Long Dorn Poems
Long Dorn Poems. Below are the most popular long Dorn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dorn poems by poem length and keyword.
You see all of these protesters out
chanting and screeching on the TV,
convinced that we’ll solve all our problems
Ii we just get rid of the police.
They claim that they’re targeting people
merely of the color of their skin,
though by the per capita numbers
whites and Latinos tak it one the chin.
But they keep screaming about privilege
in a strangely religious fervor,
and use it as a helpful excuse
to release all their pent-up anger.
But when it comes to dark-skinned people,
whose interests they claim to pursue,
they all proclaim that ‘Black Lives Matter,’
but they sure don’t’ act as if they do.
First let’s look at all the businesses
that the rioters torched and destroyed,
they were mostly in inner cities,
so the end result we can’t avoid
is that the people they claim to help
were the same people who worked those stores,
which means countless folks with much melanin
won’t have productive jobs anymore.
Their own siblings, mothers, and fathers
bow have no method to bring in cash.
Basically, their lives have been ruined,
I wonder did they care about that?
Did looters realize that their actions
would make their communities much worse?
they all proclaim that ‘Black Lives Matter’
…except for those they put out of work.
And then there is the late David Dorn,
a dark-skinned grandfather, former cop,
who saw the evil burning his town
and went outside to protect the block,
hoping to provide security
for the pawn business of a good friend.
For wanting to protect his hard work
vile looters brought him to his end.
But strangely you do not hear his tale
when you watched the evening news at night,
the rioters get interference
but a good man’s death is not in sight.
Not one of these damn ideologues
care that a hero’s life now is done,
I guess that black life didn’t matter,
since his narrative was the ‘wrong’ one...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The poor man’s name was David Dorn,
he was murdered by rioters,
trying to defend his friend’s business,
but the reaction quite disturbed.
The media wouldn’t say his name,
all mention of it soon was dropped,
since Dorn was a good family man,
and ‘worst’ of all, a retired cop.
Such people do not help the left,
no boost did the man’s demise give,
so this man’s loss was forgotten,
he didn’t fit the narrative.
Her name was Jessica Whitaker,
and she said that, “All lives mattered.”
Because she disagreed with some
she was shot dead, cruelly murdered.
Her three-year-old lost a mother,
and her fiancé lost his love,
but she was pale and believed ‘wrong,’
so no media picked it up.
She wasn’t a chosen ‘victim,’
and she had the wrong adjectives,
they would not speak of this great crime,
she didn’t fit the narrative.
His name was Cannon Hinant and
he was a boy, just five years old,
when his neighbor chose to murder him,
and leave his tiny body cold.
Such a vicious and savage act,
but the media had no time,
Cannon was white, his killer black,
so they said nothing, acted blind.
Had the skin colors been reversed,
we’d hear nothing but their missives,
only ‘some’ lives are worth reporting,
he didn’t fit the narrative.
Objective, ha! That’s such lie,
they’re propagandists through and through,
and you’ll be pushed aside quickly
if you don’t help their point of view.
They tried to hide cities aflame,
bathe us all in their deception,
if the full truth might hurt the left,
if it might cost them an election.
Horrific crimes they’ll push aside,
as if these victims never lived,
God damn the mainstream media
and their partisan narratives.
These people deserve to be remembered.
many a december twenty forth gone by,
whence wisp of carolers ghosts hauntingly adorn
remembrance of sum...
er things passed along tummy
from ma late ma alm
compunction eruption viz:
fruition, gumption interruption
sans redemption how became re: born
whereby this pop -
bleary eye lids ready to droop
with his tired bones snapping
and popping like jimmy crack corn
an immediate need to succumb to sleep
found me transfixed how blessings did a dorn
mine attention riveted at shrouded foghorn
echoing...choing...hoing
never knowing hands of time didst flap
matthew scott harris,
who yawned avast cingular gap
countless decades swallowed un hap
pulley lost soul within early
twenty something years
devoid of inner GPS to help map
and guide this stricken n fore lorn future pap
though the hour
(at time this got written) nsync kin rap
pa head lee well nigh
closing in on six in the morn
way before synapses snap
crackle and pop,
whereby the sage within mine psyche
waving a finger - tsk tsk - with mild scorn
for forgoing to bed, yet...
a powerful tsunami like force arose up
when viewing the account of how tara - blank -
became rent asunder and torn
from an terrible accident of fate -
though a miraculous recovery now worn.
now fast forward to recent past
receding extremely fast
as if powered by remnant cosmic blast
resulting in avast
blurred montage flickr ring
exercise regimen of running plus lifting weights -
perhaps so many reps of a curl
finds me applauding, huzzahing,
and praising daughter's efforts...so you go girl
with all inner strength pell mell into fitness:
disciplining molding, sculpting- yar body hurl
testing your limits to the max
whether across busy urban streets or...
where landscape offers open space with pearl
jam skies - in outlying less populated tracts -
giving freedom to dance n twirl.
