Long Detective Poems
Long Detective Poems. Below are the most popular long Detective by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Detective poems by poem length and keyword.
When we sat at the picnic table for the first time,
it was a world of our own, without notice to activity around
Hours of talking, connecting, starting our mission
The sun couldn't shine brighter in the sky above us
The relief felt like the calm water in the lake nearby
So many connections with so much understanding
Most of all, we both had the same drive for justice
What were the odds we would meet after thirty years?
Back then, we were in the same place without knowing it
Here we were in the same place together now,
Truly remarkable from persistence in my pursuit for so long
We worked hard, we tried, we knew truth and believed
Then later, he went missing while I couldn't reach him daily
People thought I was over-reacting, I may not see him again
Then came the day, I heard the devastating news
He is dead, killed in a mission to help me and himself
He never reached retirement as a Lieutenant homicide detective
He deserved so much ahead of him and it was all gone!
The man who gave me more than anyone in my life...
Don't ask me why these endless memories ripple in my mind,
so many times through all of these years
When I see him again in heaven, I know what he will say...
- I saw it all -
Heidi Sands
6/2/26
(C)opyright
I wake up screaming
Max the Axe has just chopped me into bits
It is not the first time
but this time I felt it.
I glare at my husband who is still clicking buttons.
Can you give that a rest? I ask.
He does not hear me.
He is in lahlah land
In video game world.
Being a detective
Solving crimes
Right and left.
He has no idea there is a real person in this room
For he is Sam Spade aka Humphry Bogart
Master detective with a Maltese Falcon
Who has not yet discovered Lauren Bacall
Living in the 60's
Over a bar in Los Angeles
Written: April 19th, 2020 Poetry Contest: Strand Pick C, Any Theme
Sponsor: Brian Strand Any Form
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing.
How happy she felt now that it was spring.
She smelled the bouquet of fragrant roses
She would marry him; offer her posies.
Up she climbed the stairs to their hiding place,
Her face shining, lovely so full of grace.
The sleuth would ruin such a lovely face,
He knew well, her divorce was fine as lace.
From here the city churches pierced the mist.
Viewing the scene; anger he couldn't resist.
He had done his job; got all evidence,
She had money; a place of residence.
It was time to get paid and enjoy life
He had no thought of making her his wife.
Took his fee, opened the door, and watched her stare.
He closed it, and, now smiling, crossed the square.
He'd disappear, went to another town
Found other women, but avoid renown.
10 syllables per line, hopefully.
I love a good movie, I honestly do
I’d watch one alone and I’d watch one with you
Adventure or Western, perhaps a film noir,
A comedy suited to my Ma and Pa
I like a good Thriller, a detective drama
A tale of vendetta, of justice or Khama
I do enjoy Horror, I rather like gruesome
And stories of outlaws or some wayward twosome
And thrill me with gunfights, a street brawl or two
A hideous death for the bad guy will do
I do love a story, exciting or fun
Not just an excuse for firing a gun
Okay, I confess that I like those films too
In which gangsters shoot up a hullabaloo
But the plot is the crux, it’s what makes my mind smile
You can’t just have guns going off all the while
It’s pouring outside and pretty damned cold
A night in with Netflix has gotten me sold
So let’s watch a movie; forget going out
Let’s sit down and see what ‘John Wicks’ is about
*
Well, she’s gone to bed and I’m sat on my tod
Most of the cast are conversing with God
I have to confess that this shoot-em-up rave
Is gonna go down… as a personal fave!
All your fans adored you for many years.
Great starring in roles brought both laughter and tears.
Seeing you up on the screen larger than life,
was glorious, and cut through me like a knife.
The movies you starred in were a plethora.
When with Claire Trevor or Maureen O’Hara,
you were one of Hollywood’s best leading men.
When I saw you on television again,
as a fighting cowboy in the old Wild West,
your acting was brilliant, and among the best.
In your war pictures, and in detective parts,
you were impressive, winning movie fans’ hearts.
