"purloin" poems
Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin, —
Oh better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
21.6k
Tongue in cheek I detest you
Hand over foot
Make a peep *****
And I promise I'll ****** you
Bad tact I'm a cesspool
Festering in the nestle of your daughter's
well developing *******
Everyday I follow her home from school
This unnerving pervert unearthing fervor
making ya catatonic &
giving your heart murmurs
Nurture the thought
It's just the tip
(Of the iceberg)
Gotta stir the paint before you make a mural
Ma'am, I'll purloin your ham purse until my burial
Don't be a sourpuss
It's final
I'm vile
And I swear I'm not a *********
Want some candy?
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.
I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.
We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.
The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.
The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.
Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.
Be the chosen one,
You know how.
Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.
But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like
The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You
Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for
You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room
As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing
Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he
Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs
And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.
Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips
Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.
Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and
When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow
And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she
Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to
Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark
And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each
Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind
You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there
Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes
Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now
Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you
Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,
His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
*Ecstasy seeped into vena
The purloin of senses
The profuse thud of a heart
On edge
Igniting bedlam
Doused in consequence
Of a shattery bliss.*
18/08/2014
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Pain's accretion--black snaked with royal purple--
therewith and more of, in cold case of less--
pain inexorable.
Fear's favorite pet spoilt with handling.
Pain's redemptive quality is repulsed by plain
sight, it must mobilize malignancy, purloin the
jury, condemn, palm hope to hopelessness.
Fixity--its host must remain in firm attendance.
Enough is ready...a ripened type of monologue...
the crosshairs of silence.
To grow demented from overstimulation,
breaking the same news to what needs dying.
Fetal position suffices...warm, a spinning vinyl
record scratching toward dawn.
The woodwork calls a name--as a woman hoarse...
with labor pain...rebirth.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name
not aware I am there,
nor would she care
if I open the door without making
a sound,
I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me
when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away
the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room
"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated
the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open
that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains
which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough
not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited
until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar
only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
whisking yesterday’s
chipped and shattered dreams
into you is
not a problem
the broom is there
my hands yet comply
with requests
from the command center
I see you, flat
on the floor
waiting, patiently
your tin blue stillness no threat
to me, or the dust
I watch you, I rummage through
the day's dull duties
and other dithering distractions
that wash over me,
more each menacing minute,
but
can
not
think
of your
name,
“it…”
rests on my tongue tip
weightless and wicked
my eyes and hands grip you,
with ease, but
what art thou???
what simple sound will summon you?
I am alone,
though if another were here
with me, you,
and your "itness"
the question would remain,
unspoken
with other nameless sorrows
for who would not be terrified to admit
that more and more tomorrows
will be without the august appellation,
“dustpan”
and whatever other words
time
blithely chooses to
permanently purloin
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
I had always wanted to buy Martha Marzipan
and to see her encased Vermilion diary
so she could heal beneath.
But she only succeeded
in filling her emptiness
with joyful Psalm songs
at a daffodil festival
I always had envisaged lying with her
in fields of oxeye daises
under the cerulean blue of an early summer sky.
My seeming wishes were granted,
until she proceeded to purloin such paradise
by cutting her hair
and daubing ash on her wrist.
For she had previously lit a candle
for her years made wise,
believing only women suffered pain
and I now realised, no one could buy her.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
*Sun, to you I declare a fight
for I am a child of night.
I dare because in the morning- my dear
will leave me, alone in fear.
If heavens were mine,
that my love is divine-
Gods would see,
and never again let the Sun be.
Aphrodite- my true love- you should understand
****** and **** Helios, so he can forever hold my hand.
If not, at least part of his heart, I will purloin,
which I will with this heart of mine,join.
When fear and loneliness arrive
it will keep me safe and alive.
So you, Selene, tell your Moon to lighten up the sky
for i'll die of pain when comes of Heaven Eye.
I may not see my dear anymore,
because my dear.. is going to war.*
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
due to a lack of talent
in the writing sphere
a plagiarist will see fit
to pinch other poet's gear
brilliance not present
on the nib of the pen
hence a copyist will purloin
every now and then
a rich source of poetry
is tapped into online
as if robbing the golden nuggets
from a Colorado mine
their coda reads like
this let's nick a stanza
stowing the best *****
for a thieving bonanza
without any conscience
the reproducer does steal
making much of other's works
which are so ideal
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
Everybody needs a *****
No thanks I can create on my own
My idiosyncratic thinking
Is bouncy as the suns atom
Looking for a reason to capitalise
On mind control apparatus
But read on please you
Can become my apprentice
Because this poetry can heal
Dimensions of the brain
A poetic analeptic that heals
When feeling down at heel
The bidirectional pulse wave
Of another person is not a desire
My encephalon is creative
Enough to excite you on the microwave
So adjust the frequency
Even try shortwave to find life
In space because this poet
Has no ***** dependency
My style is cramped with the BCI
Purloin’s my opportunity
To be unique in writing
Being a survivor & spry
The invasion of privacy is deplorable
Taking advantage of the poor you do
You have privacy so should I too
Reading people’s brain is irreconcilable
Don’t need two people to write a pen
I don’t want to be a ***** in the pig sty
And get ***** with other ranks of pigs
Every person’s brain is a personal den
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
There is a quiet space
where we escape from all our care,
An envelope of peace and love
where our two hearts rejoin.
Here we talk and pray and play
as with one heart we share
While we cuddle in these treasured moments we purloin.
