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PJ Poesy Jan 1
If I told him once I told him a million times. I said to him, " Manny, this is not a magical kingdom and your name's not Mickey. So, get out!" You think the message would sink in but noooo. Manny being the stubborn sort just kept ignoring me. Well, a good couple of months have passed and I'm nearly at wits end with him. Rotten little rodent. I tried spring traps only to find the bait cleanly removed and no spring sprung. I put steel wool in every conceivable crevice and notch he could possibly enter. Somehow that mouse would find his way. Now my flat happens to be a three story walk up and it's no easy task for me getting up those stairs, I just can't figure how a short stubby grubby little grifter like Manny might manage it or even bother. There's plenty more morsels to be found down at street level, especially with Sister Dawn's Soul Food next door. Yet Manny seems to always have a hankering for whatever I might be stirring up on my stove top. Can't say I blame him after the two times I've eaten Sister Dawn's greased grime. I guess I really only have myself to blame for the second plunge into that gastronomical wreckage. So, how could I blame poor Manny for wishing to elevate his senses for more refined dining? Not that I see my own sorcery in the kitchen much finer than Sister Dawn's, it's just it is. In any case, I'm pretty sure Manny might have been pushed out of an all too overcrowded family affair next-door anyhow. I certainly wouldn't want him bringing in any others. His gal Ethel Vermen and his cousin Ratzo are no more welcome than Manny Mouse himself. So I remind him daily, this not being a magical kingdom and all business. Got some glue traps and upped the ante with peanut butter for bait. Does he bite? Well, you know Manny, too clever to be caught he is. Until, that infamous night of revelry, when no creature is silent, and the music is maddening, and the drunks are drunker, all awaiting that New Year's babe to be born. And after months of chasing, after months plotting and planning, keeping the cupboards under lock and key, after midnight raucousness chasing a furry grey bitty beast from under the fridge to under the stove then under the sink, turning over tables and chairs, stomping like a madman, finally Manny and I come face to face. There he is run into that glue trap he managed to avoid forever seemingly snickering as he always got away, but now I had him. His head cinches between the double-ended prongs of my Ginsu serrated twelve inch knife. Finally Manny will pay for all his pilfering. There he is looking so woeful as his beady reflective eyes sear a plea of mercy into mine. I draw back the curved ergonomically designed handle of my Ginsu blade and with a fast flit of one prong slit cunningly into his ribcage. The squeak is short. I see his chest swell, a tiny heart pumps its last two beats. It is over. It is a new year for man.
Cat Lynn May 2018
When they see their off spring being lifted out of their place

Hung by their tail, they squeal and cry for their parents recuse, their heart's race.

Devastation stings their round soft ears as they run for their baby's call

But as they see the hand raise their child over their height of limitation, their hopes and dreams fall...

It was too late... SMACK went the poor, frail body and skull of the little one...

The hand quickly slammed it against the table... Now knocked way to escape or run

SNAP The ******* forced its neck bone to submit to their strength

The parents time of grief and mourning had no length

Frozen shock is the only expression that defines their baby mouses face

In a Blank stare of horror as the blood dripped from their once beloved babies lips... leaving a ****** taste

They scurry away in disbelief to gather the rest of their kin
that still remain alive...

Because they'll never know who will be up next... to be forced to give up their life... and die

*Because... Something always has to be sacrificed... in order to keep something else alive...
In order for something to continue living, it seems like something always has to be sacrificed, whether it's money or food or animals or whatever.  You see, if sin never came into this world, any sort or sacrifice wouldn't be necessary. but we live in a sin-filled, blinded world. We fall into sin, so many times, and death is apart of the fall of sin. We were never meant to die, but now sin has come, death is now apart of this life.  Jesus SACERFICED himself on the cross so he may save OUR LIVES from Hell. So when WE DIE, We may be with Him.

I don't
call me weird but when I had to do this procedure when feeding snakes and other animals mice, this is what I think of... Saving things require a sacrifice...
Rohan Press Apr 2018
headway upon
the waters—scratching
like mice, their ears, furred
and wrapped into the overcoat

they dropped: your river was like a
a brief interlude
the thief was me
the kisses
we we we
let's go to France
we changed
little pig
the thief was me

in no way is this intended
to make one think we have different user name
see we are an lunatic at times
we are what we read
wanna feed
givem pea-nuts
wanna makem dance
throw them
After Beck kin me in One Direction, and thence
Upon meeting me (in am i am the walrus who also
doubles up as mister kite - on windy days) Act Naturally
Because Crying, Waiting, Hoping For No One
in particular who will bring delight lite, like Good Day
Sunshine prompting me to perform The Hippy Hip
p Shake while Seals and Crofts dine with the late Jim Croce.

When we r close and come together, I Want To Hold Your Hand,
I Want To Tell You,  I'm Happy Just To Dance With You
The Inner Light from your being guides this fool on the hill
who needed to Get Back To The USSR boot my B52 combo
Cars getup kept Stalin this Joe Schmoe as glanced up
at passersby along Penny Lane.

