sam-hainev
Sam Hain is a practitioner of magick, and has been for tens of thousands of years. He’s patted Jesus warmly on the shoulder…and gotten a dirty look for it. He currently drinks, smokes, casts spells, stumbles, and slurs his S's around the streets of Boulder, CO. He literally wears his hearts on his chest. / / P.S. You can check out the other version of this online book by going to emeraldhenge.wordpress.com
Oh, give to me the freshest drink,—
A draught as smooth as silk
And whiter than the kitchen sink,—
A pail full of milk!
Pour it with love, and watch it flow,
(Nor spill a drop, for dread!)
Pour it precisely, enjoy the show,
And give it a foamy head!
I drink it ere the morning sun
Hath waked the early bird:
I wake and make a midnight run
To taste the lazy herd.
I rise at dawn and drink again,
And drink throughout the day;
Then drink a nightcap (or nine or ten)
And dream of curds and whey.
I've heard it said I drink too much,
And this is understood;
But man has never died from such,
And oh! it's just so good!
*
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
(I.)
Only a fool would try, in line by line
Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
And he who'd try would never be believed,
For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover's eyes deceived.
So candid pics and videos must record
What speech could never adequately limn,
And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.
(II.)
Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
With microscopic mites your shiny skin
Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies
Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's.
Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!
But here again the painting is askew:
It lacks that certain something that's in you.
Yes, rubber soul.
*
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I stubbed my toe and yelled out, ****
But blessèd be that Irish luck!
For had I not an Irish root,
I would've surely lost the foot!
*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Be careful when drinking the whiskey:
It leads to behaviors quite risky.
I once shared a bottle
With a bicorn hat model,
Then got—with this leprechaun—frisky.
*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
The ballerina's pirouette:
This is the little triolet.
Within a faëry scene and set
The ballerinas pirouette
To a limpid midnight minuet
In Thumbelina-esque ballet.
The ballerina's pirouette:
This is the little triolet.
*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
A banshee once went on a date,—
A dinner. It wasn't so great:
She started to cry
Right across from the guy,
Who then choked and fell dead on his plate.
*
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
.
Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
(Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.
*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Tell me, friend, have you ever seen
A leprechaun in a suit o' green
With an impish grin?
You haven't? Well,
You must not know the magic spell!
Listen in:
You take a pipe and puff and pass
A green as green as Erin's grass,
Then take a glass
Of whiskey and beer,
And chase the smoke, and choke with cheer:
One will appear!
*
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
.
Beneath a mystic moon an ancient air—
A melody only
And lonely—
Is sung by her with moonshine eyes and shadowy hair.
Across the seas of water and time
She sings to me.
Each line and rhyme
I strangely recall.
I fall asleep,
Then wake and creep
As nightshade over a garden wall;
And there with all the flowers that bloom
By moonlight—in the beautiful gloom—
I start the long journey and hope to come back
With some of the knowing I knew in the black.
*
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC