Long Doctorate Poems
Long Doctorate Poems. Below are the most popular long Doctorate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Doctorate poems by poem length and keyword.
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Dear Budding Poet,
Modern poetry to me is the reflection of the chaos and
declining intolerance of modern times. It expresses the pent-up
emotions writhing in complexity trying to embrace our beautiful lives.
I know you’re a budding poet pining to express yourself and
aspiring to make a mark. My advice to you would
be to listen to your heart and transcribe in your own way what
it says. It’ll become a poem because your heart is the window
on the world through which you perceive the human values taking
intricate shapes, yarns of emotions weaving tapestry of joy
and grief, and the beauty of life designing ecstasy in your mind.
Don't ever close this window. You look out at the pristine
nature and absorb the elegance it frames. You would reach
the realm of exaltation when your mind would swim on
imagination. Let it flow in its own course meandering through
the landscape of your times. Wake up the muse in you and
let it float. You’ll then find formless blocks of words appear
as imagery. You need to use your pen to sculpt from these
the piece of art, your poetry.
Poetry in my life is like a perennial fountain drenching my
parched mind, drowning my sorrow, draining my tears
and satiating me with joy of creation.
My favorite themes : nature, love, emotions, fantasy,
introspection, desire, dream.
My favorite reference sources : www. howmanysyllables.com,
Cliché Finder, Thesaurus, www.rhymezone.com.
Titles of my favorite poems I’ve written (in order of preference) :
Atmospheric Pressure, Your Lacustrine Beauty, Through
The Opaque Night, Flowing Silence, As I was Walking In The Snow,
Searching You, Sign of Times, Kite Flies Away From Concrete
Jungle, Opening The Mind’s Petals, Embrace of Quietus.
My literary background : I’m an Earth Scientist having a doctorate
degree, published many scientific papers , received national
awards for research. My parents who were teachers of
literature infused in me the love for poetry. I started writing poetry
from high school days, published 4 books of poems.
Suggestion for book title : “The making of a poet”,
“Poems in search of a poet”.
May, 23, 2018.
15 years, 20 jobs
11 ambulance rides
15 people died
moved 20 times
countless admissions to a hospital
the right to my own person overlooked
4 murders
2 suicides
the police and psychiatrists covering their tracks
lengthy period of punishment
look it up in the charter of rights and freedoms
war criminal doctorate in malpractice
the biker gangs overtaking the police system
a global enemy
me your blond haired blue eyed poetic criminal
100 year war mission victom
im sure even politicians and tv journalists have
infiltration instruction to micromanage a society
built on someone elses empire of lies
prepare the funeral pyre
the kiss and tell blackmail of sabotoge
name one persons life today
they have not completely destroyed
among the homeless in your shelters
you sniff out the senses of your enemies
Egg in the church basket like the mafia
who only takes care of their own
the list of ancestries and family trees
of guilty by association
red carpet grave funeral party
recruited for war
instructed on their mission
letter in the mail
and no escape for them
lost on an island
global enemies sent
different uniforms worn
representing the doublestandards of their vile crimes
police, and doctors, judges, and criminals alike
the layers of your life to get to drug ring bosses
stranded on this island to become a true war hero this time
either dead before you get there
or dead upon arrival
survival instincts of the jail house maximum security
island arrivals
Global enemies of all sides
sent to this modern bermuda triangle
the global army insists upon it
in the end we bomb the million stranded starving terrorists
forced to die a hero
the seven names on this list of enemy powers
guilty by association in the criminal records
Ha Ha Ha super soldiers
im just a blonde haired blue eyed poetic criminal
your 100 year long war mission
finaly explained, your long term plan for survival
Round em up
everyone of them
your global enemy that has caused this much confusion
lead to the wars we fight today
the truth remains unknown
global enemies all around the world
the terror that they spread
like the rise of the hell's angels
I am a white, middle class, American male; raised in a white, middle class American home. I would not say that my upbringing included a lot of diversity.
I remember talking to my brother, Jimmy, just before he told my father he was gay. Jimmy told me about the inner struggle he wrestled with in first admitting to himself that he was homosexual. He said he thought it was wrong; it was sinful and something he must avoid being. Once he realized that being homosexual was not a fault but an innate sexual preference, he decided that he would not live a life of lies. He, therefore, decided to tell his family about his sexual inclination. It took a lot of courage to tell my ex-marine father.
Afi is a beautiful, strong, black African woman; raised in a black, African home. Afi will admit that she is not overly charitable and not likely to do volunteer work. When she first came to the U.S., however, she was appalled with how our society treated its AIDS victims. In Africa, Afi would tell us, AIDS patients were embraced and cared for, not shunned and outcaste like here in the U.S.