Lonesome Tears In My Eyes this Mother Nature's Son
(a grown mwm),  Of Love, this modest no name brand Sun King (Elvis) at two score and nineteen Van Halen ZZTop Young Blood, who sweat his tears completing Orbitz in tandem with Earth, Wind And Fire (On A Three Dog Night) for...someone to call my Eleanor Rigby, He Jude, Honey Pie, et cetera.

Friend this Marquis De Sade light skinned (caucasian) sated bloke,
who (on green Sade Doors days) ambles along the boulevard of broken dreams axe sing (as a Petty Fuel doubting Tom
please axe a Pink Foreigner or Devo tad Survivor (asper this
Heart felt gun shy yet rosey guy) to board the pearl jam AC/DC powered Reo Speed wagon to Nirvana, particularly during a Black Sabbath.

Although aye Faith No More (and doo to Bad Company abetting my bad Hair line),I seek a SoulAsylum, where Our wings could travel charged via a super duper AC/DC Def Leppard shaped device at the speed of a SoundGarden while playing in Marcie's Playground, we Nsync like a Led Zeppelin into the depths (comprising many a Puddle Of Mud) ideal for Rolling Stones unable to Journey intoAerospace amidst Talking Heads.

If an absolute nyat, no, nada...sans the opportunity for us soar
like Eagles (where Air Supply quite thin) then I (Joe Schmoe
Money less), would like me Nickelback to purchase a ZZ
Top hat to travel incognito like a Foreigner and Survivor
of Earth, Wind and Fire maelstrom that turned his Motley Crue
into a teenage wasteland of Indigo Girls.

Tis best for this fool of a Meatloaf on the hill
Envision himself to be a Killer Grateful Dead Talking Head
   now lifeless per being terminally ill
   tumbling while tweeting n twittering jill
whose response an emphatic nyat, no nill
to help carry my pail, which stung like a quill
bryn mawr the place name along rail road still
and quiet even for Lady Madonna
   who might hear the blackbird song or a whippoorwill.

Our Wings could travel at the speed of sound
as we rise like a Led Zeppelin into the heights of Aerospace.

If an absolute nyat, no, nada...
the opportunity for us soar like Eagles
then I (Joe Schmoe Money less), would like me Nickelback.

best forU2 to text this fool on the hill
tumbling while tweeting n twittering jill
whose response an emphatic nyat, no nill
to help carry my Nine Inch Nail, which stung like a quill
bryn mawr former place name go win n One Direction (with me self as a former groupie of Traveling Wilbury's) rail road still  
might hear the blackbird song or a whippoorwill.

aye ham a non Blondie passenger, Who once
didst aboard Jefferson Airplane property of one Joan Jet.

This offer meant for U2 and haint no Cheap Trick
nor available to another Super ***** boot a once in a lifetime Luvin Spoonful of one humungous Kiss.

from -- juiced another beetle browed, civil chap, decent dude,
genteel guy, eclectic edified egghead, a Foster Child with preference for Pearl Jam Goo Goo Dolls, who goes by the pseudonym
of Arctic Monkey Beastie Boy.
Xallan Oct 2017
We always judged on appearance
We are catalogued by origin
But we're just rats in a maze
It's a rat race, nothing more
Stop telling us about our future judges
Stop telling us about our destiny
Because at the end we won't be satisfied
When all we get is cheese
Francie Lynch Sep 2017
I have a mouseolem,
Somewhere in my walls;
I set traps with favored cheese,
Peanut butter really teases,
These are my preferred baits.
Some days they just can't wait
To navigate my drawers.
Eat bristles from my BBQ brush,
Crumbs on counters and on floors.
They're good at reproducing,
It's what they're wired for.
They're good with their escape,
Both mouse and my bait;
And that concerns me.
Is their rate of copulation
Proportionate to a brighter breed?
Twice the traps have disappeared
With all the treats in tact;
I was sorely feeling stumped,
Yet sure I wouldn't be out-*******.

I'm on top of it.
They won't win.
It's a survival struggle we're caught in.
If we snap the minion mice,
We'll surely ****** the rat.
And every cat will arch it's back,
The traps are set,
No going back.
Mouseoleum: For mice
Josh Sep 2017
I'm on the train again.
Stopped at Manchester Airport
I am presented with an excellent opportunity to check out a flight attendant standing by the doors.
Her uniform is block red.
Of mice and men, it's the boys
Who ogle, cats soon to be fed.
And I did always think there was something sinister about cats
Their sly eyes and how they yawn
How they pretend to sleep long past dawn but have been slinking and thinking and stinking and
The blood of mice
and men reward their pet's **** with a stroke of their ego by their ego.
"It's human nature" to hunt for rich, red reward you say
"It's part of being a man"
I'll say human nature can,
No, should, change,
And I avert my gaze with shame.
Read it to the end or you'll think I'm a pompous *******, and if you read it to the end and still think I'm a pompous ******* then I probably am
Joe Cottonwood Jun 2017
Gave my daughter, age one
who could draw better than walk
a pad of Post-its, the tiny ones.

She crayon scribbled
peeled each one
to hide in corners
behind books
under the toothpaste tube
inside shoes.

A year later, moving out
cleaning up
I find behind
the clothes dryer
a nest woven with
gatherings of moss
dryer lint
lined by her Post-its
stolen by mice
who appreciate
fresh art.
First published in *Your Daily Poem*
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