In Which Ground Is To Be Broken

My worst friend has the best plan for my yard:
A rented rototiller soon will tear
Into its soil; I hope it won't be hard
To do, but if it is, of course I'll share
A lot of beer to thank him for the toil.
'Tis not the whole expanse he'll overturn,
Just a small garden plot. We've lovely soil
Here in Cheyenne, though of course there's concern:
The growing season's short, but still I hope
To grow some beets and turnips, carrots, some
Nice fennel, parsnips, rutabega. Nope,
Not going for the fancy stuff. That's dumb
Here on the high plains, unless one has built
A full greenhouse. That's "someday" to the hilt!

SONNET DARE: In Vedauwoo Or Denver, I Get Lost

While both are places I've been known to roam
With more than one six-pack of Guinness, one
I much prefer; it's closer to my home,
And lovelier by far in morning sun
Or eve'ning starlight: that is Vedauwoo.
In Denver's traffic I am always lost
Unless on foot on Sixteenth Street - though, too
I'm often lost in thought and at great cost
There, with the Wazee Supper Club and, yes,
The Tattered Cover, wallet beaters both.
As for the Mile High City in my car?
I'm hopeless. Better for me, by my oath
To climb on rocks and up there drink my beer,
And take in all the silence I don't hear.

Bonus Bonus Sonnet Dare: Of Squids And Beer (And Skids And Cheer?)

Another sonnet dare has come my way,
Inspired in part by some strange public art
Depicting a rare creature that, I'd say
Shows taste and style and signs that it is smart:
The Pabst Blue Ribbon Squid you may see here.
Now, I'm not sure just what it is he seeks:
To cop a cheap feel or a sip of beer,
But it's the oddest thing I've seen in weeks,
And worthy of some poetry of sorts.
Called "I Am Pabst" this mural may not be
An image of what we call indoor sports
Or what looks like some bestality,
But then again it might. Let each decide.
Assasin Grrl may judge while I go hide.

In Which I Am Still Hung Up On My Love For Guiness

This morning I learned of a contest rare:
To celebrate two hundred fifty years
Of brewing nectar quite beyond compare
The Guinness brewery brought me to tears
Of joy. I still recall my first small sip
Of Guiness Stout; 'twas nineteen eighty nine,
I was away at school, on a short trip
To Rhinebeck with some friends and feeling fine.
Between us and the swanky restaurant
Lurked BevWay, and we stopped there to restock
Our beer supply. I mentioned that I'd want
To try that stuff someday. My friends in shock
Bought up a bunch and we dashed back to school...
For Guiness ever since, I've been a fool.

In Which I Provide An Encomium To A City That Could Be My Spiritual Home

This Portland, Oregon's, my kind of place

The mayor rode his bike in the parade

Along with Segway gangs out keeping pace

Along the route with bands and floats. I'd grade

The total effort "A." To top things off

My dream pub I discovered here this day:

The Lucky Lab, a brewery and trough

For drinkers' dogs (and bicycles, hooray!).

I've yet to mention Pow'lls, but on this trip

I'm prob'ly not to make it there to fall

Upon my knees to angels' song; I'll skip

It just this once, as long as we four, all,

Return to Lucky Labrador's for more

Organic Pale Ale; I do so implore!

In Which I Gloat Over A Well-Earned Beer

Someone's idea of heaven surely is

Hot chicks with power tools. He'd love today,

When Kris and I were same. To ruin his

Imaginings a bit, a cop held sway

O'er these proceedings; that would be our Dad,

Armed with a hammer, prybar and a scowl

I'd never want turned my way. Yes we've had

Us quite a time. Now I've thrown in the towel

For one day. I must say it ain't half bad,

This deck we built for Krissy, and we've earned

The Bud Light we are gulping on it now,

Exhausted, bleeding slightly and sunburned.

Our next item of bus'ness is some chow,

We'll grill up on my sister's brand-new grill.

Some dead cow and grilled corn, oh yes we will!

In Which I Actually Use Sonnet-Writing As An Excuse To Take A Break

The Uhaul truck is nowhere close to full.
I hate the sight of boxes and dolly.
Like Sissyphus I push and then I pull.
I'm glad, though, that my border collie
In Saratoga with my parents waits
Until this madness has come to an end.
Between my loads, I check Twitter updates
And check outside to see if I've a friend
(A local one, that is) who's shown up yet
To help or at least talk to me a bit
And earn the beer I bought. C'mon, no sweat,
I tell myself, self-pity is just shit!
Your house awaits, you, homeowner, just think!
And in that house, O glory - stuff to drink!

My Happiness Officer is Now Six Years Older Than Justin Timberlake. Haw!

A short while back, my sister said to him
"The Broncos coach is younger, now, than me!"
And Kevin quipped, because he's somewhat dim
"Most people are!" and laughed tee-hee with glee.
The world and time are catching up, though, now.
Our birthday boy has reached his thirty-third.
Though youthful looks continue to endow
His face, he's no spring chick, more an old bird.
His heroes just get younger; those sports stars
And pop icons that Kevin so admires
Would call him old if they met him in bars
Or in the wilderness at their bonfires.
But what the hell, let's give the guy his day,
Buy him some beers and tell him he's okay.

Beer for Dinner, Or How I Went Out with My Worst Friend but Still Wrote a Sonnet

It's Thursday evening in this little town,
And there might not seem to be much to do,
But, thanks to Kevin, I've no cause to frown.
I watch him bowl and cheer until I'm blue
(Of face, that is) and there's an added plus:
His bowling league includes a small side game,
A weirdo form of bingo that works thus
(And if it doesn't, I don't take the blame):
A bingo space gets daubed if there's a match
Between its number and a bowler's score.
That they must hit these numbers is the catch.
If they don't, then I just laugh and drink some more.
Although betimes they do call my attention
To an error, in ink or comprehension.