Best Architectural Poems
My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home,
with many a wonderful story,
hidden within its walls.
A Victorian, architectural designers dream;
vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts;
where spirit voices sang of its splendor.
What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs;
prisms reflecting the sunlight;
beautiful rainbow colors,
adorning her sitting room walls.
The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier
wove dancing shadows into the fabric.
As a small child, I reveled in that light-play;
how I loved her magical home.
Our eyes met
Across the room
The sight of her
My heart went boom
Her shiny hair
Skin so fair
Slimline body
Shaped to stare
I introduce
Myself to her
Her accent sweet
Perfect purr
Drinks drunk
We make our leave
Joining hands
Like a weavers weave
Late night walk
Hand in hand
The talk is sweet
Of the loving kind
We stop and share
A dreamy kiss
As we read our minds
Eventful wish
Back at mine
I pour us drinks
Moet Champagne
To me she winks
Close we hold
Each others frame
Dancing slow
With this gorgeous dame
Adventurous hands
Explore each other
Naked flesh
Revealed from cover
As i hold her close
Her breasts charm me
Pert icons
Caress me
My manly hands
Run through her mane
Down her spine
To my wanting aim
Her curves so arced
Architectural gem
As she gently strokes
My wanting stem
She takes my hand
And sits me down
Astride my thighs
Slides on my crown
Slowly we share
Each others joy
As we pant and groan
This girl and boy
Throbbing bulge
Inside her heavenly cave
To adorn her walls
Our pulsing craves
I pull her in
As we release our flows
Joyous moans
As our bodies glow
We kiss and enjoy
Our united mix
As our tongues unite
With passioned slick
We share a shower
And lay down our heads
Cuddling close
In a silken bed
I awake in the morning
To a note left near
Beside the message
The drawing of a tear
Last night my dear
I was blessed like a dove
Your my one night stand
My negative love
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love2.php
I approach the wooded trails and hear nothing save for my footfalls crunching in the soft snow. It is the kind of winter day that even a feather falls without drifting one way or the other. The trees stand straight, tall, and silent, their branches appearing as if they’ve been painted there. The water in the nearby stream is crystal clear and motionless, reflecting the cloudless morning sky. It was still, utterly still.
crystal waters flow
reflecting winter’s stillness
peaceful Christmas scene
Copyright © Sara Etgen-Baker | Year Posted 2023
A loud string of clear down-slurred two-parted whistles reach my ear. There is a little red cardinal tucked between thick foliage. Its an architectural beauty, an inquest. He looks at me with two round eyes then shows me a circular world made up of silence and noise. We are standing on a precipice of the Sacred. A unanimous ground holding space with Nature, Creature & Human, alike.
winter evergreens
snapshot of a Cardinal
perched on my nightstand
As I paddled the river Nile
I met a monstrous crocodile.
She smiled at me enticingly.
I smiled deferentially.
Through large white teeth to me she said,
"I want you in my river bed."
"We are not acquainted enough
for such intimate, tasteless stuff,"
I cried. A hippopotamus
opined, "Hey, we're amphibious.
We're inclined to romp through marshes;
come, let's crush some reedy rushes."
I paddled hard away. The Nile
now swirled by rapidly awhile
to the sea. There where its two brinks
grow apart it flows past a sphinx
who lies prone and thinks endlessly
deep thoughts about eternity.
For eons and eons his mind
thought thoughts about how to unbind
gravity from mentality
throughout universality,
that we might freely float;
no more need to paddle my boat.
Unfortunately, he has no gumption
to follow his least assumption;
but we do chat on fluently
of, to wit, stuff way beyond me
like hieroglyphic-ally writ
papyri. When he will not quit
I wander alone to a tomb
where lies Cleopatra, of whom
each schoolgirl knows; how her last gasp
came as she clasped to breast her asp.
Grasp that story's significance
twixt geometry class and dance.
Whilst she patronymic-ally
reigned, a most royal Ptolemy;
she told Marc, "My new last 'nym' now'll
be 'Anthony'." This, post her roll
out, quite nude, from Julius' rug.
His offer of sex met her mere shrug.
I stood amid a pyramid
or three and pondered where they hid,
these pharaohs, all their treasury.
Was power or mere pleasury
their true architectural plan?
To ever tell, no pharaoh can.
These writs I write as my boat drifts
midst original hieroglyphs
through the Mediterranean.
I don't need a librarian
to see, no sociology
compares to Egyptology.
The city of Prague
In a different world
Its centre ripped
The whole world heard
Its now separated by
Canyons so deep
The day it happened
To hear a country weep
Beautiful buildings
Fell away
Architectural delights
Toppled on sway
But the city recovered
No bridges to be seen
Ingenious in genius
Sky Gondola's reign
To cross this great city
From north to south
Over the gaping rift
Above the canyons mouth
Gondola shaped
Zeppelin for lift
Tiller propeller
Propulsion shift
Sky taxis
In ariel flow
With their lanterns lit
Like glowworms glow
This sight i view
With my pal Jules Verne
Inspires his writes
As generations will learn
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy4.php
My wife and I share a passion for travelling, the world we love to see
We travelled through France and Switzerland and we're now in Italy
Day one was a trip in a cable car to the summit of Mount Baldo
The views from the top were amazing of Lake Garda down below.
Day two we visited Verona, a city of great architectural beauty
And it's where Shakespeare was inspired by Juliets famous balcony
We saw great works of art showing statues, of Roman mythology
Churches now outnumber them after their conversion to Christianity.
Day three we went on a speed boat trip on the beautiful Lake Garda
Then had a walk around the town of Sirmoine, and ate some tasty pizza
Of course the day would not be complete without tasting some gelato
Every flavour you can think of, it's ice cream in case you didn't know.
On the fourth day we went to Venice and we were pleasantly surprised
St Marks Square, Rialto Bridge, Doges Palace and The Bridge of Sighs
Lots of narrow passageways that leads to many a little square
Words alone can't convey its appeal you really have to be there.
On the fifth and last day a scenic trip up the Dolomite mountains
We saw scenic alpine images and drove through villages with fountains
Swiss style chalets dotted the hillsides that added to its great charm
Scenes of utmost tranquillity that gives you a feeling of inner calm.
Day six and its time to head back home, and we travelled through the night
Through Switzerland then Calais in France, to catch the ferry at first light
Then just two more coaches that will take us nearer to our home
My wife is looking at brochures for next year, to see where else we can roam.
Written on 9th October 2022.
THE GATE OF DEATH
I will shut my gate; and no man can open it.
And if I open it; all men shall come in once because of hunger in their world.
The bodies that entered me daily is unbearable.
The entrance of my gate has been battered.
Come with your money; ye affluence that desire my beautiful gate.
The weeping voices , blood stain of the innocents and the curses that follow some death into my gates; Scared me.
I am only an entrance for your journey and not comforter of the bereaved.
I lift up my gates, for evil souls to enter without security check on them, yet they refused to enter.
They are waiting to snoop –on my gate; in my gate no detective enters and return.
The imagination of hell kept many souls from dying,
The gate of death where only the dead in Christ dances for eternity.
My entrance is a sepulcher of peace for those that come in full age and lived rightly.
Gate of death where entrance is optional.
The faces of sepulchral, gloomy and somber tone voices of farewell never seize.
Foot prints of the dead has broken my gate.
But the architectural splendor of my gate which split personalities;
Whenever they come in contact,
I will shut my gate against unhappy faces; and corpses will walk freely with the living until the time appointed.
Written by
Pastor Emmanuel Brown Omojevwe
"I'm hearing images, I'm seeing songs no poet has ever painted
Voices call out to me, straight to my heart"
Cold, emotionless, and her nature, defiant
Hard to connect with as well as unreliant
A boarding school for outcasts such as Wednesday
Revenge for brother, brings on her sinister way
Dysfunctional families—ivory towers make wagers
Enrolled are lost souls and morbid teenagers
Like Arkham Asylum, a long and brutal history
Medieval mayhem come to life again in her story
Nevermore Island, Romania’s Nevermore Academy
Unconventional practices become their enemy
Designed for students with extreme personalities
Who don’t think their practices convey abnormalities
Is an all American coming-of-age supernatural
Tangled in spider silk or it’s web, which is factual?
And there it is the unscrupulous psycho-therapist
A principal’s shapeshifter and her sorceress rapist
Forcing thoughts back into some semblance of order
Werewolves, vampires, gorgons, and sirens who boarder
Are the architectural texts with applications ubiquitous
And the requisite archaic desperate mass exodus
Dark long tresses, paints it black in gothic dresses
Many who are romantic interests she addresses
Rises to an ovation with a most clever shadow dance
Sanity, reason, balance, rationality, and much arrogance
Behind the smiling facade of normality where lie derelicts
There lurks a psychopathic serial killer, and other convicts
Beyond their control, declined their world of decadence
Insanity, lunacy, madness, the outcasts show no evidence
Highly severe psychological and physical illnesses?