Jimmy was not a promiscuous man. He only knew a few sexual partners in his too short life. Jimmy was a very intelligent and artistically gifted man. He was doing post–doctorate research in Iraklion, Greece when he first started showing symptoms of having AIDS.
When Afi volunteered to be an AIDS Buddy she made it clear that she did not want to be paired with someone who had full-blown AIDS. The organization was so hard pressed to find someone with a profile to match Jimmy’s intellect and interests that they begged Afi to just meet him, just once.
Afi says that within an hour she was no longer on a volunteer mission; she and Jimmy
would be friends regardless of a commitment to the Buddy system. Jimmy and Afi
remained best of friends for the two remaining years we were blessed with his presence.
It has been 15 years since Jimmy passed away. I am still a white, middle class, American male; from a white, middle class American family – only now, we have a beautiful, strong, black, African sister in our family.
Outside my dorm window, the snow began to fall;
Everybody had gone home, but I didn’t have a car.
Christmas break started yesterday, they’re gonna throw me out;
I’ve got no place to go, I’ll just be wandering about.
Rubbing elbows with the rich kids on an academic ride,
But the tracks that I come from are from the other side.
No daddy who’s a lawyer; no mother with a doctorate degree,
No car keys to a new Porsche underneath a Christmas tree.
Threw some clothes in my backpack with the cafeteria food that I stole;
Borrowed my roommate’s comforter to protect me from the cold.
Found a shelter for the homeless on the other side of town;
With my First Year Contract Law book, I started to hunker down.
A little boy walked up beside me and stood beside my cot,
“Mister, would you like to share my candy, it’s the only thing I got.
I’ll give you half my candy cane if you read me a story from your book.”
How could I refuse this little boy and the longing in his look?
“You can keep your Christmas candy, but I will tell you a story,
About a newborn baby King and the star that signaled glory.”
As I told the story of Christmas, the best I could recall,
People gathered around the two of use as the snow outside did fall.
When my story was finally over, the little boy just smiled,
And put a smile on every other face that gathered in the crowd;
Then he looked at every one of us and said, so simply,
“Jesus Christ put that star of hope into all of you and me.”
Suddenly, my self-pity flew right out of my soul,
Becoming rich like all my schoolmates, no longer was my goal,
I closed up my text book and went outside into the snow,
Laying on our backs, making snow angels, we watched the stars aglow.
“The star of hope still shines brightly, each and every Christmas night,
With our faith in baby Jesus, everything will turn out all right.”
I returned back to the university and finished my degree,
Dedicating my life thereafter to helping others out of poverty.
Every Christmas Eve I go back to that shelter on the far side of town,
And retell the story of Christmas to whoever comes around.
So good at hiding yourself for nothing
When you were singing that song you listen to,
On and on
Even though your eyes were closed,
It looked as though you were singing to someone in particular
Behind your eyelids,
Lays the faded, festering image
of who and what could've been
Well of course I retreat,
I have the relationship I want with it in my head
Holding myself captive with a doctorate in getting high off my own supply
Well of course I hesitate
And the emotional side effects are just the icing on the cake
These options are malnourished
And these solutions and falling short
And showing up like me
Lost, in love, and a little drunk
Well of course I retreat,
Your fake apology left me paralyzed like a spinal cord injury
Well of course I hesitate,
The moment I give even a grain,
Is the moment where my focus is wired to overcompensate
You're not entitled to reliance
It's something you earn
This is up to you, the weapon that you choose
This is up to you, the age of medicine and tools that you refuse
And this is up to me, to hoist the weight onto my shoulders or let it fall with gravity
Dead weight in jewelry boxes
Crystals and stars covertly scattered
But you already know the load on my plate that's only known to shatter
But it's okay, don't pity me
Don't even bother
Like a camera,
I'm too exposed to hopeful light
That only makes me shutter
When you were singing that song you listen to,
On and on
Even though your eyes were closed,
It looked as though you were singing to someone in particular
Behind your eyelids,
Lays the faded, festering image of who and what could've been
But this is up to you, the weapons that you discard or that you use
You could be high on your own supply but it'll always be abused
These options are malnourished and lack critical thinking
Emergency service seems despondent
With these mental alarms, only blinking
Well of course I retreat,
I have the relationship I want with it in my head
Behind my weary eyelids,
Lays the faded, festering image of who and what could've been
Today is our father's birthday,
Hip hip hooray, what a beautiful day.
