Long Architects Poems
Long Architects Poems. Below are the most popular long Architects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Architects poems by poem length and keyword.
Under the sky of revolutions, the architects of absolutes rose,
cloaked in the pride of dogmas, their words bleeding on the edge of new chains,
shouting freedom while forging other shining shackles,
and the air smelled of paradox, each faction a sharp blade
cutting its own throat, all in the name of continuous progress,
but how many empires must suffocate under the weight of their beliefs?
A circle of fire that consumes itself, preaching the destruction of the old world,
stones fell, virtues disappeared, leaving only the threads of chaos,
in their eyes, ideals were not mirrors, but sharp weapons,
fragile when faced with harsh truths, they forgot that pure light also casts a shadow,
radicalism blooms where doubt dies, but the roots rot unseen,
any doctrine, absolute in its marrow, becomes a noose for those who question,
the prophets screamed about justice at any cost, but without mercy, tyranny only changes its form,
the ground trembled not from the weight of righteousness, but from ignored cracks,
history is a wheel, oiled with blood, spinning under blind convictions,
they danced blindfolded to the music of their own destruction, a question floated in the ash:
what use is a kingdom of rubble when the architects are buried beneath it?
In the end, they did not fall to enemies, nor to gods, nor to the passage of time,
but to their own reflection, a thousand truths warring until nothing remained
but silence and smoke rising from the ruins of a shattered dream.
Masters of Architecture
The air heavy with scent of August blossom
A warm and still day indeed!
Sitting by the lakeside
Watching fishes dance in the water
A twittering in the trees
Then captivated my attention
Above was a party of beautiful birds
Singing in the orange tree
I remember a cool day in January
When I stumbled in the realm of birdlife
About their intricate domed nest
It was in a gorse bush about half a mile down the lake
Both the male and the female
Brought building materials into the nest
This was about four feet from the ground
They are amazing architects!
Imagine the busy birds
Piecing in lichen,
Animal hair and cobwebs
Leaves tightly clutched with beaks
The oval-shaped domed nest is ready
With door at the top
Their elaborate building,
The best thing your eyes could behold
The bustle and tune of city,
Is composed by the Architects.
Eyes upward, not staring at feet,
Take in cornices, gargoyles and chimneys,
Building high notes reaching down - lifting up.
Harmonies are hummed by neighborhoods of,
Next-door musicians with whom to shoot-breeze.
Rhythm’s source is traffic of crowds,
A quarter rest on the park bench,
Crescendos in fountains and skylines,
Chords lie in store as markets implore,
Side trip timing from Clef library-museums,
Playgrounds emanate the jazz of joy,
In stadiums you hear Souza marches,
Love songs played in coffee houses,
Where I’m drinking cappuccino,
As my eyes listen and ears observe.
(c) Chaim Wilson
Morning breaks in the city like a fountain running underground
And the Mayor is nowhere to be found; water is spilling in the air wetting the buildings far and near; the morning is fill with confusion as the heavy traffic lingered on and anxious passengers hold their breath and a simple illusion become a reality.
The streets were flooded with hope and people did not know
Which way to go, anxious voices burst out in screams and the path that leads towards the city derailed their confounded dreams but determination srands like giant in the street blocking the flow of water in the stream.
Take me to the city where people are happy and they can hear the symphony all night and watch the stars and enjoy the gleaming moonlight as they dance on the open stage, and when my heart is free I will write a love verse for thee.
Take me to the city where the homeless roam and butchers and higgler lives close to each other and drunken men and addicts lives in the gutter with needles popping out of their flesh and they are gasping for breath, it is that scene that no one like to see but reality is staring at thee.
Take me to the city where the universe connects with the sea and skyscrapers meet and land mass greet, the mountains are high and destiny is flying beneath the sky.
Take me to the city where all the actions are and I can meet with stars the, music, the theatre and everything that is in it will open my mind and pull me out of the dark.
Take me to the fine restaurants and the shopping malls, the dancing clubs and the Karaoke Bar to listen to the musical brawl. The city is where I want to be farway from the countryside where people are alive.
Take me to the city to meet with engineers and designers
Architects and builders , artist, painters and sculptors, there is work to be done so get on the train and meet me at half past eight before it is too late.
Take me to the city to begin the journey.
I have met your kind before—
not monsters, not villains,
but quiet architects of doubt
who build fog in other people’s minds.
You do not shout.
You rearrange reality
one sentence at a time
until memory feels like a crime.
“You’re too sensitive.”
“That never happened.”
“I was joking.”
The holy trinity of erasure.
But here is what I teach
in rooms with soft lamps
and chairs angled toward healing:
Perception is not a courtroom
where the loudest argument wins.
It is a nervous system
trying to stay safe.
And when someone keeps
rewriting your inner weather,
your body learns to live in storms
that never touched the sky.
So we begin with a boundary —
not a wall of anger,
but a door with a lock
you are allowed to use.
“I remember it differently.”
“That comment doesn’t feel okay to me.”
“I won’t continue this conversation
if my feelings are being dismissed.”
Notice:
No screaming.
No diagnosing them back.
Just a line drawn in calm ink.
Gaslighting feeds on debate.
Boundaries feed on decision.
You do not have to prove
your pain on a witness stand.
You only have to decide
what behavior gets access to you.
This is not cruelty.
This is psychological hygiene.
A mind cannot heal
where it is constantly told
it is broken for bleeding.
So let them call you distant.
Let them say you’ve changed.
Growth often looks like betrayal
to those who benefited from your silence.
You are not “too much.”
