Long Purloined Poems
Long Purloined Poems. Below are the most popular long Purloined by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Purloined poems by poem length and keyword.
Vietnam Veterans Day
By Franklin Price
3/29/2019
Today is Viet veterans day
For a war so long ago
Recognition long delayed
For veterans that I know
We did not run to Canada
Hide in a college dorm
The dangers of that far off place
Became the daily norm
Our country called and off we went
Many drafted, many joined
When we returned from serving
By our country were purloined
We did not burn our draft cards
Even though we were despised
The wall contains the names we lost
On this day we're recognized
Do not need this recognition
To know we did what's right
When our country needed us
We went and joined the fight
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease
A daring young man on the flying Trapeze
His movements were graceful, all girls he could please
And my love he purloined away
The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze by George Leybourne
THREE RING CIRCUS
The clown wouldn’t smile, not for a million dollars or a cent.
Those lips, though painted on, were stuck like cement.
Lips curved down to his chin, someone’s jealous of him.
The upstart performer used permanent marker, broad not slim.
Then the perpetrator named both the clown’s cheeks.
And the tears that ran down were not eye socket leaks.
“This is not funny!” he said as his horn bellowed a laugh.
“Stop clowning around behind my back! I’ll write your epitaph…”
The trapeze artist yelled down below, “You’ll have to catch
Me first!” “Why you…” yelled the clown. The net, he’d snatch
And the ladder too, then he’d shake the snake out of his tree.
Poor clown, the magician had it in for him too. You see
She had a trick up her sleeve. She had constructed a plan
To move the frown up the pole and let down her man.
She let down her man so hard, he left a hole in her heart.
Now she’s clowning around with her new trapeze counterpart.
11/30/2021
It was a dark and stormy knight
who entered the castle unbidden.
Questing to rescue the purloined grail
in the dungeon's depths still hidden.
He met no resistance, no guard or dragoon,
his way clearly lighted by blinding full moon.
His trail of tan breadcrumbs was quickly dispatched
by hordes of blind rodents, their tails unattached.
Creeping slowly in search of the missing chalice,
his intent was to cause no mayhem or malice.
A creak of a step in the bowels of the bastion
gave pause to the steps of good knight Sebastian.
At dank passage’s ending a bright light shone
on the golden vessel being held by a crone.
Her gap-toothed smile and greenish exterior
made the quester’s heart feel ultra-inferior.
Witchy cackles grated, “This sacred grail is mine,
I dare you to take it if you have any spine.”
Gathering his wits, which had fallen to the floor,
Seb brandished his sword with a howl and a roar.
“Hand it over or experience your own Last Supper,”
he growled as he lunged out and full-force struck her.
The wizened crone dodged the sharp oncoming blade,
in a sinister move with Seb muttering, “Well played.”
In a flash, the witch turned the knight into stone,
then calmly drank tea from the grail with a scone.
A lightning strike plunged the night into dark,
the castle dissolved in swirly mist and a spark.
Echoing throughout the eerie blackness of night,
the crone gleefully croaked, “Good night, not-so-good knight.”
Before light’s encroaching
Beams, across wavelengths
Of glints, in between yawning
Protocols of waking,
The cocks strike a redundant
Note.
Choked by their own sensitive
Yodelling spree, muted by
Spittle of outstretched, moaning
Clouds, frayed and piqued by
The lusts of flying machines,
Hours stretch on rubber’s speed.
The rain is a common spiv, holding
On the crests of soaking waves
Upon night’s purloined
Sleep.
On the roof, the rain pelts
With energy, hunting the
Fire-caked degree of heat,
Insufferable to the dictates
Of yelling protests.
Faint mirrors of earliness hang
Loose on frescoes of heaven, peeking
Through serrated drapes above
Window panes. And these, like neighing,
Spavined horses, wake
Memories of puking slumber...
And the hours of dimmed contours
Stretched. And the lilt from the
Pluvial melody humbles the
Insomnia monody, drummed
Into the silence of fastened hedonism.
No sunrise within the grey
Patterns of veiled clouds...
Cocks’ crows, subsumed within
This muffled protocols, become
Distant trumpets of varieties,
Preening themselves of the usage
Of establishing culture.
Allah, Allah, Allah! ! !
The presence became fixed!
At the very hour of the cocks’ choir,
When piddling gathers the froth of
First waking with the grogginess
Of drunken dreams, the muezzin
Reads out the laws....
From the jungle chambers, elated
Spirits from pricked ears and
Rising furs soothe the voice,
Arched, raised and powered
Even to the birth of essences and
Dehiscing of inscrutable
Energies of efflorescences.
Allah, Allah, Allah!
