Adam’s Ale
—the old name for water, the first drink, the simplest thirst.
Bougainvillea, thorn-armored bloom,
plankton drifting—algae, crustaceans—
a hidden kingdom in an inland basin,
non-oceanic water breathing its own tides.
I splash my face in the reservoir,
Adam’s ale cooling my skin,
while light bends and scatters—
I am refracted,
a prism made of flesh and ache,
splintering into the many rays of sun.
I sit beneath an arboreal sky,
ceiling woven from foliage and verdure,
cathedral of green where shadows
keep their soft liturgy.
Saudade gnaws the marrow of light,
and my sunlit heart caves inward.
I hunger for your presence,
for the echo of your breath in the leaves.
If the day could linger—
just one more turn of the earth—
I would not ask for forever.
But even plankton drift toward dark,
their glow extinguished in the basin’s hush;
so too my heart, without your light.
A Horse and ale
The brewery had many horses to carry crates of beer
around to small shops, each horse and its driver was assigned a route
The horse I liked was shiny black and had been used for
funerals before
over the years, they got a bit broad hipped and stomach-heavy.
The horse knew the route and stopped outside the grocer`s and waited while
the driver unloaded crates of beer.
The horse sometimes had an ******** thinking of a favorite mare bit
strange animals only know one way and askew foreplay
The driver usually had a bottle of beer at each shop, and when
the round was done, he was in a merry mood and sometimes fell asleep. But the horse knew the way.
After unharnessing the beast, he brushed its coat, checked the hooves
for the horse, the highlight of the day, and gave it a big slice of bread.
So long ago, there had been a devastating war
Jews immigrated to Palestine
and got a piece of land they called Israel; we believed what the papers said
the persecuted people deserved a homeland, but we did not realize that it was.
A historic injustice had befallen the Palestine people and echo that will not
stop before the real Semites get their land back.
A frothy crown, pale as the whites
Of eyes widened with fascination,
Perched on a robust body, deep as molasses.
Brooding; concealing a warm rapport.
But still so condescending, its stout posture
Condenses air to beads of sweat.
Invited, parched lips kiss the cold glass
Rewarded with familiar comfort -
A bitter burst, sharp and clean,
Fading into toffee warmth,
Hints of roasted coffee and chocolate bloom,
All linger, like a whispered secret.
The golden harp strums cheerful notes
In harmony with taps, clinks, and murmured oaths
Cheers dance over lacquered walls, awash with glee
As gulps of crisp bitters and molten sweets
Cascade, watering dry cracks in weary bones.
A tonic for the soul, it lifts the load -
Worries dissolve, fading like bubbles on the lip.
It washes away the settling dust,
Soothes the mind into peaceful currents,
Sinking burdens to its murky depths
As spirits rise to play in the air of its frothy crown.
I don’t drink soda as a rule,
But when I’m sick, I’m not a fool –
I think of sick days as a kid
And do the things my mother did.
She served us soup and toast and tea
And baked potatoes, naturally,
And then, of course, was ginger ale,
A stomach balm that would not fail.
So that’s the diet I’ve imbibed,
Exactly as I’ve just described.
Yet here’s a fact that I found strange
About how ginger ale did change.
We had one old can – ordered more
And when they got here from the store,
The new ones tasted much less sweet,
The reason worth a quick repeat.
The older version said it had
140 calories – not bad.
The current cans have 1-3-0,
For sugar’s not the way to go.
The old one brought me to my youth.
The newer one, to tell the truth,
Just wasn’t worth it to my tongue –
Its praises I would not have sung.
So now I’ll stick to herbal tea
Or Gatorade until I see
That I am back and in the clear
To sip my coffee and my beer.
Have you ever drank Vulcan ale
You’ll get the runs and turn quite pale
You’ll need a bucket for your stool
And you’ll be screaming like a fool
It’s also known as a white whale
A stout mug o ale
needs be a fixin'
whatever's ailin' ye, lad
And if that doesn't do it
Here's what comes next
You'll be eatin' the cookin' of Dad
hear...ye hear?...
ye here...
ye sit but...
knot giving...
ye sit...ye wait...shuns...
everyone!...
in the line-up...
outside the door...
has to go...
so please...
take this bucket?...
stan sand
That amber liquid far from insipid
Like molten honey but drawn from a tap,
Bitter or dark, the choices quite stark,
God's malted ale, nature's true sap.
Vikings grew strong, strengthened their bond,
Giving them courage for mayhem galore,
A beer in their hand, they pillaged the land
Never quite feeling tired or sore.
The Celts used for curing, Egyptians for luring
Their gods from the heavens bribed to partake,
The English just drank as their water so stank,
Beer their solution to gulp for life's sake.
Wine lovers admit that their glass needs
be sipped
While describing aromas of berries and earth,
No such constraint, nor need for restraint
For drinkers of ale are freewheeling from birth.
So let raise a jug or a frothy filled mug
While watching a game and eating junk food,
Nothing is wetter, more luscious and better
Than a cold tasty beer when expertly brewed.
Water ; it's precious, runs in veins red and oceans blue,
the populace know it all-the significance of unfathomable water blue,
yet there is heaps and heaps of garbage,
scraps and remains high and low
in placid tidal pool.
Poor wife, so very ill and oh, so congested.
But then, her husband got drunk and was arrested.
Sniveling, into the cold rain she hurried.
To bail hubby out of jail, she was a tad worried.
There he sat, smirking, behind bars.
Arrested for driving and hitting three cars.
The bail was paid, they stood soaking wet, he was pale.
In disgust, she left him, the drunk on the steps of the jail.
He...only could think of a pint of hearty ale.
So, ends, my friends, this sorry tale!
3/12/2021
~3~
Note, I found no category for drinking or alcoholism and on my device,
cabbot enter one...Apologies...Pangie
Wet
Liquified physical
Risen vaporizing fluid
Tides controlling moon streaming
Agua
2/18/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Inhale Stale Ale Without Fail
without any fail
when much ale you will inhale
always seems so stale
Jim Horn
im lying face down in the street
it seems i tripped over my feet
i think it was the ale
that caused my epic fail
ill just sleep here on the concrete
If something is stale
It's an amount of tale
As bitter as an ale
That ruins the unit of life
As it is becoming restale
Younger age' s agility
When turning to fragility
One is termed as stale
As the stale tale ale
Accumulated, effects on staled
Because one becomes aged
An eye opener closes the openness
Makes the one closed with illness
" I " strengthens with the " I "
Listen to the " I " from within
Obey the other " I " from in
We will be one Isten
With all Wellness
Dr. Virinchi Mudumbai Acharya
Pen name:
Virinchi. Praguna. Hithaoishi
Give me a pint of ale for I have signed
aboard the Queen weighing anchor first light
when she gives sail for Java’s trade of kind.
But I am having a good time this night
and me thinks a pint may wet whistle fine.
Then after ale booze makes shore time just right
If you chance hearing curses, they aren’t mine.
Tis my misfortune loving great the sea
truth told, all veins are stowed with beer and brine
Before mast plays a place where a man’s free,
belay, think you not oceans always kind
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