You are not “imagining things.”
You are not required
to set yourself on fire
to keep someone else warm in their denial.
In the end,
a boundary is not about them.
It is the moment
you choose to believe
your own mind
again.
When the trees bear fruit,
We can all benefit,
Even the unfit,
As backyard fruit,
Becomes the talk of the Street,
As there is more than enough for all to eat.
People who don't normally come out of their shell,
Find they have fruit to give, not sell,
Word gets out, and bags full of fruit to give, not sell,
Find their way out the gate to make more than one new pal.
Can someone tell the developers to leave the fruit trees?
And ask the architects to consider the birds and bees,
When deciding whether to allow some space for some trees,
As we all want to smell some fruit in the breeze,
And have others to tease about the size of the fruit on their trees,
As we stand together to listen to the sound of the birds and bees,
And togetherness is celebrated when the fruit ripens on the trees.
Smoke curls where laughter once lived,
a street of bricks turned brittle dust,
where a child once dreamed of growing wings.
The air carries a silence loud with grief,
a mother clutching memories,
a father holding nothing but loss.
They did not draw the lines on maps,
nor whisper strategies in darkened rooms,
yet their lives unravel like old cloth
under the weight of decisions made afar.
The planners sip their coffee in gilded halls,
speaking of targets,
of victories counted in nameless numbers.
They do not hear the wailing,
do not taste the ash.
A young boy picks through rubble,
searching for his sister's doll,
while across the sea,
the architects of ruin sleep soundly,
unmarked by the war they waged.
History will forget the names of the fallen,
but the planners' statues will stand tall,
their faces carved in stone,
their hands bloodless.
And so, the innocent bear the cost,
their bodies the ledger,
their pain the ink.
The war ends,
but for them, it never truly does.
This last day of February two thousand nineteen
Southeastern Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
unlikely to be inundated with heavy snowy scene
methinks buds will burst early issuing royal green
carpeting landscape, sans expert architects queen
"Mother Nature" commences to baptize spilling
purity, sans cerulean bajillion year celestial tureen
while refulgent solar beams massage tender shoots
thawing frozen earth, where frigid cold icy sheen
hermetically sealed, asper horizontal frozen wall,
when skaters waltzed stealing lovers kisses unseen
soon melted pools of water all a buzz with feeding
Gabriel trumpeting "NON FAKE" arrival herculean
powers unleashed since time immemorial worship,
and/or sacrifices made to deities of webbed skein
viz, animal and/or plant wide world rejoicing when
harvest yielded cornucopia primitive, yet overkeen
superstitious scattered bands of hominids plentitude
linkedin to sugar daddy's favorite colored jellybean
benediction rituals also included pagan dispensing
prayers believing obeisance necessitated cyclopean
appeasement lest death and destruction would rain
purple pearl drop monsoon, traced to angry spirits
subsequently drowning helpless prehistoric hygiene
cleansed *****sapiens ancestors possessing gene
and chromosomes latent within dormant flora lean
fauna coming alive with the scent of fragrant bouquet
while the hills burst with creativity healthy panacean
liberating tentative "cabin fever" wrought by polar
vortex, the spell of warm weather, a respite sunscreen
applied to ward off deadly ultraviolet solar radiations
something in magnitude bajillion extinctions obscene
spate of lost species as seasons greetings witness hot
untenable global warming affecting every calm serene
nook and cranny incumbent to relish approximately
twelve weeks of cold temperatures sipping my ovaltine
recollected from boyhood, when snowfall covered roofs
tops inconveniencing Rudolph, and his deer friends a teen
nee bit, and school cancellation required state requirement
resulting summer vacation shelving reading Pygmalion
for Shaw!
Why can’t we be judged by the content of our character?
Are we now racist, because of white privilege and black lives matter?
This is our new wall, racism is still dividing,
these two profound statements are creating bitter chatter.
Dr. King lost his life because of his dream in 63,
segregation is what this great man envisioned would one day leave.
The architects of our Republic intended all men to be free,
our declaration of independence is what we now need to believe.
As a people we need to remember, all of our positive achievements,
we need to move forward and continue to gain ground.
We need to focus on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
We are all created equal, this evident truth has got to be found.
We all need to sit down at the table of brotherhood.
Everything we do right now, needs to be done together.
We need to erase all of our anger and live here as one people
if we join our hearts, there is no storm we can’t weather.
August 7,2020
*inspired by Dr. Martin Luther Kings I Have A Dream speech*
Strand Completely New (19) Any form, Any Theme Poetry Contest
Nests of weaver birds
hanging down from the palmyra palm
An example for community living ?
exclaimed my friend a realtor ;
his friend an architect said
it is all awesome my friend.....hm...
absolutely unbelievable, the
' handy' work of such tiny black-beaked
yellow-bellied ploceidae -the weaver birds !
I have no hesitation to call these sparrows
avian architects even human architects,
my clan may ever match in excellence !
and his friend who formed one among us
bird watchers.... a seasoned textile engineer
hath said this unhesitatingly, 'my God
what I am seeing on this palm ,,, these nests
of weaver birds.... can I call it the
'hanging textile work of avian genius!
absolutely beautiful and heavenly.....
I fail to describe any further....I am stunned 'he further said.
As we were thus watching these nests in awe
night's darkness came hanging... soon to be
driven by the rays of cool stunning silvery moonlight
the light focussed on these nests of weavers
transformed them at once into
heavenly nests of silver ....
with a hear unwilling to leave
we bid 'adieu.... to these birds of wonder
treading on the coastal silvery sands
like angels in a wonder land.