Let’s pester Uncle Fester
After dafter Luxon
Pushed the button
Welcomed every glutton
To the isles of mutton
Theme of the meme
Team New Zealand
It does seem
No longer a
Stronger eclectic sceptic
Spanked by the rank
Septic tank stream
Peptic Pyramid scheme
Grand slam.. glam sham scam
Desperate Dan or Tangerine tan plan
God damn..American dream
Our rancour on social media
Danker seedier leaders crimes
Hanker for every greedier
Rhymes with banker
Sleazier golden geezer visas
Accept any offers to
Fill their many coffers
Brokery.. jiggery pokery
Immunity without impunity
To the unity of community
Profanity of their vanity
Insanity of their depravity
Clarity...disparity not charity
Tramples ample wokery
Our amazing landscape
Instead becomes their escape
Coined..after all they’ve purloined
Jolly jape…no red tape
Not being rash
But it is a rash
Debunk the gunk & funk
Forsaking the avarice
Taking the pis*
Bliss abyss monk
Crass..brash..flash git
S***k a chunk of cash
From their balderdash stash
Making..a complete hash of it
Fake elite on the take
As they see fit
Billionaire boys ploys annoys
Replete yet still cheat
Have your cake and eat it
Our government just envoys
For a small fee..sweet
Deploys the swanky..w**ky
Yankee all about me
Time to flee plea
They lit the fire
Liar & denier
Dug the quagmire
Piety for impropriety
Moolah Messiah ruler
High flyer pariah
Crueler society
Who when the s**t
Does hit the fan
No fibs..his nibs gets
First dibs on cribs
Outlier masterplan zen..know
Then where to go
Can always hunker down
In a spick & span den
Their Queenstown bunker
Amen
In bridled hovel on denuded strand
Tanned damsel loiters on barter stand
Waiting for purloined fealty her title to brand
Festooned in ritual garb, decked with lavish garland
As noble peacock, her fecund colors are fanned
Waiting eligible suitors her utility, virility to scan
Her father a lofty price doth rightly command
To root out pilfering charlatan, worthless brigand
A reputable family with aspirations noble, grand
Bids for the honor of reticent, sheltered hand
Her elder for propriety doth initial offers withstand
Until the esteemed value of his ward family doth understand
A suitable piece of fertile lowland he indignantly demands
In order his tribal status and perpetuity to expand
With gratuitous stipend in token parlance panned
In customary deference, contrite bride accepts husband
The key to feeling loved—attention
sharped or flatted drilled or bored,
love demands attention that’s the score—
marry the compound emotions of gist and jest,
sing the song of sorrow serene:
lay lie Ophelia on the waves of death
but grab the stage please.
Separated, longing, faceless, safety falsely felt
instruments of creation writhe in amour
lipping candied words across a span of white
following the cursor through the long night
a bouncing ball while music
plays, lovers seek delight.
Age, an unseen pain does not betray the seeking heart
wrinkled countenance denied by purloined words,
heat self-fingered brings release percussed by tapping
indexes, moans cascade to vibrato trills alone
Attention to the tale, the changing platform of the frame
love unknown, unfounded, forms within the detail of the page.
Contest: The Pain of Night
“Not too Shabby”
(one of my market regulars wrote us a lovely letter.. to raise our flagging spirits..and this is our tribute to you Tom..who whenever you ask how he is?....says not too shabby)
Another market dawning
Under a Victorian awning
No fawning or scorning
Cheeky grin adorning
With aplomb..hedonic insights
Sardonic delights of
Another Tom/Com bomb
Ironic demonic highlights
Sarky sparky malarkey
Anarchy..heady heights
Of our Saturday morning
One of those sorts
Whatever the weather
Always sports shorts
The kind (of) bloke
Quick with a joke
No fibs…his nibs
Not woke..just needs dafter
Laughter…with everything broke
Tom loves heaps of peeps
But would confess
Except for the bolder
Older folks shoulder barges
Along with elbows pokes
Stropping they’re stopping
Him shopping.. at Caithness
Tom’s other fave rave
Those prattling in Pak n Save
Crave.. best bet to shun
Send to their grave
Run & get the Gatling gun
Different skills he brings
With his shiny dome
Has done many things
Did roam far from home
Bouncer in Alice Springs
Not one to boast
But made the most
Of his recent West coast
Host..decent Hokitika the toast
Got the mettle
In fettle so fine
Which’s why we purloined
The first rate line you coined
Tom.. you are a “Ray of Sunshine”
Great Celtic blue eyed trait
Not too shabby…mate
How might I replicate your verse with deceit,
Claiming ownership, a fraudulent feat.
The sentiments woven, not from my core,
A stolen melody, a hollow encore.
How do I connect to the sunset's gold,
When purloined treasures in my hands unfold?
In the radiant daylight, brazen and bright,
I pilfer your wealth, devoid of true light.
How might I borrow your emotions, a theft so bold,
Claiming them as mine, when the pain's not been told.
Loneliness wrapped in borrowed lines divine,
A counterfeit connection, a deceptive design.
How do I profess love with words not authentically mine,
Desire and yearning from another's line?
Expressing affection, a counterfeit show,
In someone else's verses, my feelings won't grow.
How could I snatch your art, a precious display,
When the sentiments painted, not mine to convey.
In the misty rain, your love I'd feign,
Yet only fog in my mind's windowpane.
How might I borrow, and not call it thine,
A snippet of work, claiming it's mine.
Yet with proper reference, an ethical find,
Admiring your craft, no plagiarism behind.