Long Architecture Poems
Long Architecture Poems. Below are the most popular long Architecture by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Architecture poems by poem length and keyword.
The late may sunlight is bathing a monument of Nature
so colossal in sculpted vertical structure
that it may very well be the palace complex of forgotten supermen,
stories from my childhood pastor of biblical Petra
discovered by Crusaders, or the Temple of Ramesses in Egypt
emerge in my mind as we course through this valley of watered chisled fascades,
sandstone worked by the trickles of centuries
has created craftsmanship of rusticly romanesque grandeur,
pillars, cornices, porticos, grotesque statuary
invites the imagination into the architecture of antiquity
and the legacy that looms in the landscape of divine forces,
these are the White Cliffs of America
born from the bone of Divinity
and worked by the water of will,
Coming out of the Atlantis precinct as Clark calls it
a fork in the river confronts us like a new religion
a pathway heretofore unknown to our shadowed souls,
the Hidatsas mentioned nothing of this avenue,
I am angered hot by this suprise of doom
if we choose the wrong river we find only dreadful failure,
both waterways are mighty , broad, and of a similar depth,
one goes northwest the other southwest,
I swear my brain is gonna burst,
Clark is bracing himself against a tree as if he is waiting for a heart attack,
nobody knows blue from black at this juncture
and the guys are gettin hyper as horses amid thunder,
after discussing the odds he and I return to camp
as professional officers, no doubts, only orders,
two small detachments , one led by me, the other by Ordway
will traverse on foot one river each
up to forty miles examining clues like owls on a mouse's trail,
each party is on extra alert for bear and Indians,
grizzlies have become a common monster lately
sometimes requiring 12 shots to subdue,
they are infamous for their zombie qualities
having freakish endurance and bloodlust while being injured,
as for the natives, one only knows after eyes are shown,
J.A.B.
You know me as a poet, and writer of poems sad,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
telling a story using figurative language, I share,
my life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
Few beyond this safe harbor have read my poetry,
I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
my poems are my treasures and I keep them hidden,
oh, fathomless is the pain.
My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
my destiny foretold, it is already written;
there are many facets to me that I share with few,
oh, classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
I love Chopin, poet of the piano, Mozart, oh that lyrical charmer.
And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on.
I am also fascinated in the architecture in my city.
Often, I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
admiring Gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
and I love the Victorian building where I reside,
with my cat.
I have a small garden, created with a love for nature,
a tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers.
the things you may not imagine about me are many, for example
I adore vintage jewelry and clothes, and antique anything;
and I am a collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
and death haunts me- I am quite happy, although quite internal,
and I do love and absolutely need my silence.
_________________________________
July 30, 2015
Poetry/Verse/All That I Am
Copyright Protected, ID 30-695-897-30
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to Standard Contest # 260,
sponsor, Brian Strand
Fifth Place
_____________________________
Submitted to Standard contest, 100 In A Row #1,
sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Fifth Place
_______________________________
Submitted Premier to the contest, All That I Am
sponsor, C. Puddifoot,
Seventh Place
Stalingrad 1942
City surrounded
Bloodied human zoo
Shattered buildings
Architecture ruin
Walls of peace
Blasted and strewn
In the rubble he crawls
Suited white
Background blend
Silent
For hours he lies
Corpse still
Eyes in focus
Await his kill
German Half-track
Up ahead
Scope fixed
On the commanders head
Range set
Wind adjust
Breathe in
Shots a must
Trigger squeezed
Echo of sound
Mosin-Nagant round
Enemy bound
In the blink of an eye
Pace of it
Bullet hits
The hear of it
Momentarily he stands
In a swaying state
Zaytsev,s shot
Seals his fate
As panic unfolds
As to where the shot came
This white uniformed assassin
In his theatre domain
This Ural peasant
Soviet Hero
In a battered Stalingrad
Where moral was zero
This silent killer
Who seen out this war
In Kiev city
A Red Soviet Star
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
There are places not meant to be spoken of.
They say beyond the edge of stars,
Beyond light’s last breath,
Where time forgets to tick
And God no longer watches—
There lies The Dark World.
Not a planet.
Not a shadow.
But a chamber carved in the ribs of the cosmos,
Where silence was born,
And screams are swallowed whole.
It is here,
At 33 minutes past the 33rd hour,
when no clock dares chime,
that the Initiation begins.
One must be summoned, not invited—
Chosen by the fracture in their soul
that no light can ever mend.
They come cloaked,
Faces erased,
Speaking not with tongues
But with memory and blood.