Or real paranormal abominations and alien devises
Guiding her are messages from the beyond with passion
Her lecture combined intellectual lucidity and compassion
Butterfly wing door vestibule builds anticipation
Shuffled, carpet muffled greetings, familiar embraces
Piloted by Holy Spirit, seated hushed congregation
Ritual of ornate cathedral thanks hidden crypt rib cage
Enduring centuries, pliable sandstone testiment
God's following holds time proof tenacity
Flared proud corners, pyramid reminiscent
Honour continues amidst shifting society
Solid oak panelled door on wrought iron hinges
Greets round barrel key bearer with ominous groan
Down four slouching stone steps from street edge
Solo visit in sacred space never partaken alone
Curved bookcases cater for leather bound learning
Volumes of theology define best ways
Nook with desk lets liturgist imbibe God's word
Tall back chair, acorn emblems engraved
Beneath majestic vessel, clay damp chamber
Rhubarb velvet curtain, tassel tied to sides
Strongest entity relies on the Lord as Saviour
With worship's dedication, faith survives
In expansion, searcher emerges at alter, cleansed
Hive of etched arches tribute precision architectural
Vibrant robes, sashes draped, silken beacons
Of preparation, celebration of overcoming, renewal
Pulpit's ingrained memory both daunting and welcoming
Deep set lead light showers sombre pews in intimacy
Haloed Christ holds baby, shares parables with children
Crease covered hymn books strum procedural symphony
Written July 2020 (no previous submission)
Submitted for : Brian Strand
Completely New Volume 23
on 18th August 2020
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
The westerners eat Amala and Ewedu
We eat Akpo and Ofe Nsala
They dance Juju and Apala
We dance bongo and atilogwu the beat of life.
T^he Northerners speaks hausa whilst we speak igbo
They married with no bride price and dowry
But we marry with bride price and huge dowry.
Cut the man"s hair low, short to remind him That
Marriage is never a bed of roses therefore he must look
After our pride, princess, prestigious priceless pretty queen
Who must painstakingly bear his name abandoning her
Humble background and journey with him amidst roses and bullets.
They wear buba and agbada in an architectural design
Darshiki from the north domain whilst we wear Ukwu george
They plate shoku, koroba and kpatawo and make beads round their neck
Igbo speak, yoruba frown, hausa dance, itskiri watch
Kanuri laugh, Ebira smile, Nupe point, Tiv demonstrate Fulani pick.
Idoma cry, Awori cry, Efik console, Ibibio comfort
Yet Unity we stand despite the cultural diversity.
One for all, all for one, we stand.
Bound to the humble land in hundred fold
Relevant is our culture and tradition
In defend shall we die and perish for our
Precious country.
The Finest Antebellum Mansion in the South
By Elton Camp
Windsor was near the banks of the Mississippi River
Extreme luxury, size, beauty and comfort it did deliver
The manor was completed just before the Civil War
It’s builder, Smith Daniell, couldn’t asked for more
Only a few weeks after his palatial home was complete
Its wealthy owner became ill and his own death did meet
His heirs were left a four-story house & a huge plantation
It depended on slave labor that was ruining the nation
Windsor had twenty-five rooms, each with a fireplace
And running water and inside baths the house did grace
A rare feature indeed: that two dumbwaiters were found
From floor-to-floor more easily to move the food around
A ballroom on the fourth floor had an observatory atop
The rigors of a civil war threatened to bring it to a stop
It came to be used by rebs and yanks, so it did survive
And the family who owned it managed to stay alive
The mansion become a social center for the entire state
Invited guests arrived early, partied and the stayed late
But, in 1890 to Windsor the greatest disaster then befell
A guest left a lighted cigar on the balcony and it then fell
After the fire, only the thirty-foot-high columns did stand
And an architectural treasure disappeared from the land
The magnificent ruins remind of the South’s glorious past
And that no civilization built on human suffering can last
If a glimpse into the way planters lived you wish to see,
Go only a few miles from Port Gibson and there it will be
The ruins will remind us of some ancient Grecian temple
But built at the expense of slaves kept uneducated & simple
For pictures of the mansion go to http://www.scribd.com/doc/57710764/The-Finest-
Antebellum-Mansion-in-the-South
The picture of the ruins was taken years ago by the noted
writer Eudora Welty of Jackson, Mississippi. Some of the
English faculty at my college actually knew Eudora and had
studied under her at various workshops.
