O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.



You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

And his voice my thick tongued mumble.



You told me the plough was immortal!

O green-life conquering plough!

The mandril stained, your coulter blunted

In the smooth lea-field of my brow.



You sang on steaming dunghills

A song of cowards' brood,

You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,

You fed me on swinish food



You flung a ditch on my vision

Of beauty, love and truth.

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

You burgled my bank of youth!



Lost the long hours of pleasure

All the women that love young men.

O can I stilll stroke the monster's back

Or write with unpoisoned pen.



His name in these lonely verses

Or mention the dark fields where

The first gay flight of my lyric

Got caught in a peasant's prayer.



Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-

Wherever I turn I see

In the stony grey soil of Monaghan

Dead loves that were born for me.

well peasant boy milked the cow proved god
that fed and gave the mosquito,
and the people still desired the flashy bling:
that stole the magpie -
that stole the magpie from the cake
in diadem of whipped cream of having it too;
what the magpie stole, from having it too to not having
it, the magpie with the magpie’s thieving eye
accustomed itself to what is desired being thieved
but not thieved by a magpie:
aesop’s eloquence would have helped here
to compare a silver spoon given to the groom
prior to marriage... as the twinkle in that magpie’s eye
or the antidote in bullet shot at a warewolf
sitting lonesome with the moon, bare-chested in the forest
hearing a creepy sound of a fallen branch breaking nearby
under pressure from a foot - echoing the words:
‘no wild animal comes this close to man in the depths of its niche.’

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
Like a strict box its gems encased,
Has spilt from out that cunning lid,
All in an innocent green round,
Those melting rubies which it hid;
With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,
So birds get half, and minds lapse merry
To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,
And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.


The wren that thieved it in the eaves
A trailer of the rose could catch
To her poor droopy sloven thatch,
And side by side with the wren’s brood—
O lovely time of beggar’s luck—
Opens the quaint and hairy bud;
And full and golden is the yield
Of cows that never have to house,
But all night nibble under boughs,
Or cool their sides in the moist field.


Into the rooms flow meadow airs,
The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.
Inside and out, and sky and ground
Are much the same; the wishing star,
Hesperus, kind and early born,
Is risen only finger-far;
All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.


Now straightening from the flowery hay,
Down the still light the mowers look,
Or turn, because their dreaming shook,
And they waked half to other days,
When left alone in the yellow stubble
The rusty-coated mare would graze.
Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,
Another thought can come to mind,
But like the shivering of the wind,
Morning and evening in the corn.

Velcro-like hands
Grip and pull
At every thread of his textile presence
As a spider clings
to her
silky haven in the rain

With every tear
she grows less stable
And every shudder
draws hopes of Heaven
Past this haven, in the tree branch, that she built her life upon

And the web; it softly whispers
It is trapped in finite murmur
Once high hopes of hereafter, embroider fears that she “was once”

In the rain,
she is suspended
Thoughts thieved away by daydream
Her mind drifts back to sunny lives
And her Velcro-like grasp
Loosens
Just a little.

Hello sad clown
You must peel that irony off your lips, you thieved it from me.
Your grotesque eyes bore through don't they?
If so, why am I not all bones yet?
Hollow noises would ricochet would my flesh would turn weary of holding me.

Hello sad clown
With your frown- upside down-
Is your plastic as tensile as my heart seems to be?
I would slice a knife beneath your sloping eyebrows, so you wouldn't see what I have.
It was pretty as hope and it decided to **** me.

Hello sad clown
Do you miss your happy shadow?
Or does it leech around in sadistic mockery murmuring things about your past?
I would lend you all my heart-cheats -
But they would involve the blackness of your soul or inside your eyelids.

**Mirror mirror on the wall,
Am I the saddest clown of them all?

A darling girl of three
Violet ribbon cradles golden hair
They fuss over her porcelain skin
Blushing cheeks and baby blue eyes
“Eyes you just want to steal,”  say They.
She crayons pictures of castles
And heroic princes.
Her little dolls are played
Then locked in their little dollhouse

A fair girl of fifteen
Mornings she is taunted and condemned
By the mocking mirror.
She stares
And draws a smile on the vacancy.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes-
Strings attached to all.
Puppetted by the fetters of Expectation,
She smiles, and acts,
And dresses in little outfits
To please Them.

A charming girl of seventeen
Immured little fingers cradle the wiled world.
A Crayoned face fronts the masquerade.
Mangled in tangled strings,
She offers her heart and scissors to a little blonde boy
And cries, Kiss it better.
He smiles and smooths her brow
As his honeyed whispers tear her open
And he ties a heartstring.
He stitches her up with the thread of Promises
Leaving ribbon-scars delicate as lace.
Blueblack bruises blossom across
And stain her porcelain skin.
She shatters
While screaming his innocence.

Thieved eyelight
Makes for a jaded girl of eighteen.

