopes, the memory will take flight

(Thoughts to be consumed in cremation).

Love is a poet`s greatest strength,

And is given in massive length;

But it also simultaneously presents

A weakness (which defies the sense).

Love – the most treasured token –

Is: torture, when the heart is broken.

Like the wax, which evaporates beneath the flame

(Longing exacerbates) the fading spirit is the same;

As the solid and firm is slowly becoming liquefied,

(By the minor additions of searing, silent heat applied)

The mind contrives to extinguish the connections,

Of those mementos (foul and fond) – past recollections.

Madness when, the softness of sunlight`s song is: a sorrowful sonance;

Sadness when, the refrain of reprieve is: reversed – regrettable resonance.

But, despite all the internal devastation

(The continuous, corroding, conflagration;

The wick`s – the heart`s – incineration)

…The countenance is steel,

Actions do not reveal,

Spoken words conceal…

 

And, the fire of love (for verse) burns calm and steady;

An endless desire to disperse – though all else is unsteady.

Composed By: A. D.

Domination of the Continuum of Occultation

With sharp intellect, and the tool, I snuck into the prison;

Finding myself inside, long before any spotlight had risen.

My instrument, broke through the bars of blue and white;

The divinity and wisdom, directed the course of my sight.

Within the many cells, my eyes perceived an occult vision;

Which I now divulge (with most minor revision and excision)…

…An owl sat depressed and alone, in his cell at the local zoo;

Worn from the passage of people coming (into, and) to view.

During the day, in his (many) drifting dreams, he`d be flying away;

Only to open his eyes at night, and find – caged, he still did stay.

That evening the sky above was swimming with strange possibility,

The dark clouds motionlessly spinning in the vast whirl of jet infinity.

When

The clouds shifted, to reveal: tears from the moon, falling in silver rays;

And in the young flying creature`s eyes, each shining drop (still) stays.

Tears of compassion, from Luna, for him – she truly understands;

The loving, lonesome duo seemed connected, by curtained bands.

Sweet Luna, they claim (and explain), her luminosity is not her own;

As if the logic of their discourse, negates the resplendence she has shone.

A celestial poet, appearing ordinary, but such bright movements she writes;

Still, few ever notice the extraordinary compositions, written in the nights.  

Indifference causes her to wane, to hide her face (and melodies), becoming blank.

Her words seem to gain no interest, concealed in (the new phase) an obscure bank.

Yet, after each respite (her dedication waxed), she returns heeding her nature`s call;

Only to be barely noticed and dismissed again – it burns, as her tears softly fall.

She has been trapped high above, in her heavenly captivity;

On this night, sensing one of her terrestrial lover`s exigency.

The need, for at least one moment, to break the monotony;

Both lonely entities desiring attention, affection, and company –

Both trapped in their respective cages – both longing to be free;

Hers – is the passing of the ages, his – are bonds forced by society...

…As I watch the entire scene – unseen, wondering if any see me?

Composed By: A. D.

The Gyroscope Of Hameln

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The words begin spinning round, without any sound,

The notes are gyrating in a blank – empty space;

Spun around an invisible frame, and then slowly wound

(Glyphs in the sand, time`s tide tries to erase).

The tones of your memory and personality having been imparted;

Ensures these runes are (soon) set, to never be separated – parted.

The timbre lies in each new viewer’s intonation,

The melody is within the fluctuation of each new inner voice.

Each reviewing composers provides innovation;

Adding accentuation, annotation, and stress of their choice.

The entire meaning is derived by personal deduction;

These lyrics compose an alluring, albeit, ambiguous song.

Ideas in verses – heat transferred through conduction;

Slowly the warmth dissipates – not destined to last long.

Percussion reverberates throughout the personal discussion;

The pulsing, rhythmic effects of a solitary rhetorical concussion.

Each eye and letter is: drifting safely on the unseen scale;

Being kept in balance, not falling, due to an invisible rail –

While, each new bar is: drawing closer to the next edge;

The line is steadily shifting, down to the following ledge.

Can you hear the sirens voice, playing within your head?

Poetic pied piper, each mental perception is being lead…

(Through these various deceptive, decadent, inscribed symbols;

To be unstrung, undone, un-suspended from these verbal gimbals)

… Plunged into confusion, from whence it came (in quiet violence);

Sent back to the beginning, to contemplate in emptiness and silence.

Composed By: A. D. 

The "E" Train

Each new day is spent aloof, adrift,

On a moving river of expression;

Through the waters the pen will sift,

Searching for a golden confession…

…A perfect description of beauty,

But what possible momentary sight

Is more beautiful, than life?

No allure is seen more astutely,

Than these mortal moments of joy and strife.

