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Horizons from his tower room
reach out beyond the city's brink... the urban squall would not allow a focused mind that yearns to think. This lonely room with lab arrays implores to find the missing link. Diseases' cures are still in need of finding by the precious few who hide behind a mask or wall, avoiding public déjà vu, but free to concentrate their skill on brilliant deeds long overdue. The world is better off, indeed, because the doctor has a place where he can study, take his notes, experiment, and yet, embrace his view from windows high above the chaos of the human race. 
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I think dusk becomes you,
With darkening roads and signs, A sharpened horizon Contrasts with your pale confines Of dimmed observation. My traffic and focus, Which dutifully holds my heed, Succumbs now to beauty Of sundown and clouds that precede Twilight's hesitation. Brown sky after sunlight, You've paled from your brilliant day, But yet to elapse In noble attempts to delay Your cold transformation. 
If you peek at the architect's pad
you will see what a craftsman might sketch, a small window to musings he's had when he's given the freedom to stretch his imagination. You won't see the sharp squares of his youth, the rectangular buildings that trace kindred lines, a distortion of truth; no, the world's not a uniform place of delineation. Semicircular summits extend the sweet curvature, arching to span a great foyer, for eyes to ascend; he perceived it before work began- his celebration. Its construction is on a quick stride for completion in four or five weeks; it will act as the humanist's guide to the world, for the architect speaks with admiration. 
Technology appears anew,
as Progress must advance, and past inventions take their cue, resigned without a glance. Replacements serve us humans well, each polishing the last, the obsolete are left to dwell in graveyards of the past. No time for aged, passé machines, too quickly Progress comes, as retrogressive metal scenes are views of low-tech slums. How sad to see what once was used to save us work and time, now tossed aside, disfigured, bruised, a shadow of its prime. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
November 2018
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