Juries Poems | Examples

Artificial Intelligence is?

Where a series of 
					messages fly across
profiles inflated
					in balloons of
hot air.

Where a model with doctored skin
sells better cells to cover your acne,
where people 'blackout' Tuesday
and appropriate taking a knee.

Where truth is a golden ticket, impossible to find,
where 'likes' replace juries, and we forget to #bekind.
Where stories are created at the push of a key,
replacing where dreams and drafting used to be.

Where a voice called Alexa can order, suggest and locate,
but also listen and through silent algorithms manipulate.
Where faceless Gemini can offer names for your new-born,
an ironic namesake, a duplicitous invader on your own front lawn.

And most of the time 
                                     those ongoing anonymous 
messages simply
                                     ghost

I J K L M N Poem

injured iguanas ignite interest in Indonesia’s injuries
Jubilant jackals joyfully joined January jealous juries
kind-hearted kangaroos kindled koala’s kaleidoscopic kin
large luxurious lions lollygagged in London lamented Lynn
marinated mongooses marveled at Marauder’s mini-Monday
Naysayers need not negate necessary niggling notes of nay.

Miles Tones

You spoke a new language
  of rarefied air
  guided nonchalantly 
  through curving channels of brass

Conduits of cool
  juries of jazz
  floating past soulful valves 
  harbingers of what will come

Slender fingers
  improvising storylines
  magistrates of melancholy
  bailiffs of bop

Miles from the mainstream
  a milestone of 
  modern modalities 
  kind of blue

Big Bad Wolf

If the big bad wolf had evil eyes or looked the part
Scary and frightening, with an obviously mean heart
We would not be fooled, and life would be fine
But Big Bad Wolf camouflages himself, completely out of line.

He has a handsome face, and clean manicured hands.
He dances a slow methodical foxtrot to popular bands.
He opens the doors, and uses polite words like please.
So unsuspecting innocents do not spot his sleaze.

Juries let him off over and over again.
Because his smile charmed them or their kin.
He looks contrite, some say, we could not convict him.
Thus, the Big Bad Wolf gets to murder innocents once again.

Mean Match

Hire hundred hands--
Into interesting interview, 
Judging juries justice
Knitting knights.

Did We Go Too Far

Did we finally just push things too far
step over a sign warning us "Avert"?
Roads newly cluttered and freshly tarred
with bodies of those our trodding has hurt.

Did we laugh, throwing caution in the air,
watch it bobble, wobble, gracelessly fall
Caps, but no masks, smiling "I don't care,
freedom is ours, we will march to its call!"

Judges, juries, jargon, jousting, and jails:
none up to the task of saving our lives.
Speaking quietly over loud, angry wails,
reason, persistence may help us survive.

Losing Democracy our biggest dread,
it hangs tenuously by a truth's thread.

Jolly Juries

Generosity jaded justified generosity genuinely generously jolly juries


12/24/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020

Thought About Murder

Rain falling
Wind blowing
Snug under the duvet
Four heartbeats and just a moment from sleeping 
Thought about murder
Had no motive; no reason
Needed not an opportunity; nor means
Four heartbeats and just a moment from sleeping 
My feet were warm
My bladder was empty
The alarm clock was set
Four heartbeats and just a moment from sleeping 
Just a thought; about murder
A thought about a perfect murder
Thought about appearances, juries and judges
Four heartbeats and just a moment from sleeping
I wasn’t ill-intentioned
No wrongs on my mind 
Snug under the duvet
Four heartbeats and just a moment from sleeping
Thought about the election
Character assassination
Losing gratitude
Suddenly sleepless; under the duvet

Bang To Rights

Love died last night and I hadn't a clue
that the smoking gun was held by you.
You covered your tracks with alibi's
and dirty, rotten, low down lies.
Whilst I was serious, you were having fun,
and it was you who held the smoking gun.

The corpse of our romance lies in the gutter,
cut down in its prime by a trigger happy nutter.
You promised that this time it was for real,
and I fell, like a fool, for your crooked deal.
Your cheating ended my winning run,
and it was you who held the smoking gun.