A darling girl of three
Plays with toys
As They toy with her.
Just another broken doll to be.

all my joy has
been thieved from me
stolen
tooketh
i have sat and compared and
looked up and down
examining beautiful girls
im supposed to look like them
but no
my joy has been thieved from me

Below the river’s mirrored surface
Sun-catchers collect the eyes of fish
And in reflecting rainbows
Cast shadows through the currents.  

The slippers of dimpled stones
Tip-toe down-river-bottom
The same direction that the
Weeds blow.

Naked bodies that gleam blushes
Connect with the hot rocks
And rippled movements,
Each one dives into the cold clutches of aqua
Each one leaps on the rocks to lie in the sun.

The black and blue dragonflies,
They boast their fast flight
In full circles and angled turns
And from their deep-set ebony eyes
Pierce the spaces under rocks and between leaves.

Grains of sand are thieved from the shores
By the fast fleeing waters that do not
Stay in one place long.
Those under the water
Those that listen
Hear the music that is so subtly drawn with each grain of sand
Hear the music in the reflecting sun-catchers
Hear the foot-falls of every dimpled stone
Hear the music in the movements of those naked bodies
And in the speedy flight of black and blue dragonflies.

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you,
and my past theft seemed selfish, childish, and frankly, insane.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out anything for you
and my wide loving eyes could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were coated in haze.
I searched for flowers but then found winter instead.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
Shrinking to the ground, all I saw were gray clouds:
the very clouds I used to not notice,
the same grayness someone taught me to love.

What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I still run and I thieve, but not for a love of my own.
I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for the love of others,/for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love

Your body took mine on a slow dance, slow motion
four days milliseconds stopped to whistle.
You, in my ear too, with your songs of the weather:
we meet the hurricane with camellia headbands
to water from left to right. Some of your
vessel had fell into mine – it buoyed, that naked sea.

I only knew about your skin and bones
how it bubbled when burned, a bacteria bathtub
and that your eyes became less than caramel
rather a stern grey. I gathered sand.
It made you a beach devastated by summer squalls.  

Next morning, a fog was caught in my throat –
thieved from those red-veined orbs.
The sheets said you tossed and turned while I dreamt
but I still awoke to your lips coupling my neck.

Lovers do not walk or limp, you maintained
and so there was a waltz beneath rain – time paused
as we sped up but the tide did not stop crashing.

the shadow picks
a nice path on your face;

across planes,
                        in wells
I never drank from,
                        on a pink bud
from which I stole
sugar
        instead
of
tasting.

Where words slipped
I thieved, not
                       kissed.

shadow hovers
as a bee
             searching
for pollen
in darkness.

It loves all
the places
                I missed

because

I substituted French phrases for
your limbs;
spoke to your
light
in a language I didn't quite
know yet

but

sounded
         like
              like
the poetry found

in light's absence.

The Oak tree in the garden fasts
her luscious bodice skinned
Though dream we did that autumn last,
none could conquer cold coarse wind

Ethereal laces, red and gold
once cloaked her graceful form
As sun-warmed skin, turned white with cold
flesh falls like ladies’ laces torn

Light which drenched her leaves ’til soaked
has vanished long with autumn’s coat
Instead, bare arms, broken and *****
Fight November’s bitter, bleak demote

And then one day I check upon her
Has winter’s brutal beating claimed
vict’ry by that cruel crisp monster
gainst my garden’s fairest dame?

Alas, my prize has not been slain
her beauty ne’er been thieved
For in the night the winter came,
but dressed her as a queen!

Under folds of whitest silk she stands
draped in drops of diamond light
Defeated crude and forceful hands
bow down to such exquisite might

So once again she rises,
sleek and silver stands she now
Transformed by winter’s laces whitest
she shall remain my garden crown

Skating under the ice
Is there a skating rink in hell?

How to live my life when all has been lost at such a cost
Thieved by fools lost my jewels
No shoulder to cry on
No one cares
All I get is blank stares

My stomach Aches for food
In a world of filthy dopes
How I can cope ?

Dogs bums ******* pimps fools
******* ******* ******* jerks jickets
Scams greedy pigs the works

I just don't know

D Clare

the moment I met you,
stood in dismay,
found a lot of
beauty incomparable
to be thieved from you
               I became  a kleptomaniac
                in an instance,
would you believe?
even if sounds  fantastic
understand the compulsions
of my heart,
see  how love turns and twists one
and changes beyond recognition.

stealing your heart
was a masterly heist
the peak of my expertise
that brought me face to face
with my newly acquired talent.

but with such ease
I could rob your glowing heart.
I can't contain my happiness
and got goose bumps all over.

and at last, I sneaked
in to this long corridor
leading to your soul,
to take away the best
you had in display, there.

and what did I see?

my own eyes-
in multiple images
looking at me intently.
Your adoration and trust,
humbles me and touch
so deep, it's incomparable
I stand here
disarmed,
in full surrender.
        O

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.


