Long Doe Poems
Long Doe Poems. Below are the most popular long Doe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Doe poems by poem length and keyword.
Poor Jane Doe lies on a slab
When they found her she looked drab
Worn-out clothes and no I.D.
No purse, no money, no front-door key
Surely someone wonders where she's at?
Even if it’s just her cat
Her red hair matted to her head
When found, the pavement was her bed
Her eyes were closed, though eggshell blue
Heel all worn down on one shoe
Caesarean scar and bladder full
Long hairline fracture in her skull
Injury caused by blunt force
Inflictor will feel no remorse
Spleen is split almost in half
Purple bruises on each calf
Dental records will soon show
The true identity of Jane Doe
Man gets phone call and starts to cry
“Please can you identify,
A lady that may be your wife”
His heart is breaking, she was his life.
The mortician pulled back the curtain
Before he saw her, he was certain
He held his breath, pulled back the sheet
His heart sank, it was Marguerite
He saw the label on her toe
It said two simple words ‘Jane Doe'
*Image of Patronus by Wizarding World
The White Doe and The River Of Life
Comes a white doe, quaint sight a wandering,
Murmurs, her head swerves about, hesitates,
A snow owl offering sky, pondering,
Nibble's green herbs with care then elevates,
Hooves paves a path, my blue being, surges clear,
Alert nose take air, head bent back, above,
Unaware, her head drops, tickles my sphere,
Cast her spot of me, blanched soul feel her shove,
Tempt, I tide my being, yet pursuit was keen,
The full breadth of her trots to my chilled beat,
She alights her weight to level her being,
Trots to shore, genteel flow, dares to repeat,
Perchance another day of challenging,
Comes a white doe, quaint sight a wandering.
2019 May 12
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS(JUN 8)
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 June 08
Somewhere in the darkness a baby cries
It’s life barely begun
Given by God to a girl who doesn’t care
Left wrapped in an oily rag
Laid beside a rusty dumpster
Without a second thought
Or even a good bye
A beautiful person turned into garbage
It suckles on a piece of discarded meat
Too rotten for the bugs and rats
Starving and alone cries for a mother
Cries that echo on cold stone walls
Fading into a crowd only feet away
The crying slows and becomes mute
And a young child
Innocent and totally lacking sin
Dies alone and unknown
Without even a name
We’ll just call her “Baby Jane Doe”
At least that way she may be remembered
John Doe
Buried 1913 (estimated age 35)
When Death opened its revolving door,
And pulled my screaming soul in,
I found out the truth.
So, here it is fellow citizens of Whittier town,
Both known and unknown,
From John Doe,
Stabbed to death one moonless night,
Over a poker game gone wrong,
That nameless rotting corpse
You found floating that long-ago day,
In the deep river by Pio Pico.
I found out
There is no ending.
The story never ceases to be.
Time and your soul continue on.
Here, where I am now,
On this side of the grave,
The book that you are reading,
Does not have a final page.
The song that you are hearing,
Does not stop playing.
The journey that you are taking,
Will never reach its ultimate destination.
If you throw a stone into the well,
It will never hit bottom.
I found out
This is the way of all striving flesh,
When your number is solemnly called…
…Timeless eternity……….
Permit me now to say a definitive goodbye,
On behalf of all these forlorn dead,
Who now lie reposed as bones and dust,
Interred snugly and deeply,
Very deeply,
Under these lapping walnut trees,
Here in old Mt. Olive Cemetery.
Does anyone remember us?
Remember our names and addresses?
Our appearances and voices?
Of course not.
Sleep everyone.
Sleep deeply
Very deeply, and dream
Of being remembered again.
.
Apropos of John H. Doe
A name we all know
Just like Uncle Sam
~ He too’s on the lam
____________________
'Critics Corner'
(A random sample of published reviews):
"Subtly implicative, bigly"
~ Barron and Donald J. Trump, in unison
"Emasculatory Triumph!!"
