Jake's Epigrammatic Vital Mice: January 2011

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Poem: Your Westward Sun

Your Westward Sun

I'm getting on the coal train,

Heading west towards the sun.

Rolling through the Rockies,

I'll be taking my time...

All to see Your westward sun.

I'm getting in the old car,

Heading west towards the coast.

Driving through the desert,

I'll be taking my time...

All to see Your westward sun.

I'm getting on my feet

And walking west until I'm there.

Hiking under Your stars,

I'll be taking my time...

All to see Your westward sun.

I'm burning all my money,

And I'm leaving all my things.

Setting off on my own,

I'll be taking my time...

All to see Your westward sun.

I'm not looking for anything

But some peace of mind.

You see, I wish my life was

Not a waste of my time.

Now that's why I'm going to see

Your westward sun.

Poem: Reflections of a Man Alone

Reflections of a Man Alone

I look in the mirror,

As I stand proud and tall.

"Am I there?" I ask.

I notice that I'm trembling,

Hiding in a corner. God,

I am so weak. Stand up straight!

So I do, but with a lack of dignity.

It seems to me, looking at

Myself, that I am drowning

In a pool of selfish tears.

"Come on, now," I tell myself,

"Stop crying and be a man!"

I look up at myself, while

I look down at myself.

Strange, how two reflections

Make up one body. But

Which reflection is really me?

I am both. Yet I am

One. As I flood myself,

I look at my pride.

"Why? How? How can I be

So proud? I have nothing!"

I look down

At myself and say, "Well,

Why am I such

A crybaby? What do I

Not have that I do?"

"I have pride," I say,

"But I, however, do not."

And so I leave my reflections:

The reflections of pride;

The reflections of a man alone.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Poem: Progressive Seasons in the Change of Thought

Progressive Seasons in the Change of Thought

Once upon a Season,

On an Autumn's dusty day,

I sat upon a question

Of my disarray:

If the question of a "why"

Is answered with a "who,"

Then what on this Earth

Am I expected to do?

I sat upon this fact,

With both arms crossed,

And contemplated my acts,

And what they might cost.

Once upon a Season,

On a Winter's cloudy day,

I laid upon a question

Of what others might say:

If the question of a "why"

Is answered with a "well,"

Then where might they take me?

Would they take me to Hell?

I laid upon this outcome,

With both legs crossed,

And bitterly counted the sum,

Finally paying the cost.

Once upon a Season,

On a Springtime's sunny day,

I stood upon a question

Of how the events should play:

If the question of a "why"

Takes place at a "where,"

Then who would act next,

And how would the two compare?

I stood upon this decision,

With both hands solemnly crossed,

And proceeded with great precision,

Having paid the expensive cost.

Once upon a Season,

On a Summer's sweaty day,

I ran upon a question

Of how I must disobey:

If the question of a "why"

Is aimed at a "how,"

Then what should I tell them,

"That was then, this is now"?

I ran upon this idea so strange,

With both fingers crossed,

And decided I am in need of a change,

No matter what it might cost.

Poem: Little Raindrop

Little Raindrop

Bon Voyage,

My fresh little raindrop;

You held your composure so very well.

Good-bye,

My tiny little raindrop;

Do not forget how stylized the others fell.

So long,

My pure little raindrop;

I hope you find peace upon the Earth.

Adieu,

My swift little raindrop;

You have been blessed ever since your birth.

One last thing,

My sweet little raindrop,

It is only your first early morning.

In time you will be neglected,

My poor little raindrop;

At some point every drop is wasted.

But do not worry,

My precious little raindrop.

You will meet fulfillment once you have been tasted.

And so now farewell,

My rare little raindrop;

Do not forget to write.

I love you,

My favorite little raindrop;

Now run along and begin your very first flight.

Several Short Poems, Part II

Farmer's Wail

There, in the past, was a Day:

Cloaked in the thick of Fog and Mold.

And just as Time composed a melody,

The Sun became blue and cold,

With Fog seizing the decay.

Then, in the past, was a Dusk:

Clung to the last rays of the Sun.