Mother would have a birthday cake and candles,
Thoughtful presents from father's relatives.
I like to send father a handsome tie each year,
And maybe a shirt to go with his suit.
I remember his guidance through the years,
When he adopted me, i was from mother's first marriage.
This is very kind and good of him,
That allowed me to enrol in Teacher's College.
I graduated with an A with my friends,
My friend and I taught in a country school.
Each row was a different grade, complex,
I did like this experience.
Then I was hired to teach, I am retired now.
The Ministry of Education sent me a certificate thanking me for contributing to the Excellence in Education.
Father would drive me to the Go Train that I could get to my teaching Job,
I enjoyed teaching very much.
When i was a teenager he bought our mother and I a beautiful coat,sweater,skirt set and a navy dress with a rainbow on the collair.
He was a Drector of Tip Top Tailor and Leah Posluns.
They sponsored him to study for his Doctorate of Philosophy , which he received.
When we went to the cottage father would pack the Volkswagon with our clothing,
Then he would drive us to the cottage on the island.
When we caught a cold, he went out to buy ice cream.
When I married my husband Walter, we had a Christmas wedding at our parent's house in Lorne Park.
We have had many beautiful years with father,
He became grandfather to our beautiful and handsome children Kirk and Erik
Great grandfather to Kirk and Jenn's children, Maya and Merrick,
I am blessed to be at the Senior's Residence with our father for two years,
He clapped after I gave my piano performance.
What beautiful memories, we dined together with friends for breakfast and brunch,
Many beautiful memories including reunions with our relative.
Happy Birthday father, loved by your relatives forever,
God bless you in heaven.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz.
Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”
Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens, I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.
Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.
Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”
Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.
* A song for this piece would be “Kennedy” by feeble little horse
A wisdom download,
Some years back ,
Alfonso Warally Chris asked
The so called intelligent, "
Why do those who think
To be intelligent worship animals
which have no mind?
Or things made
by humans?
"The things of God
Are very difficult to understand,
Brothers and sisters.
An animal has instinct,
But you will meet some psychologists
And phylosophers who worship animals
And statues,"
He said.
A wisdom download,
"Do you think those philosophers and
Psychologists who worship animals
Know the real God?
Are they intelligent than those animals?"
Are they wisers?
He asked again.
Many questions unanswered,
Millions of wise readers
Can produce many answers
According to the wisdom
Of the real God in them.
Sometimes you can be blamed
When you sharing your thoughts
With millions of the world people
Which is not really reasonable.
Some people can be in the field
Which they don't well understand
And end up sounding as ignorants.
A wisdom download,
Sometimes you can think to be wise
Due to having some doctorate degrees
While you are not.
One president of DRCongo comes
in my mind,
He was not well educated
But he played
Many university professors
When they left teaching carriers
To join politicians.
Many students
Understood that there is no a World
University which can download
And install the wisdom of God
In the students.
Somewhere majority of very educated people
Worship some politicians as their gods.
This is not an exam question paper
But it is a wise questionnaire
From a wise questioner.
April 17/2023
Written for poetry contest sponsored by
Unseeking seeker
I stare at the girl through my looking glass.
In her smile, self-deprecation sighs.
Voices in her head whisper chaos,
as she screams internally for attention,
begging any deity above to save her.
Oh dear, doesn't she know?
The looking glass might just crack,
from a world where fight becomes flight.
She enforces principles of modesty in clothing-
but is modesty the only veil it covers?
An intention battles with a desperation to hide.
Such is the nature of a colourless chameleon,
a spirit that she resonates with deeply.
Desolated realities claim her of their own:
an incessant prompt of a fallen angel,
breaking herself for the broken is inexorable
It's a broken bargain she doesn't choose,
but to be loved, is to be chosen.
She articulates herself yet she succumbs,
maladaptive daydreaming paradoxes her sense.
She writhes in anguish-
a masterful tragedy of her own scripting.
It's funny how one contradicts their beliefs,
though expectations are destined to shatter.
She was a book:
lovely words scripted in her eyes,
meant to be read, but left unsaid.
They chose a dyslexic path,
wearing blind irises as if it were a trophy.
Perhaps tragedies are inevitable intricacies?-
meant to be created and destroy you in the process.
The looking glass cracks.
I reach my hand out to save her.
But oh, how she masks herself in the shadows!
Familiarity of a saying: "addiction kills",
begs me to decipher if we were born to die.
Oh the girl in the looking glass,
she has a certified doctorate in application,
relapsing to fleeting dreams and nightmares.
Shall I peer into my looking glass, my darling?