Though you are now gone, we will remember you,
having genuine acting talent so true.
As the second hand ticks away my breaths
a half-clad moon catches my eye.
Was a time when I might've seen
the ghost of half-eaten melon,
but I'm older now, my thoughts less spry.
Dark fear's hobgoblins
were long since relegated
to memory's chuckle drawer;
open windows to warm nights ease my mind.
I must shave and write.
Neither seem as pressing
as the once hormone-inducing prance
in distant starlight,
the hot exhalations of desert air.
Nor do creased page corners
to detective thrillers and t.v.'s prattle
beckon hours with purpose.
I'm the insouciant sentry
at castles in retirement,
the dragon minus annoying fire.
Crows no longer pick eyes of the dead
in picture frames on paneled walls.
My shoes don't guardedly tread
engineered woods of perfection.
Aging brings a basset hound,
graying around the nose,
laying placidly on the rug.
I'll get to tasks eventually.
For now I commune with the moon,
allowing my mind the idyll
of a worn desk in a cluttered room
and the dulcet laze in lyrics of night birds
serenading summer's first hours.
6/19/18
A tiny black wood tick
jumps from the tall grass onto
my ankle, past my sock, and
Crawls up stealthily and silently
up my left leg. Luckily,
my leg is super sensitive to its little feet.
The leg brain alerts the aware brain, and
I look down, spying her instantly.
I catch her on her way up, squash her
into the center of a tissue,
and toss her into the garbage can.
I feel smug, that I got her before she
could latch on, burying her head inside my skin.
I am the victor, here.
The champ.
The detective.
The one who did not get bit.
I wish my scalp
And my back
Were half as sensitive as my legs.
They have let me down time
and time again this summer,
allowing these annoying critters free reign
on their tasty free range.
And what help is my husband?
I don't LIKE wood ticks, he whines.
And he thinks I do?
Barking Madly at the Shore
The early morning wakes to find
the sun struggling above the horizon,
offering what warmth it can,
to a shivering sweep of sky
that is blue with cold.
Below, the sea whispers secrets,
playfully licking at the shoreline
while litter starts to sprint the beach
and jigsaw pieces of cloud
slowly smudge-grey the sky.
Before long, the sea has gained
a mischievous glint in its watery eye
and is barking madly at the shore
as it sends waves to froth and foam
around a finger of lighthouse.
As the day ages, the sea rhythms on
while distant ships slip and slide by
and the occasional winged seagull,
like a torn piece of white paper,
is ripped from the scene.
Eventually as a distant hand
throws darkness all around,
the lighthouse can be seen
silvering the moonless sea;
a detective on its latest case.
Ian Souter
“Give me the phone Effie.
I have to make a call.”
She handed it over to me
and walked into the hall.
The inspector had no clues.
He asked for my two cents,
asked me to give him my views.
I didn’t; the call was intense.
The dame had come in
asking for my advice
two days ago and then
was arrested by Vice.
I had seen the smallish
puncture, blood pooling,
and I wanted to abolish
the coroner’s ruling.
The wound was there,
but he missed the needle
lying next to the chair.
He tried to wheedle.
If I couldn’t get the cops
to do their job, I’d need
to pull out all stops
to find a hard lead.
For Gershon...with smiles
Inspired by, but not entered in, Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Life is a phase
Full of energy like my son's crayon
It open up in pages
Flipping through in no rhythm of colors
Our dreams are often in cage
Strings and tunes are in block colors
Yesterday paces up in phases
With a lot of good memory in black
Today is like a snail with no pace
Hoping that this present peace will still be white
Tomorrow soars to the heaven in a chase
Life is then fine-tuned to a shade of colors
Just like a detective writer Hadley Chase
With a dance of colorless tune in sight
We have made for our generations a good case
Our dream is a like green with no fertility
Sometimes like rotten food, it get decayed
Yet we smile with our faces red in anger
Holding the future rainbow with the mace
Alayande Stephen T.
9.28pm
06/10/2016