Monthly Archives: November 2014

The Brewer

The Brewer
181 A brewer spends about a month
perfecting his beer thoughts.
A recipe to please the mass –
it’s all he’s ever sought!
185 Dark beers are just enjoyed by few;
the light ones have no taste;
no, amber is the trendy choice,
so amber’s what he’ll make.
The maltiest of tasty beers
190 has two-row as its base.
He’ll color it with Munich grains
and car’mel, just a trace!
To bitter he’ll use hallertau,
then secret hops he’s grown
195 will add aroma to his drink
and make the beer his own.
And yeast! He can’t forget the yeast,
his magic little friends.
A hundred billion hungry lives
200 will dine in great suspense.
On brewing day he buys supplies.
He outlines his grand plan.
He weighs out grains, turns on the heat,
and washes tools by hand.
205 He steeps the specialty malt bill
in his five-gallon pot –
one hundred fifty-two degrees
for twenty minutes clocked.
The two-row extract measured out
210 will make the wort grow thick.
Now stir in the fermentables
until they’re nice and mixed.
To bitter his progressing beer
the first hops now are due.
215 The others are for flavoring
his wonderful craft brew.
When sixty minutes finally pass
the boil will be done.
Then rapid cooling must take place
220 lest an infection comes.
The last step that the brewer takes
will be to pitch the yeast.
The starving little creatures dive
into their mighty feast.
225 Two weeks go by in perfect heat;
degrees are well maintained.
The airlock lets some bubbles through
as C-O-2 escapes.
Then bott’ling day arrives in haste,
230 and carbonation starts.
The amber ale will be sublime –
a sum of all its parts.
On tasting day he cannot wait!
He opens one with skill.
235 He takes a tentative test sip
and spits out horrid swill.
The taste is off, the flavor sour.
The yeast had made it gross!
A man controls so many things,
240 but life acts on its own.
The homebrew that inspired it all :-)

The homebrew that inspired it all 🙂

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The Grave Robber

The Grave Robber
121 One night a broken grave robber
set out to claim his prize.
A mission yielding gold and gems
would quell his appetite.
125 A newly laid archbishopric
had lost its budding chief.
The funeral at noon that day
precludes the robber’s sneak.
He strapped his boots, pulled on his gloves,
130 he donned his shadow mask,
and when the clock struck 12 that night
he sought his greedy task.
The winding streets of sleepy town
obscured the burglar’s quest.
135 A cat, he crept up to the church
to prey on gruesome death.
The handle of the giant door
was locked by key of brass.
The heaven-peaked high window glass
140 nor yet would let him pass.
A secret way into the shrine
is known to gnostic few:
brave men descend to hidden depths
and crawl a tunnel through.
145 This man raised up a sewer grate
and shimmied down the hole.
He paddled to a foul rat nest,
brushed vermin down below.
Thus he revealed a secret cave,
150 a fox hole to the crypts.
He crossed into an open room
inhabited by lichs.
The ghosts of priests and holy men
laid tranquilly at rest;
155 the tremor of their peaceful guilt
panged lightly on his chest.
Continue on, the end is near,
step up the sacred stairs
and enter the impressive nave.
160 Fulfill your evening dares.
He stood before the archbishop,
all clad in silk and gold,
who lie asleep, an endless deep –
his flesh corrupt and cold.
165 The thief knew of the saint’s great deeds,
but naught would sway his aim.
The crook was focused on his task:
his rushed larcenous game.
He took the crozier and the ring;
170 he took the clothes and all.
The high and pious man laid nude
like Eden at the Fall.
Now to escape before the dawn,
back just the way he came!
175 The robber wound back through the streets
and to his home again.
That bandit never was ensnared.
The township’s heart was lost.
What started as one man’s grave sins
180 came at a graver cost.

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The Biographer

The Biographer
61 Biographers don’t have to write
to paint a picture clear.
And that’s good news for aging men
whose sight fades by the year.
65 An elder man sits in the park,
a sculptor of the phrase.
He chisels, carves, and blows at dust,
unfolds a hidden face.
One day he sits beside two boys.
70 He’s seen both kids before.
They run around, play make-believe,
throw real life out the door.
Old man decides to join their fun.
He paints a world from scratch.
75 All three discuss and come alive,
their fairytale unmatched.
The mother of the boys stops by.
She walks her golden dog,
which storytellers turn to fey :
80 a slimy pet green frog.
And while this fam’ly laughs and plays
the old man spies abroad –
across the park he briefly sees
a mute ideologue.
85 A lonely sight, if truth be told,
the sole man strides away,
but not before he yearns to hear
the old man’s group’s parley.
Biographer then starts to craft
90 that young man’s sorry tale:
a life of outside note taking
devoid of zest, just stale.
The story formed in old man’s head,
a plan develops quick.
95 He waves goodbye to boys and dog,
and heads off with a skip.
Next day the stealthy old man waits
until he spots his prey.
Then he confronts the thinker man,
100 who plainly shies away.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, sir.
Please share with me your thoughts.”
But ponderer, as you might guess,
just answers he will not.
105  “Oh come now, sir, don’t steal your mind.
Please, any thought will do.”
The young and thoughtful target says:
“No one’s as strange as you.”
At this the old man has his in,
110 a gauntlet, if you will.
He spins out tales of modern knights,
and stranger men yet still.
The younger man snaps at the bait.
A conversation blooms.
115 The men compare the men they know,
each detail well-exhumed.
Biographer’s plan did succeed.
The two men speak at ease.
A thought alone cannot do much
120 But shared, it’s limit-free…

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