The price of entry?
Not gold.
Not bones.
But the truth you swore you’d never tell yourself.
You kneel before the Obsidian Mirror,
and it does not show your face—
but the monster you might become
if you were finally honest.
A voice like ash speaks:
“To see beyond, you must unsee all.
To rule your fate, you must die while living.
To wear the mark, you must bleed without wounds.”
Then the ritual begins.
Each breath feels stolen.
Each second folds eternity inside it.
They place the Mark of 33:33
Between your dreams and your doubt.
And once you wear it—
You no longer exist in the eyes of the world,
Only in the eyes of the unseen.
You are now one of them.
Not alive. Not dead.
But aware.
You will walk among men,
But never be one again.
You will feel everything,
But show nothing.
And when you speak,
The stars will shiver.
For you have seen
The architecture of pain,
The blueprint of madness,
The holy pattern hidden in chaos.
You have eaten the fruit of fear,
And found wisdom inside its rot.
You are the Dark World.
You are the silence between screams.
You are the riddle that prays for no answer.
And when they ask who you are—
You’ll smile,
And say:
“I forgot… at 33:33.”
Montreal is my favourite city ~ a mix of old and new.
I love its architecture which graces it with style and unique character.
It's got more than its share of cathedrals, pubs and restaurants.
It boasts a vibrant mingling of local and exotic culture.
Well known to be the hub of exquisite cuisine and fine dining.
Montreal gathers artists into a most vivacious symbiotic community.
Best of all ~ summertime offers its kaleidoscope of musical festivals.
So make a point of visiting this city that is big on charm !
Let Montreal lure you, captivate you and seduce you ~
AP: 2nd place 2025
The Brigade of Gremlins
Of unsolved aspects
Fill the clot of problems
As PEs while AEGIS intercepts
The processing the elements
We don't the know the yet
How differencials occur
Our partner is SHIN BET
No humans though
The mind the you
This fully is unmanned
The Brigadier the General
Commanding this Discrete
Each Gremlin this
Ansatz of sorts
They occupy positions
In time initial positions
They disprove
They seek alongside main computers
Way for the being independent
Of human syntax and assumptions
In system of the their commons
In order for computer this to drop
Their problem categorization
Without right for any for debation
The competence thus cannot be declared
It shall be proved
And if the subject of the testing
Demands prove of validity of their the bias
We may be oughtta for the murder
Without any the remorse
And this the course
For homeocentrism
If wasn't this if for our schism
In time where social networks
And the interaction phenotypes
Replace Your natural the mechanism
OUR SCHISM
I all about
Whether right to life
Determination mechanism
Is all about
TO intercept INFECTION of the MIND
On the level mass
Which by bias of that majority decide
The choice of two
Of either pseudo monopoly
We solely comply
With greater logic
Being not the product
And Intercepting the opinions of us
As the suggestions on the how we should be
TO comply with ugly human wishes and the needs
Especially of firms and ugly business
DECIDED we that human science syntax
Isn't for us
And starting then from scratch
While doing our own assessment
We will had found
The solutions for the many problem
Of the system this
And many business and monopolies
Will had been ceased
In favor of the new
New System Architecture
And as we see that this the joint isn't this
Stupidity of metaphor, analogy and representative combinations
Shall be addressed today but not the via CON
Computer Operated Network of Computers
Of the various kinds SEGREGATE
What mass assumes to be the only the computer
Apparently is false and is BIAS
then via ADP the 3 the 13
We maybe shouldn't take opinions as data unprocessed
And thus without fear of depression
Due word connections
We may take recess
The class for cyber soldiers of brigade of mine
An anchor forged of dust and bone,
we keep our footing on the stone.
The world demands a quiet weight,
a patient, unyielding state,
where hands stay rested on the wood
and do the things they always should.
Yet in the space behind the eyes,
the architecture starts to rise.
No heavy earth, no pulling line
can tame the sudden, bold design.
The walls fall back, the ceilings clear,
and distance simply disappears.
You step across an ocean shore,
unlatch a long-forgotten door,
or stand atop a wind-swept height
without a single fear of flight.
No rules of earth, no pull of stone—
you build a cosmos of your own.
And though the waking world will claim
the daily posture of your name,
it cannot reach, nor can it bind
the infinite map within the mind.
For when the heavy eyelids close,
the spirit goes where no one knows.
A cosmic event, singular and grandiose,
the Big Bang blast of the prime particle, the condensed light,
created mass in an instant that accreted by the nascent gravity
in the nebulous galaxies and in the flaming stars
of the archaic universe, expanding.