Into Young Womanhood
this glorious role, sans
helping beget and nurture thine first born
three day shy of Christmas 1996,
fills thy being
with joie de vivre and doth add dorn
more resplendent than any horn
of plenty, and aye can only imagine
more precious than fine spun gold
ah...how this papa doth recall,
when he didst hold
and/or swaddle his edenic bundle of joy
and taking stock,
how she (christened
Eden Liat) didst mold
herself into an autonomous offspring,
rarely receiving a scold
cuz, she most times seemed well mannered
and infrequently told,
and thus said benevolent prized progeny
required no special programming nor app
even when a child, adolescent or,
latte (sipping) teen,
this genetic bounty evinced
laser like thinking
with a custom made thinking cap
although...yes, (there erupted a verbal flap
toward the missus or me,
(the latter and former
markedly differed asper child rearing,
which unseen rift
engendered a figurative gap
mollycoddling, holding, consoling,
et cetera distraught daughter on me lap
which cradling, fas incubating, rocking...,
which oft found
this biomedically cherished baby taking her nap
twas at such poignant bonding moments,
aye DID NOT decry the parent trap,
thus now, special "gifts"
with bittersweet motions bespeak
as tears (viz - ode to joy)
stream down each stubbled cheek
this middle aged grown man,
doth recollect with embarrassment
how as a teen thyself as classic "geek"
whereat mine demeanor extremely meek
AND let NO chanced avail
for one to take a peak
and now...unstoppable
grievousness awoke,
oh no...nothing un speak
or print able did occur only a human weak
ness, when thine voice
un-necessarily raised yet,
blink back moistened
slightly crowsfeet darkened eyes set
tills within this intelligent
well read and let
hard bloke accepts the "circle game of life"
...listening to thee
beautiful, charming, exemplary dulcet
an em ma nant treasured
valuable accouterment tummy life...
YOU BET!
Four years before George Floyd met death
Tony Timpa drew his last breath
A cop pressed a knee into his back too
Tony cried warnings, the warnings were true.
Tony was white, George was black
A knee in Tony's back wasn't a racist attack
In neither case, was killing sought
It was a bad police tactic, that cops were taught.
If we talk of George Floyd also recall David Dorn
When protests erupted, then riots were born
You can cry "no justice, no peace'
But a looter shot David, made his life cease.
David, a black man, was trying to protect a store
That too is a story we should not ignore
To some, black lives matter only if the story resonates
So many other stories buried in these United States.
Don't just care when the outrage aligns,
Think of the lives falling between the lines.
When twist-and-turns, like narrow mount-roads, I face,
When deaths of kith, like winds in fall, bring disgrace;
When my cries, like waves of oceans, surge endless,
I laugh, serving the orphan and the friendless...!
Wealth gone, poverty dorn, when I'm in the pits,
When shelter, in rain torrents, shatter to bits;
Stitching, ad infinitum, old robes I wear,
I laugh with the poor who laugh in loincloth bare...!
When exhaustion and hurt feelings weigh me down,
In floods of helplessness when I sadly drown;
Grasping divine-drawn frail hands as lifebuoy,
I laugh within forgetting every ennui...!
Life is present presented to live the present,
Accepting each good and evil heaven-sent;
As farmers separate corns from hay and chaff,
Keeping away grim facades, I loudly laugh...!
13 November 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh |
I found him in a box of dust-soft relics,
a face blurred by time yet bright with family and memory.
From brittle scrapbook pages, his life unfolded-piece by piece,
his story rose—a German farm boy who fled Dorn,
the sailor who leapt into Gulf-dark waters, swimming
toward Galveston Bay and the faint glow of a future he hoped to claim.
Texas shaped him with love, labor, and loss,
eight children rooting his family deep into new soil.
Dusk pooled in the attic around me, his courage moved
through our family line into my own bones~a quiet inheritance.
*You may find the accompanying memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607
Now I was born in the last century
Dorn into a world of diversity
And I've grown into this sinful sphere
Full of disappointments, savagery and fear
Now my parents are long gone dead
Just me and my brother of the immediate family alive left...
And I'm prayin for longevity of life
Even through heartache suffering and strife
Oh! Lord let me be more than
More than a memory
Lord help me, help me be more than a memory
Now I'm living on the other side
No longer married cause my wife died
Considered elderly but I'm just as young as God makes me feel
And I've grown into this sinful sphere
Full of disappointments, savagery and fear;
Reaching out further having no appeal
Oh! Lord let me be more than
More than a memory
Lord help me, help me be more than memory
Allow my legacy to go on and on and on
Up until You come. . .
Many think not of me
Some don't ever have time for me
Never bother to call or even come visit me
Some don't even have time for me
You see, everyone's got their own families (0f there own)
No one wants you if you can't keep up
No one loves you unless you got enough (money and material things)
So don't remember me, be apart of me
Be my embrace be part of my cause
Don't let go, let God
Don't base your lifetime of loving me base on a memory
Won't you come and be apart of my legacy
Don't let me be
Let me be more than just a memory
08/30/17
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.