This finite gold rush is comprised,

Of more than one point of view;

When the entire tessellation is actualized,

The true glorious splendor shines through.

While sitting on the river of a subway, the eyes

Stare at the bed of thousands of unknown faces;

So many stories – it`s impossible to summarize,

Stemming from such exotic, different places.

Composed By: A. D.

The Fable Of The Poet And The Page

For a moment their two sets of eyes embrace;

Hers are empty, unknown, yet filled with possibility

Like the black be-speckled with stars of deep space…

…His vocal words the same – they lack any social ability.

His hands are the predator, her body his prey;

The tension of initial contact – thrills and kills.

The imagination could drive her emptiness away,

With soft strokes of ink which spills and fills.

Though, this is their first contact and meeting –

Yet they`ve seen each other, some close copy before;

But, those memories fail to attract – images fleeting,

In this this instant there is an energy of something more.

It seems their actions will, simply, remain

Predicated on the established code;

His thoughts, a smile with a silent refrain

Her story, a coy grin and an unsung ode.

Although the sweetness of their rendezvous seems perennial,

This fantasy is not continual nor stable;

They`re in the hundred and first year of their centennial,

And at the end of the celebration of their fable.

Composed By: A. D.

There and Here

 “If you are in heaven now waiting for me

In heaven for me

And we shall meet again love and never parted be

And never parted be!”

-Peer Gynt, Solveig's Song; Edvard Grieg 

There – beyond the other side

Far across a vast sea

Those with whom I am allied

There – they wait for me

With one another we can confide

(Our co-ed fraternity)

There – we will, together, reside

In bliss for eternity

Now there is the great divide

Which attempts to keep us far apart

Here – do I, for now, abide

Reading their letters comforts my heart

Composed By: A. D.

Logically Illogical

Having been driven forward by an internal obsession,

While focused on constant intellectual progression;

An entity (psyche and flesh corporeally bound)

Found its way to intangible, metaphysical ground…

The being’s senses perceived ahead, a shining golden expanse;

And, wondered if the journey would lead it there perchance?

But –

Like a peaceful sleeping child whose dreams are interrupted

By malignant nightmares, vision was dizzied and obstructed.

The concept of lids, became subject, to ominous suppressive mass;

Which cast them down, like some dying, flickering flames.

The mind sight took a final glimpse of the land, shimmering like brass;

Then, the spells of the darkness claimed hold of the reins.

From Utopia, into a hellish realm, the spirit was restricted;

To burning tribulations, and adverse impressions – constricted.

Sights of horrid phantasms, words of genuine deceit, stripped mental flesh of lucidity.

Repeated assaults desolated, decimated, all creative intellect;

Prior anguish, the wounds – scabs peeled, memories project

(Even the physical was pained, as peaceful mentality was attacked endlessly, violently).  

The psychological torment had not been ceased nor abated;

An individual in dissent, torture increased, as one was separated.

The brain was slowly being slain, by the flashbacks of all old pain,

Experiencing mumbling seizures – needles delivering lethal injections.

Water into a drain, the ruinous bane trickled through each vein;

The entirety was consumed, by the poison of previous projections.

By undeserved blessings, it fought complete conscious consumption

(Like a piece of once living meat, escaping from a utensil),

And fled to the initial state – it awoke to the tangible`s resumption;

Only to find the fiendish cruelty was transcendental – extensile…

…To the realm of matter. The aspect returned to the telluric,

And the senses were no longer able to detect the realm of auric;

As well as, unable to identify the authentic from the fictitious

(Yet, if the actions are identic, both remain equally vicious).

For the afflicted entity, life felt troublesome and nebulous;

And even the alert moments could be, potentially perilous.

Still, there was unexpected joy, despite hateful speeches and painful spectacles;

Fortitude was summoned from the deepest reaches to address all obstacles –

Because every so often, when the one mind is the only influence outright,

The senses can still perceive a glimmer of Utopia and that glorious brilliant light.

Composed By: A. D.

The Rise from Khazad Dum

-John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Remaining subject to another,

A state which is no longer impelled;

Neither foe nor friendly brother

Will stop the rhythmic words expelled.

This individual is: no more than a mere couplement,

An unexpected strange combination;

Which the physical and intangible seem to present,

Life – a metaphysical presentation.

Like the words which materialize from the poet`s mind;

The metaphor of the two, is one – poetical designed.

Matter is: (philosophically) presented as absolute evil,

While “true” ascension is – pure folly.

Pursuit of perfection left the conscious in upheaval,

And the chase left the heart melancholy.

Traversed and conversed, with both,

The water of life and secret fire;

And experienced a new state of growth,

From the dimensions of the prior.