Our love died and was buried yesterday,
when loads of mourners came to pray.
They offered condolences and said its a shame,
but that you sure knew how to play the game.
The juries out and my trials are done,
'cause it was you who held the smoking gun.

Now your wanted poster's all over town,
for the death of a poor unsuspecting clown.
Whose only crime was falling head over heels,
with a cold hearted, scheming woman who deals.
But now I'm much happier just chasing the sun,
and all you have is a smoking gun.

The Untitled Poem

The Untitled Poem

Born to die, we live to dream
Thoughts flowi boundless as the sky
The world closing in with a cold metal scream
As we search for the how, scan for the why
Pray for an answer to the problem of living.

Our questions are old, desires unforgiving
We make love and war, with passionate fury
We tally the balance of taking, giving
Thinking like judges and behave like juries
Cooling our emotions in reason's soft light.

We decide our own fates on the edge of night
When the time comes and finds us no place to retreat
We control our rage, command our fright
To take leave of us, casting weakness at our feet
To take our place at last, to look back nevermore.

The time draws near, when we shall knock on Heaven's door.

Should I Not Be Found Alive

Sty all your bodied waters
And libelous pretensions.
Hang leather headed juries
Beside some tethered eddies.

Drown me down
In new baptismal rivers.
Spread eagle me upon
Some granite black outcroppings.

And let my liver ribbon 
From beaks of shadowed ravens.
Let my thigh bones 
Fossil on the rocks.

Should I be buried under
When cliffs calf shuddered thunders,
No words of prayer be spoken
Just leave and let me be.

The Great American Racist

THE GREAT AMERICAN RACIST
I stand my ground and white is what is me
as fair a man as there could ever be
I'll not apologize to anyone
for what the world's dependent on
but love my own, for that's the way I see.

Excuses come from those who ever fail
or educated by their time in jail
and racist it may be
but it's the side of me
who stands by justice, in its final wail;

the die's been cast; and juries set the stage
and let out are the crazies from their cage;
while whites proclaim all guilt from high
and others only live the lie
expecting things to change because of rage;

Whose knife has cut the thread once meant to bind
depriving all the love there is to find?
The greatest tragedy of all
is when our backs are to the wall--
the ending won't reveal, the truth we find.

© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Vengeance of God

A man broke into my house and killed my entire family.
Because of his corrupt lawyer, he was found not guilty.
He killed another family and was found not guilty a second time.
His lawyer convinced the juries to find him innocent of the crimes.
I was going to have vengeance by killing him and I was really going to do it.
But God was just as angry as I was and he beat me to it.
The killer got third degree burns all over his body when he was engulfed by flames.
God made him pay because he was an abomination who brought nothing but shame.
I went through hell when he was found not guilty, it was too much to sustain.
He survived for four days after being burned and he was in excruciating pain.
I was working on night shift and that's why I wasn't able to protect my family.
God's vengeance was worse than my own, that's why the killer died in agony.

(Even though this poem is fictional, God really does have vengeance from time to time.)

My Singing Star

MY SINGING STAR

Annual days in our University existed before too, only in annals,
Until the day, she on the ramp thrilled our hearts that came to the ears;
We had ‘Abbey Road on the River’; we lived in our souls and became ears,
That heard the first time ‘unheard melodies’ reverberating through Lit annals.

The Nightingale of India would’ve left her oriole and put her in musical panels;
The roaring Moor would’ve left Desdemona to live, riveting his ears for years,
The brooding Ruth would’ve left her diffidence to dance sprightly for years,
To the thrill of her voice, sounding end to sittings of juries, forever in annals.

She could’ve sung ‘they’re gonna make a big star out of me,’
But, that would’ve rivaled the great Beatles; she could’ve her ‘Jai Ho’ 
That would’ve made Mozart of Madras again dedicate glory to Him.

Lyrics she required not, for, it’s in the listeners’ glee;
Lyres she required not, her voice throbs humans in harmony, robbing ego;
Life is un-lived, if you have no ears for my singing star, not even Him.

The Lost Case

Plaintiff,my eye glass,

Defendant,glass case,

Separated both,

Settlement sought,

File the case at the courts,

You are the Judge not a Juri today!

(One of the juries at a courts of law missed his eye glass case,
He messaged to his fellow juri to return it as per this message)

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