Pimmel Pom

I

Once upon a fool moon’s night

When over the brush there was blue light,

And in the thistle scurried creatures

That lived in nature, as in them was nature,

A mouse was born so small in size

With desert sand fur and large black eyes

That seemed to swallow the light and return it twofold.

The ears of this mouse were too large for its head

And its body was small, it could already be dead,

But it squeaked a squeak that only the meek

Could readily identify, and all the mice squawked from the beak

About this tiny mouse of virgin statute

With a squeak that affirmed it resolute

To survive and be named… named…

Deckland? No for it sounded like Duckland

A place so bland it could be from Ayn Rand

And only ducks are happy.  What about Fin?

No for it brought images of fish made of yarn and pin

From the red shack that contained the vile cat

Called Mittens who had fed on the lost and sad.

Name after name came, but the answer

Always remained the same.

Until… until one of the mice said a name

That seemed a perfect match for the young

Mouse of nature so tame- that the answer was almost sung

Out from the crowding of mice.  Pimmle Pom.

Just simply Pimmle Pom, and although some

Of the mice proffered up conjectures- Pimmle Pom was final.

II

Pimmle Pom grew as the time flew by-

Year after Year, Month after Month, Day after Day,

On and on and on for the mice.

From a homo sapiens sapiens perspective on life

Only 1/10 of this time would have passed,

But for this story we must look through glass

Not tainted- clear and tinted by a mouse mind

On four legs and small enough to fit in a thimble.

Although thimbles; and for that matter every symbol

Used for sewing and the like, were signed

With the red of many a kind

Mouse who had fallen victim to Mittens

The red shack black cat- A cretin.

As Pimmel Pom grew he came to know more

About Mittens, and Mittens came to know

About poor, petite Pimmle Pom. Though

Pimmle Pom was now strong and tall like many a boar,

He was just much, much, much smaller.

To his advantage he was smart

He was wise and kind, full of heart

With courage to face all fears…

Unless they were Mittens.

To many of the stories of every occurrence

Had reached his large ears so round and moon-like

Before he could gather up enough might

To say that when Mittens came for him

He would fight hard completely on a whim.

Not enough time for a mouse to be full grown.

III

The time had come for Pimmel Pom

To end his hero’s journey,

For generations of mice had passed

All to end in mourning.

Mittens sat alone on a throne

Of bones and souls aplenty,

Waiting in silence wrought

With death brought from the pantry.

Pimmel Pom gathered a needle in hand to march to the red hill of

Mittens the red shack black cat

Told to now be stuck in harem

Built off the bones of mice warriors past-

An alabaster looking

Glass to the sky where their souls were

Believed to be resting.

Pieces of stone and earth shone

As Pimmel Pom’s armor of choice-

He marched his way with rubato beat

Doubting his choice.

Then out of the air pounced Mittens black form

With teeth bared and sharp,

As Pimmel Pom cried before he died

Attempting to stab with flailing parts.

For Mittens is a force not evil nor good

Born of darkness, but not of despair,

And of light with the movement sucked from it

Who performs a duty most imperative.