Ossenburger, the business genius,
when he graduated from college,
he started a budget mortuary service.
Five dollars a corpse!
He was the Wal-Mart of death.
Burry ‘em, burn ‘em, float ‘em down the river,
get ‘em by the gross like a bag-o-chicken wings.
Bodies stacked like cord wood rotting beneath an eve,
he had a secret process for sorting, storing, and disposal.
He hoarded the cadavers like a squirrel hoards its nuts,
buried and forgotten,
never wondering where they’ll pop up.
Dough rolling in from all the strapped families,
Ossenburger was the drug lord of putrefied flesh.
While puddles of fat caramelized within the soil,
he donated excess funds to his fondly held private school.
He wrote off all his charity,
he hoarded up the dough,
with more babies born daily,
he kept profits up with our death toll.
Pencey held him in architectural esteem.
For all his generosity
they used his name
for their new wing.
Tell us Ossenburger about your fancy car,
how you dream of stiffs between each shift
and Jesus ignores our prayers to say how lucky you are.
Our only bit of justice, some smidge,
some smear of slight relief,
is hearing Marsalla’s flatulence
during your puffed up prep school speech.
Oh, Parthenon,*
Sublime aesthetic structure,
Embodiment of unparalleled elegance,
Incarnation of history, philosophy, and sciences,
Everlasting beacon of human civilization,
Glorification of architecture,
Pride of the Western world
You, the deathless temple of Athena,
Undeniably, it reflects the harmonious blending:
Of matter with the form,
Of man with God,
Of the temporal with the eternal.
In you, one may easily discern:
The drama of Sophocles,
The wisdom of Socrates,
The reason of Plato, and
The logic of Aristotle incorporated
Into
The ageless white marble, that the
Everlasting mountain of Pendelikon so
Generously has offered
And
The skilled hands of Phidias and Ictinus,
So expertly have shaped, into a
Never-ending hymn of worldly beauty,
Ascending to the heavens of perfection
As a thanksgiving to the wisdom of the divine and as
A never-dying monument to human creativity and
Understanding
Oh, Parthenon, before your perpetual magnificence,
Humbly I bow!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
13 JANUARY 2013
*One of the crowning monuments of the world and, unquestionably,
one of the finest is the Parthenon, the ancient temple of Athena, daughter of
Zeus, Goddess of wisdom.
Built between 447 and 438 B.C. during the Archonship of Pericles on the most
prominent spot of the Acropolis- a rocky hill of 158 meters above sea level-
Parthenon has dominated since then with its extraordinary architectural splendor, not only in the land of Attica and the rest of Greece but also, one may say, the mind and the soul of the entire world!
i hope you don't mind
if I wander in through your front door
and reset your clocks to headlight savings
life requires humor he said to the lens grinders
as he rode his all terrain moon beam to heaven
where they were eradicating stupidity with fairy tales
same **** greater magnification was basically it
slipped on their own icy hearts
applying one clever artifice after another
but after all one wants to hasten
the modern world along clippity clop
impediments to traffic flow were to be shot
what happened next is not in the dictionary
which is fine don't get me wrong
beats the nuts off hunger
but the world is not nice anymore
isolated pockets of rebellion perhaps
out in the bleak lizard sands hanging from a tree
but the rest stuffed with foam peanuts
that could turn you to ballroom dancing
your narrator being the test case
for daisy picking the numbers the samples the statistics
I love you just the same she whispered after the operation
the entire ABC unit was called in from the chalk mines
and the XYZ crew was called in from the slate quarry
but no amount of preparation could have warned them
of the melancholic yet piquant sagging of standards
his mind had turned upon itself out of shame and envy
he had an entire city in his head
that wasn’t in Architectural Digest
honkings sirens gunfire breaking glass
spasms and outbursts and phobias and anxieties and
compulgings and obsessities and hallucinotions and
mysterias and distortoons and damplifications and
twitchings and itchings and may I add bowel flux
we haven't even begun to look at his libido
which had shrunk from a blacksmith's forge of intensity
to the vague expectation of an afternoon nap
better than living the prelude to a beheading
you decide if hiding in the bushes permanently
like a grinning jack in the box with a message
is the same as dancing through the forest
dressed in leaves and emeralds
pantomime after all is deception
random at first then shapes intervene
there is no random he said over and over in proof
they say the devil spoke Hebrew
and Popeye smoked his spinach
a contemporary exercise in
signal location
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/