Squirrel Noir

Winters a tough time for
squirrels in this city,
Having stored away all those nuts,
Nights the worst,
Between the shivering cold and
empty belly, its a wonder any
make it to the morning.
Chilled out side the jazz bar,
no pea coat to even keep you warm.
Then Bang!
    Another squirrel shot dead
    in the night;
by our killer, winters sweet delight.

Just had a little fun with this poem when I wrote it. Wanted to try and use a different scene and style with an absurd subject.

The Jam

I Still recover now,
   sitting in this bar,
my fever the night before, having
   left me in drenched sweat,
    rapid in breath,
     standing on the dance floor.

I came only to watch,
   not to become, but
my desire grew with the exponential beat,
   my reserve turned to shaky feet.
From the eclectic drums broke a hum,
   a violin to add a mystic sound.

I had come to watch,
   not to move,
    yet towards the dance floor I grew.
With the beat ever increasing,
   my soul from body fleeting;
I threw myself beyond the corpus wall,
   to the center,
    the spot lights blinding me to all.

Next into the harmonic whole,
   I felt their vibrations,
    my feet adding its own.
And then that wall began to break,
   turning into a fluid lake;
all moved in tune,
   all moved entranced,
    all in commune.

Time went along with dance,
   everybody adding their essence.
When it ended,
   it ended with a breath,
    a looking around,
     and a knowing sense.

Now I sit in this bar, still recovering,
   from that spiritual fever;
Beyond any rational might,
   to experience God's math,
     in a musical night.