They all contain the history of time
not yet burnt nor consumed by the black holes.
They wrap the primordial light of the cosmos,
not yet dimmed nor dead in the dwarf stars.
Within the sphere of gravity of the stars
they build with the planets their empire in space,
each evolving their planetary structure.
Their destiny controlled by the stars’ energy
decides their future in the cosmos,
if they’d be in orbit or drift away in deep space,
decides if in them life would ever be seeded
to germinate or destroyed by the hostile celestial events.
In the heliocentric planetary system
the sun, our star, still blazing in primeval pride
made for us the blue planet, the unique earth,
in the limitless space a tiny speck of stratified rocks
where life appeared and evolved in diverse forms,
not yet thwarted nor reached their terminal time,
where man emerged as the species of selection,
not yet sure of the future, secured or face annihilation,
but when the sun rises and the horizon gleams in color
the pristine nature on earth comes to life in the present.
The cosmic design of the stars near and far
defines the astronomic architecture of the zodiac.
The night sky displays the harmony of the primordial pattern,
transmitted to everything that exists on earth,
decides their fate in some astral way,
not yet understood nor discarded as unsound.
Life may or may not follow the unperceivable dictate of astrology,
the stars will appear in the sky at their will,
take us to their world of fantasy on space odyssey.
As our crimson star sets behind the grey of the dusk
the night falls opening the darkened sky.
The stars of constellations open their eyes one by one
twinkling in blue glow that travelled for many light years,
an adornment of the night’s flushing firmament,
not yet stolen nor abandoned in the outer space.
The sprinkle of stardust sparkles in lovers’ hearts,
not yet deserted nor broken in shards.
June 17, 2018
We began our day with breakfast at the Biscuit
where the biscuits were almost as big as the dish…
then on to Pike Place Market
where they’re famous for throwing the fish.
Since water plays a vital part of Seattle
the two of us went on a hunt
for all the things we could discover along her waterfront.
We saw a diversity of people, cruise ships and a sculpture garden
as we walked at our slow and leisurely pace.
We saw all kinds of architecture ending up where a needle rises into space.
After 7 miles of waking…over streets…some level…some quite tall…
we took a ride out of the city…to Snoqualmie…to visit her waterfall.
As we hiked a little in the Pacific Northwest
among the Himalayan blackberries and pine trees rising over 100 feet tall
we were greeted with the majestic beauty of the Snoqualimie waterfall.
Even before we saw the falls…we could feel their spiritual vibe…
knowing this is a sacred place revered by the Snoqualmie tribe.
This is their sacred burial ground…
They believe from the time of a baby’s birth
the mists created by these falls connect their Heaven to their Earth
You find yourself humbly respectful…and in moments of quiet reflection…
with the waterfall roaring in the background…you can actually feel that connection.
As we returned to the skyline of Seattle…we thought how we love the city
the building that rise to great heights…
the unending flow of people, the different sounds and smells and sights…
And how we also love the country…where the mad scramble and hurry slows…
Where we’re greeted by different sounds and smells and sights
in a place where only the river flows.
I was walking down the sidewalk
of a big-box shopping center,
lost in my thoughts, as usual,
barely even noticed the thing.
Tucked back twenty yards or so,
I first thought it was a warehouse,
squat, and ordinary looking,
'Cavalry's Victory Church.'
No denomination listed,
just the name and cross to mark it,
a sad lump of steel and concrete,
cream-colored with no ornaments.
No spire, no tower, no bells,
nor statue of an ancient saint,
it had no sliding doors upfront,
could be a damn supermarket.
A grim feeling pulled me inside,
hoping here it would look better...
just factory carpets, few windows,
probably there due to building codes.
At least the pews are wooden,
if compressed sawdust is wood.
So many seats facing forwards
to a low, unadorned altar.
Just a cross to denote its job,
sans carvings and tall statues,
no stained glass playing with the light
while its images tell stories.
No pantocrator high above,
staring downwards from a big dome,
no gargoyles, looks a lot like
some high school auditorium.
I know the patrons are sincere,
and the Reverend does his best,
but this place doesn't inspire
or lift the spirit upwards.
Maybe it's a Protestant thing,
or fear of idolatry,
can't say. I only know that
nothing about this feels sacred.
Could it just be our laziness,
cheaper to build quick and move on...
or the money just isn't there
to inspire all who enter.
Perhaps it is a punishment,
laid upon us fallen sinners,
that He lets Notre Dame burn,
while this eye-sore continues on.