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Scratch the itch from the poison of modernity
in the tapestry of culture as it contrasts and conflicts
in gentrified decay; where UV is cast into stone
as it crumbles to the sound of archaic rhythm.

Only some of the clock hands refuse to turn
to allow different splinters of time to converge.
as others idle by propelled by contemporary euphoria;
grinding on ages already passed.

Mechanisms of time fragment in the sound of simplicity,
relics are no longer held in memory
but carved in hieroglyphs,
worn into cobblestones of interchangeable streets
all leading to a history which repeats.
written after a mini adventure on the streets of a perplexingly quaint town.
KateKarl Jan 25
The contemporaries show the world at it’s best as a panoramic pane of glass,

     Clad in bloodless steel.

But it has never looked more a forbidden garden than between prison-bar windows,

     My view is the sweetest fruit.

And I wouldn’t take the modern architecture because what now looks like paradise,

     Is probably a parking lot.
For a creative writing assignment. Any and all criticism, constructive or cruel, is appreciated!
Tonight I was glad
to see the stars again
above the old bricks.
Walking in the countryside town of my youth, I felt the joy of being far from the city (Paris).
Matilda Oct 2018
The first time I left New York
The Architecture chased me....
Screamed in stone:
“Don’t go!”
You drew blanks as your ego shot
the shadows inside you still glowing
sniping through the rage hope left you with
it always asked for more than it could give.
Your lungs still choke on the blood from the last collision
but neither of us pulled the trigger
it happened of its own volition
now you're woven into starlight
written into the architecture
and I'm now left with the desire to tear this world into the ground.
**** yeah for angry poems!! Found this one half finished in my notepad! Enjoy :)
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
My white gazebo
with thin caryatid columns
and wrought iron top
on a frieze carved with small leaves
The crown jewel of dew-kissed lands
My first Tanka poem! ^-^
Tanka is considered to be the oldest form of Japanese poems. What I love about them is that they are incredibly similar to haikus!
Haikus are 5 syllables - 7 syllables - 5 syllables while Tankas are  5 syllables - 7 syllables - 5 syllables  - 7 syllables - 7 syllables.
Tankas poems are written about nature, seasons, love, sadness,  other strong emotions and events.
Here's mine! Based on an gazebo I saw in a garden once and one I envision for my growing Kingdom. I'm a lover of Greek myth and ancient architecture so I just had fun with it.
Hope you like it!
Wishing everyone a good night!
Queen Lyn ***
If I teach you to fish
Will you do it?

Or will you remind me
That my teaching doesn’t fully yield your expertise?
And when you fail to seize
Success - simply yelp
That docs aren’t enough to help?

Or will you blame process or my people
For your team’s devovlement in sheeple?

I want discourse and not dissent
I want progress and not lament.
I want proactiveness and common ground -
I want you to fish well - when I can’t be found.

I need you to step up - this ain’t just some punt.
I need you to fish - so I can learn to hunt.
I have always loved the idea of an end goal to any role should be to do everything you can to make yourself obsolete - that way you can keep doing and learning new things yourself!  You do need to have people you can trust though to take over the thing you want to move on from  - not always a given.
Frances May 2018
Today is a day of travel
Late for the first train
Early morning marvels
We're lucky there isn't rain

With you I needn't strain
My love and I
Oh my sweet Samuel
I can't wait to see how far we can go

Our first big trip
Together we'll see
Milwaukee to Chicago

Where the wind hymns
Through the concrete redwoods
Sheds infectious excitement
The buzz of an infrastructure hive
To pulse through every scurrying limb

With beating darting glossy eyes
Where necks crane concave
To gaze upon the monuments
The statues
The striking glory of an architectural revolution

This train, ridden in adult hood
Is still reminiscent of my youngest days
Where curly golden locks
Oshkosh b'gosh overalls
And fists the size of a common house mouse

Dutifully and loyaly gripped
The softly sanded wooden train whistle
Galloping around my grandparents
Gently cooing to the moon and sun
Until my little lungs couldn't blow any more

This trains horn is more authoritative
It asks us to hurry or watch out
But inside the car it's only a lullaby
a benevolent force
All red, blue and silver
Glistening upon arrival and exit

These metal cans have long windows
Stretching from seat to sea to forest through the trees
Children's faces adhear to it
wide eyed and chin dropped  
As we pass swiftly and smoothly

The lush verdure and crushing azure
Of the Midwest's rolling glacial fields
All transient and ghostly passing through

Farther though as close as could be
An unseen body and lonesome forearm
Reveals itself from behind the curtain seat

One finger hold a golden wedding ring
This halo he wears or it wears him ever so perfectly
Only slightly indented upon his golden hued skin
His wrist watch is of the like
Shows 11:45 upside down to mine eyes
R Nov 2017
It's done.
I finished it.
The Gods are pleased.
The Pharaoh smiles at it.
It pierces the sky thoroughly.
And yet, part of me thinks.
Do they care about it?
I see the skies,
and notice the
stars align.
It's supposed to be a pyramid, though this font doesn't make the appearance look good. Just squint a bit.
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