Best Buildings Poems
Buildings go up
Trees come down
Country living
Becomes a town.
Wildlife vanishes
Streets appear
The destruction of yesterday
Draws quickly near.
Lights are abundant
Stars are no more
The horizon is hidden
Behind constructions decor.
Greed runs wild
Where nature walks
Silence is golden
But money talks.
Farms erased
Corporations written
The beauty of our land
No longer smitten.
Fresh air shrinks
Pollution expands
Across this vast country
Litter stands.
Liquor stores go up
Wetlands come down
In human stupor
Nature drowns
There is no truce for Hamas, these terrorist murderers not only kill Israelis,
but allow their Palestine citizens, men, women, and completely innocent
children to be slaughtered as shields for their insane and cowardly cause, I hope
they (HAMAS) and other terrorist groups are all blown to HELL! Then maybe we
can finally end WAR!
Abandoned buildings
Along the street row on row
They watch and they wait
Man’s lofty hopes once soared in stone.
His architecture sought God’s sky,
In spires uprisen, sprung from earth.
Today, man’s mood is crudely shown
In concrete cubes that smite the eye,
Brute paleoliths of stone-age worth
That future archeologists, amazed, will scan,
And ponder… did ape-like artisans evolve from man?
There is no truce for Hamas, these terrorist murderers not only kill Israelis,
but allow their Palestine citizens, men, women, and completely innocent
children to be slaughtered as shields for their insane and cowardly cause, I hope
they (HAMAS) and other terrorist groups are all blown to HELL! Then maybe we
can finally end WAR!
The buildings in the city
Love to talk about
All the hustle that's within
And bustle that's without
Downtown people always
Scurrying here and there
As the buildings windows
Take on a reflective stare
Everyone around them
Always on the go
Not knowing where they're going
But staying with the flow
Not at all the least bit concerned
With other peoples lives
As they take another rung
On the corporate ladder of lies
If the buildings could they would
Try and help them out
They feel they're partially to blame
Since the city came about
When men all got together
To give progress a name
Not knowing this same progress
Would be their ball and chain
If the buildings only had
Warned some time ago
That most of what man attains
Leads to his downfall
I look across the tables filled with crowds of people and I see cliques, families, and couples. These are structures to me, under constant construction yet fully complete at the same time. There, stands pillars of popularity, supported by many butresses that cling on their every word. They are fastened together with nails of piercing laughter that could as easily be used to harm, but now are used to build up. These towers lack space for the smallest brick to be added, but are open enough to embrace another pillar of popularity equally as grand. I wouldn't fit in there. Near the monuments to 'fitting in', is a family. Facing each other, their backs create a wall that defend the home inside from outside intrusions. The eldest acts as a porticulus welcoming any brick of the same size and shape as the others but still screening out any foreign material from their inclusion. As they look toward each other, they believe that their bricks are all uniform and belong, but their wall is in fact spotted with misfit bricks and splatters of clashing paint. I wouldn't fit in there. By the window is a young couple, a pair of awkward and new pieces of lumber that don't match each other at all, yet they are cut to the same length. They are trying to glue themselves together and are under the false impression that the only way to do this is to leave absolutely no space between each other. The glue is fresh and the piece of lumber are not used to being adheased, but they are still fresh and plyable and they are intent on building their relationship. Given time, they too will become walls encircling homes with a heavy gate of their own. I wouldn't fit in there.
No one sits by me
I am better off alone
Here, by empty seats
It's okay. I'm alright, because from this vantage point I can observe. I see the groups and hear their conversations. I don't need to be a butress for one of the pilars of popularity. I don't need to be carved into the right shape for another wall. I don't need to impede the construction of a new building. I am content here, out of the way, surrounded by empty seats.
Ancient ruins stand alone,
tired sentries over ancient lands;
they watch and remember their glory days.
Testaments to their builders;
do they ever wish a glorious revivification?
History tells their stories when
they need them heard but,
the, “horses mouth” can tell them better.
Visit them and share their lives;
they do love company.
Cock-crow precipitation -dripping
from the eaves stores cry, “no, no they weep.”
