Long Prosecutor Poems
Long Prosecutor Poems. Below are the most popular long Prosecutor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prosecutor poems by poem length and keyword.
Which fish
The scuba diver
Is going after?
The big one
Or the small one?
Which sheriff
Is on trial today?
The petty one
Or the pretty one?
Everyone must have its day
In the Kangaroo Court.
Real justice is not a myth;
It never creates descent or grief.
It a fact that it is easier to execute
The innocent resident
Than to prosecute
The corrupt superintendent.
All thieves must be handcuffed.
A trial can be long or short,
Depending on the main actor.
It is mind-boggling, it is tough
To understand the demeanor
Of this odious prosecutor.
The mass-murderer is on the loose,
Sipping wine and walking like a moose,
While the unarmed homeless is shot to death,
For littering, for selling meth.
Is this justice? Is that right?
The real pacifists must always fight.
Thank God, the true democrats
Will never stop chasing the bad cats,
The fat mice and the aggressive rats.
The evidence is palpable and the facts
Remain overwhelming.
Which thief
Will be prosecuted?
Which big fish
Will be convicted,
In this Kangaroo Court?
The public despises something short,
However, a simple and fair trial is acceptable.
We are all liable and responsible.
All crooks must be prosecuted fairly,
And justly to the fullest extent of the laws.
Justice must go after the cats with the long paws
First, because it is obviously
Easier to go after the small pimps.
Bring the flashlights and the giant lamps,
So we all can see better, and clearer.
The sun and the moon are on strike today.
Look, the criminals and the guards are at play.
All conscientious citizens are in great danger.
Which fish
The scuba diver
Is going after?
Which thief?
Which sheriff?
Which chief
Is on trial today?
Which one is walking away?
Which one is enjoying a great day?
Copyright © September 13, 2014, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
Justice is not a statue carved in flawless stone. It breathes.
It hesitates.
It asks not only, "What happened?
" but, "Why?"
Situational ethics— the phrase arrives already accused, as though context were a conspirator and mercy a weakness.
Yet every courtroom is built upon circumstance.
The starving child and the seasoned thief may steal the same loaf of bread, but no honest juror would weigh their hearts upon identical scales.
The law seeks certainty.
Life offers ambiguity.
I have defended saints who looked like criminals, and criminals who wore the face of virtue.
Appearances have never taken an oath.
The prosecutor arranges facts like stones in a wall.
The defense reminds the court that every stone once belonged to a mountain.
There is danger, yes, when ethics bend to convenience.
But there is equal danger when justice refuses to bend at all.
For a law without compassion becomes machinery.
A conscience without principle becomes chaos.
Between those two cliffs stands every advocate, holding nothing but words, reason, and the stubborn belief that truth is seldom found at either extreme.
And when the verdict is spoken, history may judge the law, but conscience will forever judge how we arrived there.
Ileana Fuster ran day care in her house
Frank Fuster, a businessman, was her spouse
The preschoolers denied anything was amiss
Though one told her mom that Ileana gave a kiss.
But therapists played games with the kid's heads
Lurid tales ensued, where angels fear to tread.
Frank and Ileana prayed to Satan, while he wore a mask
Juries didn't think of questions they should ask.
Ileana was pretty, healthy with shiny hair
Health went downhill in that Jail's tender care.
She got sores, infections, was rarely hosed clean:
The attorney Janet Reno, didn't change that scene.
Ileana held out almost a year, said confession would be a lie.
Then therapists came in with new methods to try.
They told her to imagine she did the deeds
Step by step they implanted mind weeds.
She broke down, said it was all true
Added details involving snakes too.
Testified against Frank at the trial
He saw his wife betray him, walk that crooked mile.
He sprang up, screamed "You lie", but all in vain
Jailed for life, no rescue for his pain
Ileana left, to Honduras she flew
Ten years later, she recanted anew.
She said there was no crime, her mind was clear
Made a 40 page deposition, but then threats came near
A messenger from Florida came uninvited
Told Ileana that under Reno she could be extradited.