Farmers gathered remaining bits of corn,

Picking up each rotten cob, one by one,

While Darkness seized the last husk.

This, in the present, is a Night:

Blanketing the world with hurt.

But look down now, there, at the ground!

Fresh corn grows out of the moistened dirt,

As the Sun seizes the Moon's radial plight.

The Country

Lies.

Dirt-paved roads.

Windmills.

Deceit.

Tumbleweeds.

Plateau-infested flatlands.

Betrayal.

Rotten power lines.

Broken barbed wire boxes.

Resentment.

Newly-planted seeds.

Cracked earth.

Pressure.

Beads of sweat.

Blinding sun.

Repentance.

Cold water.

Fresh clothes.

Forgiveness.

Clean air.

Cool breeze.

The Change.

Evenodd

River rocks:

They skip along politely.

No rhyme or reason;

They just glide along delightfully.

And happiness

Is similar to river rocks:

It needs no reason now

To smile through a dark and gloomy day.

Butterflies:

They fly along so gently.

No rhyme or reason;

They just flutter complimentary.

Therefore sadness

Is similar to butterflies:

It needs no reason now

To flutter by the blessings of our lives.

If Man Is a Fool

If man is a fool,

Then, babe, I must be the king;

Too ignorant to call my own bluff,

Too arrogant to say enough is enough,

But too modest to wear a royal crown:

If man is a fool.

If man is a slave,

Then, babe, I must be pushing stone;

Too proud to give myself in,

Too strong to let it win,

But too blind to see the hill is too high:

If man is a slave.

If man is a mistake,

Then, babe, I must be the worst misprint;

Too ignored to see my own worth,

Too apathetic to care about my own birth,

But too determined to find my purpose:

Since man is a fool.

Several Short Poems

Raining Reign

Under reign,

The thunder and rain

Clapped against the tattered roof.

They apologized for the intrusion,

With admitted confusion,

And then continued to remain aloof.

No Innuendo

Where do you stand, dear boy,

Where do you rest?

And what's that in your hand, a toy?

Oh, my son, give it a rest!

Leave it alone, dear boy,

And stop touching her breast!

Time

I won't let you walk so far away

Without taking your soul down away;

Now it's time.

I'm starting to get nervous now.

If you stay quiet and don't scream now,

I might just give you a bone.

The Bridesmaid's Clothes

The bridesmaid's clothes! The bridesmaid's clothes!

They've fallen on top of your abstraction!

Quick! Hide! Before she finds out

That the demons are all liars!

A Type of Hypocrite

Closing my eyes,

Blocking this nightmare;

I try this life on for size,

But it just starts warfare.

It's like a clothing

That just doesn't fit;

A type of loathing;

A type of hypocrite.

Upon a Silent Hill

In every light of the darkening mist,

In every house of the torturous gloom,

An animation shall rise and persist

On withering this life-conducting bloom.

See now the rustic eyes on portraits stare,

From morning until the night's silent fall?

And from thence these shadows will and must share

A murd'rous red tale upon the dark walls.

But in this tale, however, one could see

That mere small child holding her one black tear.

Soon a massive sacrifice all will be

To save her from futile and fatal fear.

And in this town, you must always keep still--

Or all's forever lost upon a silent hill.

The Wicker Doorsteps

I see the Wicker Doorsteps,

The pattern so astounding.

My nerves begin to burst, and

I hear my heart a-pounding.

The light beyond the window

Has made it very clear:

If I walk to the Wicker Doorsteps,

The world will disappear.

I see a merry maiden,

Dancing in jubilee.

Her dress, it falls around her,

Its silence compels me.

Collecting my excitement,

I waltz up towards the door,

And upon those Wicker Doorsteps,

My true love hits the floor.

Such a Mystery

There's something in my mind,

Something hollow; an empty place.

It's nothing I want to find;

It's just scratching from inside my face.

Such a mystery.

Satan's Lament

Eat the apple and spit the seed.

We are the salt that makes the wound bleed.

Slither through the soft green grass,

We blend in, as if we never passed.

In the beginning we struck at 7:06.

We feed on your Song like lustful ticks.

At the sound of the innocent and of the mild,

We awaited the birth to devour the Royal Child,

From thence we have tasted the bitterness of defeat

With our heads smashed by His sandaled feet.

Final Winds

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

For my final act, my grand finale:

The death of the wind!

Poem: Child of Darkness

Child of Darkness

"Here comes the high and hot Hell storm.

Oh, and here comes Death, bringing its stench.

Ah, but look! There in the red sky! See? Our own wraiths

Are cracking their whips, breaking our backs.

Come, we must follow them down the path,

Paved with sulfur and rotten, musty muscle. But

Don't give up hope, love. There's plenty of sadism

For everyone. We mustn't let a little mistreatment

Get under our skin. No, that space under our skin

Is reserved for pins and needles only.

Come now, we must go down to the Ninth Floor;

That is, of course, where we are stationed,

Is it not? I hear our bunks are nice and soft,

Lined with broken glass and fresh coals,

Hot out of the furnace. Nothing like crawling into

A warm crib after a long nightshift of mining

Souls. Wait, did you even know that's what we will be doing?

Mining souls. Only the lost ones, of course. God

Wouldn't give up his treasured followers so easily,

Now, would He? No sir, only our very own Evil One,

The Prince of Darkness would take up such an offer.

You see, the way he does his business is--

Now wait just one minute, why are you taking off that

Cloak? If Demon Lucifer sees your image of God,

He'll use your dead body as his towel when he's through with his

Shower of fire! There you go, that's better. Oh look,

We're almost there. Hey, why are you putting those chains

On me, crooked Angel? Take them off! Please, they're burning my skin!

I thought we were in this together! What do you mean

Everyone here is alone? I don't want to be alone!

I don't care if I suffer, but I cannot suffer alone! I need you

Here with me! Please! No, no, no, please don't throw me

Down there! That's a whole lake of fire! I'm a miner, the least severe of

Sinners, remember? What do you mean Satan works alone?

What do you mean I lost my chance? No!

I deserve a second chance! Do you hear me?

I deserve a second chance!"

"No.

The end is here, oh, Child of Darkness.

You are right when you say you

Cannot suffer alone. Nor could my

Begotten Son. I sent Him to earth to die

For you. And although you refused Him,

He did not suffer alone. For I was with

Him. But you have refused Me. Therefore,

You suffer alone, because

I never knew you."

The Vital Mouse's Head

This is something very weird I wrote. Hope you enjoy!

The Vital Mouse's Head

A1, AC, anthropathelogically, ashen, anvil, auditory! B2 bellows, backspace, bleeding ballet! Bogies, billowy, can’t: “C3,” cite Capricorn, “The icy DC pink eventual light.” Excruciating! Lush! A bright fit, deep, futuristically patriotic. Gallstones piping? Golly! Yellow hackie, orange hell, chilly idiocy, snowy. Incommodious Command: Jailbait. Command: Jesting. Control: Joking.

D4, Kewpie Dmitri’s knot. E5, lads edit lamebrains entering lycanthropy. F6: the Fi monkey! Fickle nickels, flat nocturne; Fujita Operation. G7, osculating goo, padlock. H8. Pinpoint hideaway. Quadroplop I.D., Quell?

I9? Radical. J10? Rapacious. K11? Sacrilegious. L12, so latency tangible! M13, tick-tock metropoliptical. Torrential molecules: transmogrification! N14-umbrage, Newton’s Utopian O15. Vamoose, oncorps, verminal! P16: walloping people, wetness, polka.

Xebec Q17. Xeno R18. Xylophone relatives, the S19; Yin’s sad zammaculatory. See zoot shift zydeco steak? Zymosis.

T20 (“Throbbing Timothy”), U21 (Uloric) V22, a W23 (“World”), X24, Y25 (“Yacht”), Z26: laws, stands, DUH!