~ 'Fannie Femdom'
"Lumpen Proletariat Barfola"
~ Karl and Groucho Marx
"Aso. Learry Derightfur Liting:"
~ Shohei Ohtani, (through an interpreter)
"Yes, it IS poetry. So that means it's, well, a poem, written -- by a poet."
~ Kamala Harris, responding to a hardball question from Oprah W.
"I fell asleep reading this... twice."
~ Joseph Robinette Biden
It is a tale known throughout the ages
Of how a hunter ventured into the woods
In search of a doe.
And not just any doe,
But rather the most beautiful,
Wild,
And graceful of them all.
A doe that strutted across the evergreen
on slender legs that held her frame
as whistling winds converged on the scene.
The hunter squatted,
Scouted,
Waited,
Scaling the woods for the scrapes and rubs
And when he discovered the bedding
And caught the first sight of her
Upon the mound,
The hunter reached to aim his gun
But found himself enamored,
Spellbound.
That trophy hunter,
Stalker,
deer murderer,
Felt his chest heave and from his forehead
Escaped the sweat
Of a man who found love at first sight.
For she was such marvel to behold
He feared that his bodily scent
would alert her sensitive nose,
That she would bound away
Far, far away as if on magical toes.
He held his breath
For all the years he hunted
None more elegant existed
in his wildlife land of does
SIR THOMAS WYATT TRANSLATIONS 1
Whoso List to Hunt ("Whoever Longs to Hunt")
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
***
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You kill
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Keywords/Tags: Wyatt, translation, hunt, deer, doe, pursuit, net, wind, lute, grief, heart, love, desire, poets, poetry, poems, writing, heartbreak
How much doe could a dodo blow if a dodo could blow dodo doe?
A dodo would blow as much doe as a dodo could blow dodo doe....
How could you know what a dodo would blow
when no dodos go blow doe though?
Dodos don't know dodo doe
so dodos don't go blow no doe.
How can a dodo go blow doe
when the dodo don't know dodo doe?
If knowing of the dodo doe
a dodo might blow all the doe,
a dodo might not blow it though,
no one knows there's no dodos,
what's dodo doe?
We don't know,
but we know what we know,
and we know we don't know,
so,
we don't know what dodos blow
when dodo doe is there to blow,
no one knows what
dodos blow
but dodos blow
what dodos blow
when dodos blow
their dodo doe.
The dodos will only blow what they know
and they don't know of dodo doe,
so dodos do not blow dodo doe.
The Sonnet of Jane Doe
Jane Doe, number one four two.
What is your name, what did you do?
Were you a sister a banker or whore?
We want to know what you did before.
Were you a daughter, mother, or aunt?
Without your name we just can’t,
find your family, parents, or home,
and you will lay here dead and alone.
We want to find the ones you did love,
so they can know you’re in heaven above.
You were a person not just a thing,
what is your name so your loved ones can sing.
Jane Doe, number one four two.
What was your name, what did you do?
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
A Doe and Her Fawn
On wobbly legs, the fawn staggers behind the doe,
Who pauses to let the newborn catch up.
The fawn appears to be just a few hours old,
As revealed by its arduous locomotion
And the white, freckled spots on its back
Melded into its butterscotch-coloured fur coat.
The fawn’s softly adoring, oversized eyes
Plead for nourishment,
And the whitetail deer doe (patient, as mothers go)
Licks her offspring, bonding and cleaning,
As it instinctively nudges her teats with its nose
To stimulate her mammary glands.
The fawn suckles the mother’s milk,
Which provides it with the nutrients to grow.
The doe stares at me without fear
And lets the fawn satiate its hunger.
Its little head bobbing and its tail flagging
As its craving is abated and its appetite satisfied;
It is contented and ready to continue its journey
In the ways of nature and survival.
The doe slowly moves on as the fawn struggles
(Those steps must seem an eternity to complete,
Requiring a great magnitude of expendable energy),
Which the doe senses, and so she lies down,
And the fawn, from on its four legs, plops down
Beside her for a much-needed rest.