Best Brew Poems
Three busy witches stood stirring a stew
Cauldron filled with freaky things for a brew
Each Halloween they made
soup in their escapade
Adding ingredients to a brown roux
Jan, of course, as she always wants to do
added a bouquet garni of fresh poo
She said, "It's for flavour!
A taste that I favour."
There's no tellin' where she got it? No clue
Tania, from the north is witch number two
Stardust into the black cauldron, she threw
It made the others sneeze
Lin, witch three shouted, "Geeze!"
She exclaimed when in her face, stardust blew
The scents were mingling in the kitchen, Phew!
Some poet shouted, "Open the damn flue!"
The kitchen got too hot
From flames under the pot
Suddenly, a clock began to chime… CUCKOO
"I'll lower the heat so it doesn't spew."
Tania, the prudent said because she knew
Jan and Lin were laughing
Bantering and chaffing
Sometimes she'd like to tell those two to shoo!
Jan sliced the snout of what looked like a shrew
Lin poured in vials of green stuff... jou jou?
The brew started boiling
While they were still toiling
“Quick! Let's serve it before it turns to goo!”
Their brew was served to all the poets, who
said it seemed like someone made a boo-boo
The witches weren't upset
Twas their best prank yet
Soupers were cursed with Halloween voodoo
Some began to fly; in circles they flew
Others wailed with salty tears, oh boo hoo
The witches felt regret
They grew sad, but not yet...
Did they break the spell till fell morning dew
There once was a friend of mine,
Who was famed for making wine.
Her visits were great,
As she brought a crate -
But I lost a week each time.
For Francine's Bottle of Wine contest, written 17th June
'Twas long before a Shakespeare play was quilled,
the fifth and sixth of deadly sins would prey
then dance with pride as innocence was spilled
upon the pyre where dastard evil plays.
The wicked toil around their witch's brew
of lies perceived as truths among their ilk
to spill the sloppy swill like gluttoned shrews
and cool its burning sting with sour milk.
The lust for power's fruit within their grasp
as greed consumed already slothen minds
too faint for God to hear when last they gasp,
too late to save a soul so ill entwined.
Though history repeats these truthful stings
it seems to barely slow the march of kings.
(This is an English Sonnet)
Listed under Rhyme for submittal to Nina's contest
Oct 13, 2019
A storm is brewing
Yet there is an eerie calm
skies are blue and the weather warm
There isn't much of a breeze
And even the trees seem at ease
But this is just the calm
before the storm
An illusion of deceitful charm
To numb the senses and to disarm
Thunder rumbles loud and clear
A sign the storm is getting near
Gray clouds now have darkened the sky
As the rain pours down its gushing reply
The wind is now a howling beast
Its fury coming from the east
And as it blows the trees bend low
As thunder's voice in loudness grows
The lights flicker then go out
As lightning splits the sky in two
Now there can be no doubt
The storm is at its strongest brew!
----
4/17/16
It was dead on arrival,
no chance of survival,
the tiny brown mouse.
She did it again,
my cat gifting friend,
at least it's not loose in the house..
Be it mouse or shrew,
would make a potent rodent stew, but
not so appealing to me.
Stir it until blue,
and put it in a witches brew
but I won't want that recipe.
The witches West of Wichita
Have gathered for the night.
Darkness is upon them, yet,
The moon is shining bright.
Hanging perfect in the blackness
Of the still October sky,
Casting shadows of a feline,
Her back is arching high.
A scream that breaks the silence
Of the stillness in the air,
Sends chills through all who hear it.
A sound that says, “Beware”!
Incantations uttered softly….
Something’s added to the brew.
A pinch of this,,,a snip of that,
The sisters stir their stew.
Vapors rise above the vat,
Dancing like a snake,
Twisting,,,turning wildly,
It’s alive for goodness sake!
Then, in a secret language
Only spoken by a few,
The eldest whispers something,,,
"Happy Halloween for You"!
Halloween is dead without witches brew,
carefully conjured up to make the best stew.
Adding only the finest components,
making sure of its exact exponents.
No substitution is ever allowed,
a solemn oath all witches have vowed.
Steep slowly over the hottest coal,
the makings of the best mortal soul.
Check the brain for the final test,
be assured it is at its very best.
Add a pinch of all spice to taste,
most of all don’t forget to baste.
Don’t forget to add plenty of ginger root,
a smidgen of oak moss and an owl’s hoot.
If available add some swamp muck,
that is only if you want good luck.
Stir for five minutes somewhere about,
then drop in a large black pig snout.
Before serving, invite the cat to savor,
this delectable dish’s succulent flavor.
If the cat sits and begs for more,
that is the sign you’re looking for.
But; if he screams and humps his back,
throw it away and grab a snack.
Copyright © 2008 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Eighth Place Winner ~ "Halloween (old poems)” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
Nov. 16, 2015
Outside, there is a small trail
and six steps
separating me from those that pass on by,
Impossible, to hide, behind my ruby house coat
and synthetic flavoured...
bitterly savoured, morning coffee
An old man walks by,
paced, in slow - rhythmic strides
in order to balance three bags
his aluminum collection
Toes, emerging from the tips of his tattered shoes,
As he spies me
we engage in observations
He is courteous, as he desists,
lowers, his head in his travels,
continues to descend down the hill
around the corner of my house,
heat scorching
This morning,
all I can hope for
Is that he does not rip my garbage apart.
The third Monday of January is often referred to as 'Blue Monday'.
Christmas is over
decorations packed away ~
all rooms lack sparkle
I step on the scales
new year resolution failed ~
I must have candy
huge bills now arrived
Christmas overspend ~
depression hits hard
bad weather’s forecast
rain clouds and dull dreary days ~
I dream of sunshine
saddest day of year
share a virtual cuppa ~
reach out to a friend
I am lucky I do not suffer with depression but i know many people do at this time of the year and it is even worse with covid preventing people from seeing loved ones
01/18/21
Her jack-o-lanterns flicker in the room
Bringing that eerie feel to those who look
The witch cackles as she stirs her cauldron
An evil brew which inside looks like gook
The smell is terrible, she laughs with glee
She knows what this potion can surely bring
A curse to an entire town that shunned her
She’ll make each and every one of them sing
She clips a few hairs off of her black cat
Puts them into the boiling concoction
She zaps a flying bat, takes out its eyes
She makes it complete, spits in the potion
With an evil laugh she gets up and pours
Takes the brew and places it into vials
Knowing that each person in the whole town
Will suffer with pains and lots of trials
Russell Sivey
Peter Beechey capped the last bottle, of the latest Lager that he'd brewed.
He's changed his recipe this time, so the argument will be renewed.
He say’s the Lager that I make is not near the standard that he sets,
now we'll argue this for hours until we’re finally making bets.
Stout, lager, bitters labeled; the smell of malt drifts through the shed.
Air-locked and popping through the water; a brew ferments below a head.
Us pair have now refined the art; our little breweries come of age.
No longer do we show impatience - we've stopped bottling hand grenades.
Both of our stocks have built up now and so of course the word soon spreads.
This means the visits from the connoisseurs; blokes each home brewer dreads.
On weekends we roll out 'Hilly' - insensible - to which beer is best.
Even the local cop and publican closed the pub to take the test.
Water, yeast, malt - but no sugar - clarity and flavour of the hops.
The head, right down to the barley, but the disagreeing never stops,
and 'Hilly' never cleared one point; our beers were locked in similar status.
We need an independent to give a true scientific basis.
I suggested what we ought to do, is send samples to the public analyst,
for he will clear the finer points; the ones that obviously we missed.
Three weeks later in the mail, his analyzing caused a further strain -
'Gentlemen, I regret to tell you - that neither horse will race again!'
A Home Brew Fiasco
My lips were parched, my tongue on fire
another shot I did so very much desire
Thank my pappy for this kicking home brew
O' Lord, how to make it, if only I knew!
Sun was about set into its rosy red glow
three hills over was square dance and show
I set me a mighty happy and quickened pace
so very eager to get to that dancing place!
I hear that fast fiddle singing from afar
stop to drink last liquor from my fruit jar
Another burn that went down mighty fine
whiskey my favorite, never cottoned to wine!
One more high hill to just climb on past
swirling head tells my legs to please last
Sun has set and darkness so rapidly falls
music rings louder its beckoning calls!
Another hundred steps and I'll be there
singing, dancing and pretty gals everywhere
Ease myself up against this restful oak tree
surely a rest will be so very good for me!
Eyes heavy and dark clouds coming on down
now is no time to worry, no time to frown
Darkness races into this tired old brain
no worries, rest easy avoid all the strain!
Morning sunlights breaks between the trees
O' my, pray I didn't sleep all night please
Suddenly I hear the morning call of a dove
I missed out on last night's dance and love!
My lips were parched, my tongue on fire
another shot I did so very much desire
Thank my pappy for that kicking home brew
O' Lord, how to make it, if only I knew!
Robert J. Lindley , 08-21-2014
Inspired by a story my uncle told me back in
1965. How grandfather once made moonshine and
missed out on his first date with grandmother.
Luckily she was a forgiving woman and grandfather
a very handsome man or else they'd never married
and I would not be here to sling tha' ink!
It brews
With the first arc of the sunlight
That lifts the sweltering night
It brews
Without a single cloud to offer comfort
The thick still air
Only grows heavier
A weight you can see on the leaves of the trees
As they fold to the oppression
Hot like a wet tea bag
A solid mass you can feel on your skin
Pressing on lungs scrounging for oxygen
It brews
Quietly
Patiently
Come afternoon
The mercury peaks
Clouds out of nowhere
Swiftly boil over
Liquid silver turns to slate
As a wall of wind slams into the city
With rain pounding in waves
Hailstones thrashing
And lightening bolts flashing
The trees are left praying on their knees
A moment of relief
And then it is gone
The clouds clearing out like a shift change
Sun back on duty
In a matter of minutes the streets are dry
And the air is again steeped
It is as if nothing happened
Save a few fallen trees
Composed for Brenda Chiri's
Describe a thunderstorm without the sense of sound.
Brew away sadness
stir it slow
Trees began to climb
Why is that when you look at me,
you see my skin,
why is it that every time I look at the tv,
its the same bland people.
What ever happened
to a variety?
Hasn't anyone
seen a basket of fruit?
How do I live in a society
that isn't even designed or
made for me.
Leftovers are the most familiar
because my kind are typical rejects.
What to do? What would you do?
You see coffee, plain and no sugar
is boring that's why its a sucker for additives.
And what does the plain coffee do,
pretend it never some sweetener or sugar
because its ashamed. Ashamed of its bitter blackness.