Short Purloined Poems

stolen
colon



11/20/23...

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“In God We Trust”
the dollar we must

Two-headed coin,
minted unjust

“Fides in Deum,”
our fortunes to blame

The past purloined
—the future inflamed 

(The New Room: March, 2021)...

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In the beauty of his obit, (this 
soulful man), there was one omission: 
His soul was purloined in a world 
of privilege, too much permission.
Freddie, where were you when
I was ready.  Now, only your 
music plays in my mind.
There's no rewind.

      for Freddie Mercury w/ love...

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Red embers of floating sins
Shuffled tectonic plates beneath like a leaf on a spin
Stark raiment query to the forewarning
Numb to the smoke when purloined hubris as second skin
Nefarious stipulation with life's pregnant mysteries, than drama visible on tube, will roost the din...

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It wasn’t in the closet 
It hadn’t been purloined 
It wasn’t on the balcony 
It wasn’t left behind 
It wasn’t in the bedroom 
Nor was it in the truck 
Did a neighbor keep it for me? 
Oh, that’s it—what the . . . ...

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Most days, my thoughts
Are consumed by phantom pugilism
With things that once were
But long in absentia.

I re-trace the missteps,
That became teaching tools,
In the grandeur of life;

My unspoiled moments,
The fourth dimension has purloined,
Leaving me to mark time
With no pronounced purpose....

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You dip your toe into poetry’s waters,
but never seem to get wet

Pretense showing, your measure unknowing,
the surface as good as it gets

Into the depths where fear leaves a shadow,
you stare with eyes conjoined 

The moment upon you, time has been stopped,
to dive—your soul purloined

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2020)...

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ON THE DEATH OF A PET

When you finally realize he’s gone,
How he pad so benignly on your awareness
Something pulls at your soul –
     A memory of other time
        Of other life
             Life so simple     so undemanding
So loving
And of that consistent joy
Only a purloined whisper lingers.


Mr. Penny died November 4th, 2013...

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Why Frank’s Hot Sauce isn’t
and Daylight Savings Time doesn’t
and times they ain’t changing
in a land where all white men
are created equal.

Between 1500 and 1800 
to this New World came
2.5 million Europeans 
12.5 million purloined Africans 
while 55 million Indigenes succumbed
to disease and systematic genocide.

And the land of the free ain’t....

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Smoke and mirrors man the barricade 
  Between us with tricks of the dusk drizzled light; 
And formulates hold to the moments purloined, 
  Hold to the moments, hold good and tight. 
For distance is nothing but veils of smoke, 
  Mirrored, refracted a crafted delusion; 
And love such as ours compose distance a dream, 
  Distance a dream, nothing more than illusion......

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Thought’s Aroused
Written by: Tom Wright
9/13/2012
 
Most days, my thoughts
Are consumed by phantom pugilism
With things that once were
But long in absentia.

I re-trace the missteps, 
That became teaching tools,
In the grandeur of life; 

My unspoiled moments,
The fourth dimension, has purloined,
Leaving me to mark time
With no pronounced purpose;
...

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My poem was about innocent hearts
    not purloined, perfumed farts
  'Twas about forever lingering kisses
     not everlasting, beer-induced pisses

  Verses extoling glaciers' sheer grandeur
    no excretions of gooses or ganders
  Lines conjuring up treasured memories
    nothing about S&M or pederasty

  'Course, publishers rejected it out of hand
    ~ nothing to stimulate readers' trash glands...

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I fear to be Here 
You make me feel spooky 
Your greyed hue laid me in cist and
Chaos of headlights gore the peace
they reminisced, 
How he dumped me like a trash
I repel to feel bygones allures,
What tasted like Himalayas.
When you painted me in blood and prised,
Like a god of devour. 
And that one night, it purloined my
drape, frilly and virginity 
Here in this basement,
inside his car with mirth!...

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like a night fairy
you invaded
my side of the room
stealing my coffee
hot handed
like the money
with which it was procured
selling poetry
composed with heart
and sore fingers
holding ballpoint pen
put together 
the old fashioned way 
carrying the books
everywhere I go 
asking anyone interested
to buy a copy
now thanks to you
I have to purchase more
of this daily necessity
with what is left
in my wallet...

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The greatest pretender in the sky
is a thief in wings
and sings and sings in purloined folly.

A burlesque bird first loots a throat
then coddles every stolen note
and assembles every syllable

Then one by one in choral mime
as though true specie in the air
acts with incipit pompous dare.

And what honest notes could sound
that author care the see
that invention were an honest gift
achieved with authenticity....

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In a stolen moment
of solitude I sit
at the base of my
bookshelf and
surrender to swirling
synaptic symphonies of
Solzhenitsyn

In yet another
purloined pause
I pensively peruse
Poe’s pedantically
petrifying ponderings

I desperately desire
a day to dutifully
devour Dickinson’s
dreamy dirges

Alas
my children call
and I must leave
my literary wonderland
all is not lost
for bedtime is near
and Dr. Seuss awaits...

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The Imitators

He has worked in the garden of poetry
Forty years gone.
The soil is meagre and the plants are eaten
By boars, they applaud him with grunts.

To find the roots and transplant them on a page
Or in the garden of literature, is not easy.
The gardener is famed for his genius or a charlatan
Of rose bushes.

Truth rears its ugly head, there are doubters
Who will not be silent, he knows when his plant’s
Has been purloined.
Better than not be read at all....

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