He got her to sign a letter, again admitting crime
Frank still jailed, forever, for all time.
He's been beaten by other inmates, one time almost died
Our justice system took us all for a ride.
So Ileana, you are free today to choose
Its Frank and you who got the real abuse.
But you can withdraw the lie, Reno is no more
Though Frank will never get out of that prison door.
There's a lot wrong with our justice system, if it can be so deceived
You can read the details of other cases, so really hard to believe
Daycare-givers accused of the most insane acts
How can our juries confuse such lunacy for facts?
And how can a woman be thrown into solitary for months at a time?
If there was justice, that would be the crime.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawns a courtroom closing in on midday, and a cheery sun
uncovering its place being less demanding--a sage who
dons sufficiently in her vocation that imparts one who bears
a respectable position, and one of a high office--so without
delay, the judge withdraws to his chambers for consultations
with the defense attorney and prosecutor, et al., she then
advances towards the lone defendant from her private seat
in the gallery--an officer of the court, immediately takes
notice of her movements and in anticipation presented her
with a chair for her pleasure--the defendant who sees her,
respectfully stands, whereto, she politely informs him that
he may remain seated and air him in a one-sided
conversation being the soul speaker, and he as the soul
listener. Albeit, exceptions to that disclosure evolved at the
end as there is cause for the conversation to become ironic.
*The opener of My Short Story: White Lies, in two parts; I'm
afeared of old habits unchanged as alit surface, amid dim, and
aligned depth of mired cliché, sways a gavel 'ere ...
Perhaps a way to turn
from failed
and often violent
retributive justice
to grab healthy hold
of restorative justice
Would ask,
What is this deep difference
between discerning judgment
and moralistic judgment?
To discern,
and not to condemn,
is mutually empowering
and not autonomously powering over another,
against all Others potentially suspicious,
falling short of my own godlike Mark,
Imprimatur,
Papal Seal of good personal housekeeping.
Moralistic judgment
is a win/lose game
always casting oneself
and one's own
as protagonist,
self-righteous wise Prosecutor,
representing your State's infinite not-listening Wisdom.
Discerning judgment
is a win/win game
of cooperative
co-invested compassion.
Discerning judgment
begins with listening for what we already share
in common point of view.
Moralistic judgment
seldom finds time
for such resonant celebration
in cooperatively-held sorrow
and joy,
personal defeat
and political triumph.
Active win/win discernment
bears more humbly in mind and heart and voice,
Do not tear apart
what we can't put back together
again
and again
and again
As faithfully as healing sunrise
and therapeutic sunset;
As mysteriously
and curiously restoring moon rise
and resonant moon fall.
This is a different time, a new season
These days, crimes seem to pay
For a multitude of obvious reasons
As we all know by now, this is another day
Full of surprises, felons don’t go to prisons
They have top-notch official protection
Twenty four hours a day, this is truly insane
It won’t be easy for the prosecutor to nail
This perpetrator who is as slick as a sultry snail
He knows how to accelerate like a thief in the fast lane
The prosecutor has his work cut out for him. Gender
Does not matter, since justice has no boundaries
We simply have to watch carefully the technicalities
Stand by to follow the next move or the next procedure
This is a new season; this is obviously a different time
Let’s wait and see what happens in primetime; a crime
Is taking place somewhere. I hope that the criminal is caught
Red-handed in the jelly jar. This dude has done plenty, a lot
Of transgressions to sail him off to jail for the rest of his life
All the evidence suggests he’s guilty. We hope that his wife
Will appear in court this time. Prosecutors don’t lose easily
Let’s stay tuned for another episode, another day of comedy.
