A facsimile of the earth stands proudly
On the savannahs of the ancient and modern.
Edifice of rustic finesse, rugged and pointed
With the glory of a pinnacle of a paradise on earth.
In your crawling presence, Termite, stand I,
Barefoot, on elevated earth for the first time —
A platform erected by the hands of gifted time,
All red-brown and royal, and under the tutelage of
Sun and Rain —two keen-eyed foremen descended from heaven.
You have reached the skies before man.
I hail you!
I have removed my open-toe footwear,
Like Moses did his in the burning bush.
Babel forbids the union of this construction,
Aiming Nimrodly upwards and towards arrowed clouds
Dispersed in blubbering tongue-lashes.
But you do not seek God’s wrath upon these grasslands
With these anthills,
Wild castles —testaments to the will of fecund grounds.
Termite, break the jinx of your muteness.
Testify, crawling soul, testify harmoniously,
Borrowing the singing heritage of the Common Cuckoo.
Testify now.
Attest
To the ruggedness and puissance of this imposing structure,
And blame it on the staccato rhythm of peevish languages.
We were taught that battles are of steel,
A clamour of voices in a distant field,
The geography of the external threat ,
A name of curse , a debt to be collected.
We hone our wit like a sharpened stone
To crack the shell of a neighbour's ego,
To point out the cracks, the small
inconsistencies ,
Thinking this is how a victory is built,
One defeated conversation at a time.
But it is a shallow house that stands on smoke,
Built by the one who points the shortest finger.
For true architecture is done in quiet dark,
Not on the map but in the muscle of the heart.
The deepest and most perilous topography
is the intricate labyrinth of our own self,
The architect knows the final enemy,
He sees the vast and creeping edifice,
The great, formless thing within that whispers:
Build for me. Point the finger outwards,
Forget the cracks in your own foundation.
To face this shadow is a secret war,
Where we learn to use the chisel on ourselves,
To chip away the structures of conceit
And stand, not in victory over another,
But simply and purely with the truth.
From Makhaleng’s stone, from Thames’ steady beat,
A single rhythm stirs, a pulse grows strong—
O Sisters of the Soil and Sisters of the Street,
Your hour is come to dismantle ancient wrong.
We know the weight: the gourd, the grinding stone,
The quiet ledger balanced late alone,
The branded scars empires refuse to own.
Shall we be silent while the market’s hand
Sells childhood short and plunders every shore?
While truth is buried in the poisoned sand
And justice knocks upon a bolted door?
No. Let the kgotla’s wisdom find the air,
Let Parliament’s cold vault with echoes ring—
Two streams now rising in a single dare
To strip the armour from the faltering king.
So blend the strength—the sereto and the sonnet’s fire,
The drummer’s call, the bell from Tower’s height.
Weave from two strengths one unassailable choir
To drag this shivering century to light.
Let every cry for right, an anthem be,
A towering Baobab, a Sovereign Tree.
Looks like it has a firm foundation
A nice yard for kids to play
Walls sturdy and insulated
And a long rounded driveway
There's a paddock in the back
A barn fit for royalty
A stream with fresh fish
And an owner known for loyalty
He made a promise, unprovoked
I received, and drove on, down the road
Losing friends, cars, homes
As the grief kept piling on my heavy load
Again and again, the path winds
Hills and valleys come and go
Hope barely remains in tact
When will I reap the harvest LOVE sews
Today I passed a marker on the way
No, it was the threshold of a door
My fears are the enemy
That have kept me from having more
Money and men seeking power
Stood as black smoke over my eyes
But today I see the ARCHITECT
And we rejected the lies
I am worthy of all I desire
The jewels of my heart proclaim
I open and welcome
Blessings and honor assigned to my name.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-21-2025
What does it mean to break the ordinary
to lift a pen like a chisel against stone,
knowing the first stroke
may draw blood from your own palm
before the marble yields?
The poet stands in rubble,
not as scavenger but as archaeologist of the unspoken,
sifting through what civilization discarded:
rusted prayers,
half-truths wrapped in silk,
the hollow promises fed to hungry mouths.