Here we rest as Husband and Wife
and share as one this bed,
While as parents we toss and turn;
hearts echoing the other’s beats.
Here we find a solace in our love well voiced,
with worries left unsaid;
As we cherish our precious moments between these sheets.
©2006 Michael S. Davis
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Wanna be a part of my pjs
There can be an escapade
Later on can be a propensitiy
I can have a deportment
Because my pjs are in a **** form
You go obstreperous on me
I've been wearing them all day
For you
Just kidding there really only soft blue pants
With a white v-neck t shirt
My best pj for you is for u to be in ur boxers
My fav turn on
Purloin my mouth and heart while ur @ it
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
one day
I will bring you birds of prey
they will fall from the sky
like stones with my mighty shafts
through their hearts, no longer
ripping flesh with their piercing beaks
or snatching field mice with their terrible talons
I will quiet their ferocious screams
and purloin their gift of flight
I will place their fine feathered fops
at your feet, and my hubris will show
in mine eyes, with all the glory of the ****
you will wonder where my innocence
went to hide, how I learned to lust for blood,
to take my place in the pecked order,
to no longer mourn the death of the butterfly
whose screaming I once heard
against a black sky, but now is silent
I will bring you birds of prey
and celebrate the day
I became one of you
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
the Garden had one, it is said
to tempt the blissfully naked
on April’s eve,
one slithered across
the road, where I had paused to sip
from my canteen, a cool elixir
flowing more slowly down my throat
when the serpent stopped
in glistening mid squirm, to tempt me
to follow him
but I did not,
seeing no tree from which to purloin
a forbidden delight, knowing full well
he had others yet to beguile,
and I needed no taste
of good or evil, to know
I was ******
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Lovely
Interesting
Purloin
Sassy
Tough Exterior Entity Trace marks Hygine
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
The periapt otiose stone helotage that the tactiturn builders
Rejected at Golgotha, bode the heart of Heaven has now
Become the corner-stone henting the regal worm of worms
With temerity of the spire of spires; And they look ignominious
Upon the necromancer that they pierced testifying a vision of
Living beings, a saviour, an insuperable scorned man,
The maxim of kings, the miracle man of blood and water
Invidiously feeling despised crying out loud;
''Eloi, Eloi, Lema Sabachthani'',
Whom the ill-starred crucified and divided purloin his robes
At the rolling of dice. Yet still God raised from death much alike
The Nazarene himself had disintered Lazarus, resurrecting after
Four days his friend buried at Bethany; alike too Tabitha
Which (Simon), Peter, presented before the widows and believers
commanding alive in the name of the Almighty Holy Lord
From the clutches of the darkened Sun, clinging to the
Dark side of the moon within a star-less sky
Annointed the way to the Father.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 9:35 PM UTC
I sing the Mariner who first unfurl’d
An eastern banner o’er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
Snatch’d from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.
Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish’d from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.
Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.
Joel Barlow: The Columbiad (1809)
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
I'm surrounded by people that sneer the real love, that they don't know. The kind of true love, everlasting and that makes us ridiculously slaves... Thralls of everything... Of ideals, of prospects, of delusions and even of figures...
And blessed all of them, that don't know the boundless nooks of this thick and thorough petroleum... Clinging and sublime...
Love, Affection, Fondness... What are you? Why you're such?
Perhaps
I know the answers and my questions aren't these. I would say instead, What lurks in the intensity of those green
and luminescent emeralds... Those wonderful windows that I
can't observe for long...
I *purloin the seconds
to the tense*, for allow that I stray sinlessly and unconsciously in those
vast voids that are nevertheless so brimful... They're packed. Two explosions of... Of... Of...? Of amazement, not. Of
sheer perfection...
An unconscious and fatal excellence, though for only one person.
Alas... As can be incredible our being. Overly manifold and over mere to the same time... Made of whole and of nothing...
But it's late and if I start to talk about that... Well, tomorrow I will be too weary to
can succumb afresh to the
green elixir of the love whereby I live.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
I was reading a book about him, because I got lost in his maze.
The glimpse of rotten skulls, broken joints and stolen eyeballs got me agape.
I heard the trees scream loud and dance blind in the darkness to the raging wind.
Even though no, yet he seems to stand akimbo ahead the freaked me In his black hoody cloak that made him darker than the darkness that engulfed the scene.
Who again will rescue my soul from the grip of he who purloin my healthy mind?
He was a familiar sight in my nightmares for years rewind.
If I break loose tonight, next time, the reaper will still come to grasp my ****
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 8:05 AM UTC
i feel blue.
the empty void
managed to purloin
my color
only to scatter it
on the earth.
i feel blue, once again,
for i have forgotten
the flower’s color.
i feel blue,
sad and empty,
but i remember once more
a miracle
who came from heaven’s
sudden outburst of emotions:
you.
a blossom
tinged with one hue at a time,
who swallowed
every shade
cascading down
from the rose clouds.
you are one color,
and then the next,
but you’re also a riot
of all the hues in the spectrum.
and i no longer feel blue,
but yellow.
of sunshine and daisies.
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 5:29 AM UTC
My body is not yours to purloin
I want everything back
Stay your hands from my *****
Take back these panic attacks
Return my faith in the female gender
Why do I pray for a mender
I find no comfort in people, things , or tender
Your body, return it to sender
You had so many other options for ****** delight
Why do that to me on multiple nights
I never wanted this, your body , or you
The insults from others don't sink in well too
Just another few reasons to only sing to the moon of my blues
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC