The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: beer.
We made it to the party this afternoon, though we didn't stay very long due to Max needing his nap and wanting to get a few other things done while we were up in Penticton. Definitely enjoyed it while we were able to and it felt good to be able to make an appearance at last.
This morning I started working on pulling out the stakes for our tomato plants. There... are a lot of those. Glad I put a dent in it at least.
I'm determined to get this posted before it's officially my birthday, so I'm going to get to the prompt thingamajig now.
Mine:
A pitcher of golden goodness?
Ya gotta know I'll take 'er!
She's my comfort, my company,
My best decision maker.
3 comments:
Well, making it to the party is the important thing, even if you couldn't stay too long. And Max needing his nap is an excuse that most people will understand!
I guess you harvested a lot of tomatoes if there are that many stakes to harvest now!
And that's a good poem; I prefer my beers darker than golden though ;-)
Beer
His mother was a monster, an ogress,
She instilled him with a thousand different fears,
Now to please Doc Fraud, his psychiatrist,
He's infusing them in a thousand different beers.
May this bubbled brew fill my core,
Drowning out all my misfortunes,
Filling me with cheap amusements.
But most of all: keep my mind off of her.
Greg - yeah, there were a few tomatoes sold and eaten this year. Lot of work cleaning all that up now though.
That... that could be the start of a fantastic series of short stories. Perhaps not a necessarily a *thousand* of them, but a fair number at least!
Ivybennet - ah yes, the blinding, distracting comfort of booze. Nicely captured :)
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