Here, in the space between collapse and creation,
we learn the grammar of phoenix-speech
how ash becomes ink,
how destruction whispers the blueprints of what endures.
To shatter,
is to reveal the fault lines already etched beneath the surface,
to name the cracks we've learned to ignore.
And so we build:
not monuments to beauty,
but altars to the beautiful refusal,
where truth burns clean,
where words rise like smoke signals from the wreckage,
calling to those who still remember how to see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
silken architect
legs tracing frost on the sill
weaving moonlight lace
A master of the macabre and the night,
Whose somber verses chill the very bone,
He dipped his quill in shadows, dark and bright,
And gave the world a terror all its own.
With “Nevermore,” he etched eternal gloom,
A tortured soul in bleak despair confined;
His haunted tales still rise from out the tomb,
To stir the depths of every thinking mind.
A life of sorrow, lost in drink and pain,
He walked a path of melancholy deep;
Yet through his words, his spirit will remain,
While silent, restless, watchful sentries keep.
Though fate was cruel and life a bitter plea,
His dark domain endures eternally.
If television is chewing gum for the eyes,
as this architect would have us think,
can you walk and chew gum at the same time
or would it put your TV on the blink?
But what if radio is bubble gum for the ears,
as is my personal perception,
would you be forever blowing big ones
or would it interfere with the reception?
A fine face is a mirror, A good smile is its arc, Courage is its armour, Emotion is its architect
Architectural and Dogs
A large house on one floor with a multi-shaped roof
a myriad of inside doors fit for slamming when
House guests occupy all seven toilets
The owner of this house is a semi-retired person
Who, after creating a human, fails like
Elon Musk with his exploding rockets
The gorillas were such an attempt, but he was
kind and let his mishaps live in the deep jungle
Well, his foray into the architectural business failed
He took retirement but kept an eye on his dogs
Dogs? Yes, he created dogs for humans who
might find loving another human, not wanting
to kill the other, find ample time for many hugs
and cry proper tears at funerals
“Your thoughts are the architects of your destiny.” ? David O. McKay
****************************************************************
Architect of Our Destiny
As we tread along the journey of life
All may not turn round as we may expect,
It may be a long lane littered with strife,
A rugged road ranged with thorns, in effect
Where we need to strive and strive to survive.
We don’t need to give way to dull despair
But try to be master of our own fate,
We don`t need to yield to the ghost of scare
But roll up our sleeves to free success gate
And be architect of our destiny
With the shine of sincere serenity.
Without a bachelor's, master's, or PhD to think of,
No need, as this architect is adept and has credentials from above.
With its pristine vision, it takes twigs and all sorts of organic things,
And with an industrious spirit, it masterfully builds with its beak, digits, and wings.
Soon, there's the completion of a winsome design,
A naturally fortified rendering by the penduline.
No grasping hands can hold me tight,
Yet in your lungs, I build pathways of light.
No distant chase, no yearning quest,
For I surround you, a life-giving guest.
The wind sings secrets, the clouds hold the score,
But the breath of existence resides at your core.
Imagine your dream life. Create your own Destiny. Turn Fate to your advantage. Be the Architect of your own life. Blessings and best wishes.
Architect of your life
By Michelle Morris
28/05/2023
If you could write your own story
If you could create your own Destiny
What would you choose to do?
What would your story be?
Imagine your dream life
Create your own Destiny
Turn Fate to your advantage
Be the Architect of your own freedom
For nothing is impossible
For those who truly believe
We come from the furthest stars
And make Heaven on Earth real
You can be the Architect of your life
You can be the Creator of it all
For you are divinity in human form
You are strong and powerful
All it takes is for you to have courage
Let it forge through your veins
Breathe in the Universe's knowledge
Ignite the stardust that is part of your being
For no one that ever was could be you
So embrace who you truly are
And no one will ever be a better you
Your soul is unique and linked to the stars
Remember your divinity
Embrace that you are magical
Your soul will live forever
But you have one life to enjoy on Earth
© Michelle Morris, 2023
The violin, betimes so sweet and soothing
Architect of romance and passion
Able to conjure shores of waves crashing
May the tears in her bow ever stay in fashion
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