Copyright © July 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
I have been falsely accused many times/
I was at a concert and came home/
I get off the bus and the police were looking for me/
I jumped out the second story window/
And ran because I'm innocent/
She falsely accused a metal head/
I lost my mind, the stress and shock began to develop/
I developed Fatal Familial Insomnia, lost the ability to sleep/
I never done the crime, I don't stoop to that level/
I tried to challenge the fingerprints on the knife/
The said I had a gun but I never had a gun/
The only took a knife from my kitchen/
The prosecutor said I can't challenge the evidence/
Because all the police touched the knife/
And their fingerprints are all over it/
Three Sheriff Deputies threatened to kill me/
They said the case is bigger than me/
They told me to keep my mouth shut or they would kill me/
My lawyer railroaded me in court/
One Sheriff Deputy was in court with a gun/
What was I to do/
They took my faith from God/
I ascended into Godhood because of this/
I'm not the same as anyone once knew me/
It was a culture shock when I came home/
I did not know I was free till we passed Lexington/
Then we hit Gothenburg and I saw my family/
I almost fell to my knees when I saw my mom/
I looked around in shock, I was really free/
I did not think I would ever come home/
Abandoned by everyone, I lost everything in life/
The culture shock lasted for many years/
They falsely accused a metal head/
My past was wiped from existence/
My legacy wiped from existence/
You took me from God and caused me to ascend into Godhood/
All I want to know is.../
Why did you do this to me/
I never done that/
I am fallen and forgotten/
To rise again will become a reality/
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
A chip upon my shoulder right next to all the blame.
I’m running from the future, I’m running from the past.
I may be going nowhere but I’m going to get there fast.
Heading toward the mountains, find a cave where I can hide.
I told her I’d be back but I think she knew I lied.
I thought it could be different but I’ll always be the same,
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
Temporarily insane, at least that’s what I’ll claim.
Prosecutor, judge and jury stalking right behind.
I hope she will believe me when I say I’ve lost my mind.
I started out with nothing but the clothes upon my back.
Left behind the little things, now I feel the lack.
Just when you learn the rules love will always change the game.
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
It’s long past time to leave but I’m very glad I came.
I knew my time was up when I saw her loaded gun.
On your mark, get set and go. So long and it’s been fun.
All the things I told her just hoping she’d believe.
Now I just don’t know exactly who has been deceived.
But I am just a lone wolf, a beast she’ll never tame.
A thousand miles to go and a dollar to my name.
Silk suit, classy Yale Degree
A silver spoon eternally
A Federal man, a Judgeship in sight
Bending Justice to his own might
He walks the halls with arrogant grace
Leaving shadows on every face
Another indictment a life undone
Just another victory a battle won
He is the King of the Courtroom
A Gilded Cage
Fueled by ego and righteous rage
Without the badge, the power he wields
He is just a whisper lost in the field
He’d be nothing, just another name
Playing the game but losing the fame
So he clings to power desperately
The Law is just a tool for him you see
He builds his name on broken men
Twists the Truth again and again
Rights violated, cast aside
Collateral damage he doesn’t hide
He paints himself a hero of old
Stories of injustice unfold
He sees ambition in every case
A stepping stone to a higher place
He is the King of the Courtroom
A Gilded Cage
Fueled by ego and righteous rage
Without the badge, the power he wields
He is just a whisper lost in the field
He’d be nothing, just another name
Playing the game but losing the fame
So he clings to power desperately
The Law is just a tool for him you see
He never struggled, never toiled
His path was paved, his future oiled
Now he condemns the struggles of all
From his ivory tower he watches them fall
The only loss
The Truth ignored
From a man
Whose principles are flawed
He is the King of the Courtroom
A Gilded Cage
Fueled by ego and righteous rage
Without the badge, the power he wields
He is just a whisper lost in the field
He’d be nothing, just another name
Playing the game but losing the fame
So he clings to power desperately
The Law is just a tool for him you see
The gavel falls, the sentence read
Another soul filled with dread
And he walks away with nary a care
The Federal Prosecutor beyond compare
Someday the truth will break through the lies
And the empire he built will fall from the skies
Someday he’ll understand what he has truly done
A life misspent chasing the Sun