Ciao to the sun-god and the dryness coming
the conurbation awakes from sleep.
Crows roost on high-wires caws calling
begging their searching for initial treat.
Five wire, barbwire, steel-post line falling
in a fissure many feet deep.
Placid the zephyr over edifice telling
depressing the stones before the heat.
Echo of first footsteps selling
clamors and calmer of shod feet.
Poltergeist reflects in structure reaping
apparitions where once stood the heap
of trice crumpled twin buildings
a hole were prior the blameless sleep.
"Old buildings inspire my poetic soul,
and touch my heart forever."
Quote by _Constance
Love the old heritage buildings in the downtown of my city,
and how architects have let old mingle with modern;
oh, to demolish a beautiful heritage building is a pity !
Yes, I adorn an old building that has been long trodden,
by many people from hundreds of years ago;
in awe I walk on floors where their footsteps have fallen !
Closing my eyes I imagine their spirits still dwell and flow,
and the turrets and moulding details of each inspire me;
one was a jail with bodies of those hung- buried below !
I feel this concern for each old structure and ancient tree,
also some old grand homes are neglected and falling down;
like sad sinking ships in a vast grey sea of concrete !
Oh, I want to save every decaying house that is rundown;
before these once lovely old homes just tumble-down !
_________________
July 14, 2022
Poetry/Terza Rima/Old, But Still Lovely
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1473-640-14
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Five Stanza Terza Rima
sponsor, L MILTON HANKINS, Judged 08/02/2022
Somewhere
Inside empty buildings
Our voices still echo
Bouncing
From
Wall to wall
Somewhere
Inside empty buildings
Where our voices still echo
Are the sounds
Of our shoes
Walking in
Walking out
Walking on
It’s quiet now
Born and lived as one
Suffering terrorist wrath
Housing souls within
Falling to their knees
With fatal skeletal wounds
Bleeding flesh and dust
Catastrophic acts
To the ground, loose curtains fall
Human spirits soar
9/11 names
Speaking through living voices
Never forgotten
Somewhere
Inside empty buildings
Our voices still echo
Bouncing
From
Wall to wall
Somewhere
Inside empty buildings
Where our voices still echo
Are the sounds
Of our shoes
Walking in
Walking out
Walking on
It’s quiet now
The tired sun sets over an everbustling city
blinding dazed commuters heading west
their cars in single files attempt to scatter
I hear a sound of hush descend over the cityscape
while towers scraping as high as they can reach
just crave to punch their card and call it a day
Hoping to wind down before they close their eyes
the buildings gently exhale and bid adieu while
a setting sun ablaze at the end of each long day
lights on cue the downtown garden of glass castles
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2025
Submitted on February 5, 2020 for contest WRITING PROMPT - TAKE THE DAGGER OUT sponsored by DEAR HEART - RANKED 3RD
It juts out by the river road,
traffic passes it each morn,
what’s left of the old aqueduct,
something stately, yet still forlorn.
The rock, with no mortar, was set
so fine it would make Incas proud,
precise enough to still hold up
today, and centuries from now.
There’s a display with a picture
of how it looked in days of old,
twenty arches spanned the river,
hand-built by men flinty and bold.
On it ran the Erie Canal,
crossing the rough Mohawk below,
on barges towed by stubborn mules,
the trips were long, steady, and slow.
This once helped open the Midwest
to settlers, to goods and trade,
but that’s a different country now,
and long ago such things did fade.
The roads and rails brought prices down,
and moved much quicker than a mule,
they went and dammed the river up,
much wider than some man-made pool.
That fact, alas, would be its end,
the arches blocked the way of boats,
and in the winter jammed the ice,
so floods onto spring banks would flow.
They blew up all the arches grand,
only those by the shore remain,
buried half of that great canal,
now barely known, save for the name.
Those who still use the aqueduct
are kids leaping into the drink,
someday they’ll try to shut that down,
claiming that it’s a ‘safety thing.’
And the arches that look just like
something made back in ancient Rome,
will be like all great things men built,
reduced to naught but broken stone.