Beamish

[milo]

See, a purdy Beamish lass is
rich as bark but soft of touch;
sweet with light breath of molasses.

I've sat on barstools with the masses
gazing at the upper hutch.
See, a purdy Beamish lass is

familiar with the darker grasses,
quickened with a stronger clutch,
sweet with light breath of molasses.

Pilsners poured in fancy glasses
really don't impress me much.
See a purdy Beamish lass is

stout and strong, quickly surpasses
trends or tasters, why can't such
see a purdy Beamish lass is
sweet, with light breath of molasses.

milo

(yah, a poem about beer, heroic!)

[Todd]

Love the villanelle. There's something about the grasses/molasses sounds that made this really pleasing to read out loud.

[Leanne]

I have to put on a silly accent to make the rhymes work (lass is / masses rhyme with molasses when I say it, but grasses/ glasses/ surpasses all rhyme with arses ) -- neither here nor there really, it just goes to show that rhyme and even meter are dialect-based, to a degree. I digress. For a change.

With so many poems deluded into thinking they're champagne and caviar, frankly it's bloody refreshing to just have a beer and forget all those pretensions. Naturally, the villanelle makes it a special beer.

[milo]

I have to put on a silly accent to make the rhymes work (lass is / masses rhyme with molasses when I say it, but grasses/ glasses/ surpasses all rhyme with arses ) -- neither here nor there really, it just goes to show that rhyme and even meter are dialect-based, to a degree. I digress. For a change.

With so many poems deluded into thinking they're champagne and caviar, frankly it's bloody refreshing to just have a beer and forget all those pretensions. Naturally, the villanelle makes it a special beer.

You are supposed to put on your brogue as you sing it, hence the "purdy".

Now one of you other wimpy, limp-wristed, wine-swilling "poets" write me a poem worthy of the mighty brew before I write another!

milo

(that was a gauntlet btw)

[Leanne]

The brogue doesn't affect the asses

---

I poured myself a glass of wine
And held it to the light;
I pondered its complexity
The quintessential white.

I savoured its intense bouquet
So delicate and fine;
I paused a while then took a sip
Of this exquisite wine

Then spat it out, my palate cleansed,
And took a swig of beer.
I sighed and belched, my heart content;
My message should be clear.

Complexity is very well
When I am in the mood,
But give me ale to quench my thirst:
A healthy dose of crude.

[milo]

The brogue doesn't affect the asses

---

I poured myself a glass of wine
And held it to the light;
I pondered its complexity
The quintessential white.

I savoured its intense bouquet
So delicate and fine;
I paused a while then took a sip
Of this exquisite wine

Then spat it out, my palate cleansed,
And took a swig of beer.
I sighed and belched, my heart content;
My message should be clear.

Complexity is very well
When I am in the mood,
But give me ale to quench my thirst:
A healthy dose of crude.

crude. pshaw

Guinness or girl?

Will you chastise me if I pour your beer too fast
or will you press your smile into a sulk
as the head slides down the contours
of the glass?

Don't answer that.

I knew a girl who dipped her darkened
curls, still peering up to me;
like Mary, chaste blue
through fallen forelocks;
who laced the frost webs
with her tongue's side
to catch the rolling pearls.

I couldn't handle that.

You think your breath
a wet placebo, your mouth
a trailing supine tip
to press your moans into my navel
and turn my mind to tepid fog.

You think I will forget that glass of Pinot
at your lips
Don't mind, I'll show you out.
I think I'll choose another glass
anyway, I prefer them stout.

[softlyfalling]

The brogue doesn't affect the asses

---

I poured myself a glass of wine
And held it to the light;
I pondered its complexity
The quintessential white.

I savoured its intense bouquet
So delicate and fine;
I paused a while then took a sip
Of this exquisite wine

Then spat it out, my palate cleansed,
And took a swig of beer.
I sighed and belched, my heart content;
My message should be clear.

Complexity is very well
When I am in the mood,
But give me ale to quench my thirst:
A healthy dose of crude.

crude. pshaw

Guinness or girl?

Will you chastise me if I pour your beer too fast
or will you press your smile into a sulk
as the head slides down the contours
of the glass?

Don't answer that.

I knew a girl who dipped her darkened
curls, still peering up to me;
like Mary, chaste blue
through fallen forelocks;
who laced the frost webs
with her tongue's side
to catch the rolling pearls.

I couldn't handle that.

You think your breath
a wet placebo, your mouth
a trailing supine tip
to press your moans into my navel
and turn my mind to tepid fog.

You think I will forget that glass of Pinot
at your lips
Don't mind, I'll show you out.
I think I'll choose another glass
anyway, I prefer them stout.

hic

[Smiffy]

Aisle Nine

I fell in love in aisle nine
Stood before a Golden Glory
But the Bishops Finger left me sore
Now that’s a different story

---

Four

If you have never been there you won’t
know the feeling of a blue black sky,
the a warm glow of freedom in your
heart, you are in the mood for Fish Chips,
Mushy Peas from a chippy where
the fat has long cooled in the fryer
Car headlights stare you out as you stand
by the roadside looking up counting
one ,two ,three, four, whispering words to
the night, no pen or paper, your finest
work floats into thin air, swaying, reaching
for an invisible deck rail, smiling
as you openly curse the buyer
of the last two pints making a mental
note you know you will forget,
Canterbury Jack, hoppy with a
citrus aftertaste, Squirrel’s Nest, a
light blonde ale holding a creamy white
head, again citrus after tones a car
horn breaks the silence, an egg lands at
your feet , Bloody kids!!!, moving on
wearing zig zag boots swaying like a
field of corn in the breeze leaning into
a non- existent wind, staggering
like John Wayne with three bullets in the
back you reach the garden gate, count the
reflection in the puddle, One ,two,
three, four, if you have never been there
you won’t know the feeling of certainty
that tomorrow is not going to be
a good day, fumbling in too many
pockets for keys, the keyhole moving
left to right you stumble in and begin
to negotiate the stairs, even three
sheets to the wind you know the danger
Your foot hovers over the second
step, planted like an Ali right you rise
to fall backwards into hanging coats,
After fifty up and down steps on
a thirteen step flight of stairs you crash
a soft landing into tomorrow’s hangover
Closing your eyes the last thing you see
Is four moons