jacob – original poem 12/1/2014

as i dig into the story behind my story, i find both paper & penned trails, as well as computer document tracks, that record, down the the minute, when such as this poem was first composed & then saved. here are the first-run words to Jacob, the poem that would in days morph into the version i published at huffington post on december 10, 2014, which, a couple short – & inspired – days later would be laid down as a first draft of the full story, now published & available at amazon

JACOB

One thousand one

One thousand two

Better better me than lonely, lowly thee

One thousand three

One thousand four

Enoble mankind’s superfluousness with the virtue that is poverty

An absent income is a higher, holier riches spent

Why the pithy monk can do this

Every hour ‘neath the shadows of riches the loyal dog remains bent 

In supplication

In contrived obeisance

To those for whom intended is the worldly best

If any such man can do it

Well then, any man should

And he does

And when he is done

And done is did

He can still find rank amongst

Gutter captains and derelict kings

As spare holes in the hills in silent testament lie

Mouths of babes spared of greedy, ceaseless cries

One thousand five

One thousand six

When nothing’s broken

What’s there to fix?

One thousand seven

One thousand eight

Oh midas, thy name is anthem

One thousand nine

Pull up your own bootstraps however shredded

For I have long since pulled up mine

One thousand ten

Not In My Back Yard

One thousand eleven

Out of sight, out of my mind

Twelve

I don the rose colored glasses

Thirteen

I strap on the blinders

Fourteen

I hide behind tri-colored veils

Fifteen

I lock myself within stony walls

Sixteen

I vow to keep my prosperity in

Seventeen

All the more to keep you out

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, all mine

Fine

Fine is my day

Lovely whispers my breeze

Spiced with the fragrance virtue

Aye it reeks here on high

But here I stand, light of foot,

Suspended on the strength of all my good, good deeds

No stench to curl the lip

No ugly to furl the brow

Let your gene pool dilute its own self

And hunt itself down with inborn stealth

Bred of need and of want

Fed on the bitters of fruitless dreams

My gates are monogramed JM

I see only padlocks on all others

December 10, 2014 1pm

the diary Kimann kept as a girl: writers write…and write…and write…