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. jacob was later published & the first edition illustrated hardback is available at eBay; the 2nd edition for kindle or print on demand is at amazon


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
I don the rose colored glasses
I strap on the blinders
I hide behind tri-colored veils
I lock myself within stony walls
I vow to keep my prosperity in
All the more to keep you out
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, all mine
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…