i did something I loved, but it became an industry, no longer for love but for profit, for image, to look cool/unique
people love doing something and then it becomes too much, corrupt, not for you anymore, so they have to remember why they do it, do it because you love it
the lorax
do what you love, people

on your shelves there is a book
with a dog-eared page you'll never turn
you remember every sacred word
for that page is just a paper crook

it stole your every gasping breath,
thieved your thoughts through your eyes
your beating heart it burglarized
as words danced around your fingertips

it ***** your mouth and made it bleed,
ground your bones to sticky paste
your swollen head it clean erased
when you sang aloud its melody

but overtime you just forgot
that page that put your mind at rest
so you never made it to the end
and on forgotten shelf it rots

lost inside this leaf,
all has become gone.
sun, is time thieved,
life has become no-one.

where did it go?
that silly soul of mine.
all i am is tree-branch-fallen low,
thoughts summerautumnwinterspring kind.

swallowed by the breeze,
encumbered by something unknown.
i can't dance tonight, my lovely, see.
the breeze floats by where it has flown.

finger hand arm, thoughts in the eye
no longer leaf-lost, thoughts found mine.

Oh the peculiar village,
her eyes carved out
from her visage,
thieved just to
look at the moon
and the stars' lagoon,
for the moon isn't the moon
the night isn't starry,
when not seen from her eyes,
she who seems married,
to the night sky of course.

Sadness and sorrow
is thick
(in what is left)
on the breathes
of our noble men
S
c
        a
               t
      t
e
red bodies
crowdedcompactedandcompressed--
thieved of our glory
and stripped of our pride
forced to survive beneath
the feet of wandering eyes
sleeping among a silence that seems too violent
to compromise
                               from sunset to sunr    
                                                              i        e
                                                                  s  
harro-
wing whispers and
tender cries

a thief takes that it believes it lacks
a thieved lacks that it believes can be taken

Maaaan, I ain’t got nothin…
‘cept 3 li’l buns that came outta her oven
Just when ya think everything’s going to be alright
Yer served with papers and sleepin’ in a van at night
Lookin up at the nighttime sky
Sounds in the background of future DWI’s rollin’ by
They ain’t got nothin’ either ‘cept empty promises and broken dreams
No clear direction of what their life means
To a corporate fat cat, they’re just an asset
A tax base, bleeds green, a budget offset
Sombody PAH-LEASE turn off this ****** faucet
They say I make a decent living and STILL I’m living out of boxes
And okay, I’ll be positive, I have a couple nice things
But I paid the price in meals for the joy that they bring
So I sit my broke *** in a corner by the lake
And center my mind, lotus position, atoning mistakes
And I realize there aren’t any, and I retain my ego
Cause when I think about it, we’re all just stuck at a different level of zero
Confused mice in a maze looking for the moved cheese
Moving purpose to purpose like a band of gypsies
Seeking out the lie that is the American Dream
Relax the frustration with pleasure in my bloodstream
I practice my art of being happy for what I’ve received
Instead of the hopes and dreams that from us have been thieved
Yet some other mouse with a weapon demands what I’ve got
Yelling, spittle in my face, from a man that fate forgot
I scream back, fire like a cannon, with pride, with passion
Looking straight in his eye, I laugh, say it with me…
Maaaan, I ain’t got nothin

i think my eyes were blue
before he thieved the colour
from the insides of me

I think we forgot
Or I think there was an occurrence
A time that the door swung open
Where it slipped, almost quietly out
Fell up into the night
For others, perhaps
Or for nothing

Or maybe
Between those days, streets, dinners
Those afternoons thieved behind closed curtains
Between the hands and the highs and the denials
In those lulls of mind, or lacunas of the trials
We forgot to look
Unrepentantly inattentive
And like a naughty child
Like yesterday's confetti to a storm  
It fled
And we,
Indispensably inattentive
Rolled forward
Smooth wheels on rough ground
But maybe it didn't
Didn't flee after all
And we merely
Rolled forward
Rolled towards

Do I scream from the windows?
Or replant, in the same plant ***?
Do I pound my thighs along lanes after it
With all that naughtiness
Of the troubled child?
I wonder if this is the sentence
For the crime of easy reliance
I wonder if belated repentance
Can push palms into the past
I wonder if tomorrow
Changes's hurricane arrives

I have to impignorate the two gun's that I own
Better in another man's feel
Though my landscape was purloined
And there organizations had combined,

Mr swickzer down the street from me
In Calabasis California
He will hold the tool for me
And the topanga state park
Will be a good getaway where I cannot be thieved again.

A favorite poet of mine once said,
"Let love rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls."
With the winds guiding the waves towards each other's beach.
Uncertain of how it would reach its destination and may touch other island's shorelines.
But so sure that it would be the same water that would kiss each other's sands.
And I believed him.
But he was so wrong.

Because it wasn't the distance that kept us apart.
But time, every tic of its hands,
Time that I was supposed to spend right beside you,
Slowly fading. Dissolving.
Slowly passing.
Worse than being thieved by
Because if it passes, you cannot catch it back.
And I am ****** and frustrated
Because it seems like it's just time that is the true measure.
It's just time that's the very basis.
And, for me, only time spent beside you is what matters.