Acceptance revealed the secret –through tears and sweat, madness in an abyss;

The long-sought concealed conception is: now seen with resolute, absolute clarity…

By releasing the elements – letting go of dread, indignation, anguish and bliss;

Perfection is proved as: constant refinement of imperfection, like the two – one parity.

Composed By: A. D.

Late Night Romances, and Second Chances

The crew is hanging out, and drinking beer;

As they chill, conversing, in the night on pier.

Chatting aloud underneath moon and star,

About the sexy women, from that last bar.

The evening sky above is without a cloud;

It smiles at the fellas, as they laugh aloud.

The grass is half-moonlit, and half in shade;

And in the evening light is shimmering jade.

The wind whispers, as the friends share a drink,

To its own friend, the water – which is navy-ink.

There the group stands, memory lane reminiscing;

From the evenings perfection one thing is missing…

Bottles opening and clanging, echo into the night;

The high spirits and smoke, all things taking flight.

…Talking proud, underneath moon and star,

About those sexy ladies from the last bar.

Together, but each heart is silently wishing:

It was not the bottles cold lips he was kissing;

But, the smile of the unknown lady he`s missing.

Together, but each “he” takes a moment, to stare into the distance –

Wondering if, for a moment, she`d have been his with more persistence;

And where was his moment of flaw, why didn`t he overcome her resistance?  

And in the span of a thought,

Brought back from the naught…

Each set of eyes returns to the group,

And rejoins the conversation of the loop.

It`s the time of year when football and basketball games overlap;

As time moves along, minor arguments, from tipsy mouths which flap.

One guy sparks up above the rest, not to fight, just overly excited;

His teams the best, playful “Fuck you`s”, a harmless sparkler ignited.

While his normal disposition is dynamite, he is only jesting violence;

Amid his tirade, the admission of “Sshh”, ushers in a high alert silence.

All bodies are frozen like deer in headlights,

All eyes are marksmen behind iron sights,

Sound muffles – is this the sound of predator or prey?

One mumbles “It`s definitely a group coming this way”!

The ranks quickly close, bottles concealed or disposed;

Straight-faced, smiles erased, no weakness is exposed.

Finally, heels and female voices are heard, the scent of different perfumes;

No green smoke cessation, relaxation, conversation, and drinking resumes.

Someone must have got their wish underneath moon and star;

Both sides smile, the dudes and gorgeous ladies from the last bar.

Composed By: A. D.

Perfection Through Correction Through Reflection

Through focused will and grace, the select elect see the unseen path;

Those who choose ignorance and rejection, are lost in their own wrath.

The right route is never (or, is) clearly defined…

Irrelevant and relevant must be intellectually calcined…

This poem is like a mirror – in which there is a representation;

A glassy reflection, where each viewer establishes a connection.

For some nothing is clearer, for others a complex summation;

Through introspection, it shows though who desire – direction.   

With a crash –

A shimmering stone was thrown, which broke the glass;

Fragments on the floor, and all that remained was an empty frame.

The broken pieces create a mosaic, tiny tiles of destroyed smiles;

At the foundation, the designs were prosaic and stretched for miles.

Nothing new seemed held in store, within the collage of the same;

Illumination upon the shards, as time did viscously pass.

– With a flash…

Crimson, emerald, and azure –

Danced on the interior walls.

Primary colors and many more –

Everywhere the light falls.

The battered, tattered, shattered tedium may seem like utter gloom;

Yet a vivid spectrum, through that medium, is seen all around the room.

Composed By: A. D.

The Cascading Terminus

Through the rivers of the mind

The conscious has been temporally wading;

There the presence is confined,

As the environments ripples are fading.

All the while, physical – is invisibly drowning;

Its countenance neither smiling, nor frowning.

The more the will rejects the real,

To spend time within this stream;

The less effects – the spirit will feel,

From the reality of this living dream.

The deeper the thoughts drift (into the unknown),

Their keeper into a rift – is more completely alone.

Looking ahead, over the edge, the waters are cascading;

With the liquid, each relevant emotion slowly disappears.

Most feeling and concern is departing and degrading;

Matter is lost in the mists (the happiness, lusts, joys, fears,

Etc.). Only curiosity remains, wondering what dreams lie in the basin below;

What new Visions and Sensations are at the base of the descending flow?

The empty animated shell can reach out and perceive;

There`s sensory information, the nerves can receive.

To the intellect it seems the purpose of life is: To believe

That there is some purpose (which does not deceive).

Rivers flow onward, until they drop out, into that unanticipated basin –

Where the waterfalls, eternity endlessly sprawls, and the unseen calls –

And they finally arrive at their true destination – the intangible`s separation.

Composed By: A. D.

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.