Aspirin clouds, art valet below, tops the “has” in “blue.” Breathe, and your green day, green stands, yellow menstruation, blue secretion, red farewell: hot for orange! Fuzzy October galore! Gray in white! And C toilets! V Jamboree! Alt jokers (English jesters) undo “cutiepie,” (the “Exactly Tahw”), enjoying bottom lollygagging scales, Mae!

Gen. Dodando, in with City Hairy Sweet! Her new “bad” in precision, dot to humidity! McKinley’s to range “three sadomasochistic” sauce; what? Eyelid timekeeper weapons? Diarrhea acid towards void coconuts? Atlas cancer? Or a…? Of worthy encounters…? Yegg, Yang, Mr. Suit, by weighed March, letter: “April for May farce. June, a white, a red back. September a November. On December, west, delete ‘A confuses Face’ atmosphere lips? Tub?”

“Luck, girl: quietus on, toolbox and schtick. Heat your molecules, waif! Tons of de…of, say, stole pee, Kursmudgenstein!” Reflux the…? In to…? Not gravitational?! Awful! Her bloke “February”? Bog! And Madame! August received me disco, a king Hime Taxi, of Nice Cah. A syndrome, good. Saved! Oh Lincoln, me padre, assist “face attraction”! Worry! The…my…swamps! Down? Colonoscopies? Blue (after fish crush mine cup).

Bye, landslide, in my “between” head, third egg! July, midnight, world. Of you life, kind domination, warm and southern, I, residential, hit! Hospitality sunk! Destroyed! Compromised! Annihilated! VITAL!

The Elderly Man and the Clock

Okay people, go easy on me, this is my first "Vital Mice" that I've posted. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The Elderly Man and the Clock

The Elderly Man sits down, with an old Book of sorts, and begins rocking back and forth. Back and forth he sways, as the Rocking Chair whines in rolling cadence with the ‘tick…tock…’ of the Grandfather Clock. The Grandfather Clock chimes, out of tune, yet in perfect harmony with the Elderly Man’s wheezing. Ah, but look now! Neon Raindrops are dripping from the ceiling! However, the myriad of colors do not seem to catch the Man’s attention. Instead, He has stopped breathing all together. The Elderly Man is asleep now.

36 hundred ticks have passed. Take note! The Man is awake now. But alas! His pages are blanketed with white nothings. And how can this be? The Elderly Man’s Rocking Chair now faces a corner, like that of a dunce in time-out! The Grandfather Clock rests upon the ceiling. ‘Tick…tock…’

The ticking of the tock creates a fluid of neon orange that drips onto the floor. A gust of daunting wind blows the pages of the Elderly Man’s Book. And, what’s this? In the blink of an eye, the Book is now dangling in the air, against the upper corner of the White Room! Oh, how the Roots grow from the pages and climb down the walls lingeringly. They’ve taken hold of the Elderly Man’s Rocking Chair now! ‘Tick…tock…’

A Young Man, whose expression looks satisfied, is now in the opposite corner of the White Room. He wears a tuxedo, for it would appear that He is a Conductor. The Elderly Man looks at Him with an air of resignation. He has risen from the Rocking Chair by now, and has His hands deep in His pockets. The Rocking Chair becomes overgrown by the Book, while the Young Conductor raises His arms. He begins conducting the orchestra of neon. ‘Tick…tock…’

The ceiling of the White Room begins raining bright green Droplets. The floor transforms into white pages, presumably from the Old Book. It waves with the Young Conductor’s every movement. Yet all is silent. The Conductor points to the Elderly Man passively. He is asleep now.

36 hundred days have passed. The Elderly Man is awake now. The White Room exists no more. All is gone. By now the Conductor has disappeared, while the Man has a beard of grey that extends down to His waist. He sees a wooden rod levitating in front of Him. He takes it. The Elderly Man conducts, ‘tick…tock…’

What to Expect from Me...

Hello all,

This is something I'm trying so I can get some of my work out there. Sometimes there will be poems, sometimes stories, but mostly, a type of abstract writing that I do, which I call "Vital Mice." Please be open and honest and let me know what you think!!

Thanks,

Jake S.