Poetry Monday :: Moonshine

Poetry Monday er en udfordring, hvor Diane fra On the Border er vores vært. Og nok engang kommer jeg til at undskylde til mine danske læsere, for heller ikke denne mandags stikord, Moonshine, fik nogen danske rim til at dukke op i mit stakkels hoved. Et engelsk vrøvlevers var alt, det kunne blive til.

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 Moonshine, is the theme for today. Did this mean the sonata, the illegal liquor, or just the rays from our satellite? I had no idea. And the only rhyme I could find, was the very pedestrian sunshine.
   I cheated, and looked up moonshine in Rhymezone.com - my to-go place for rhymes in English. I had this string of viable alternatives: brine, -cline, dine, fine,  line, mine, nine, pine, shrine, sign, spine, swine, tine, twine, vine, whine, wine,  zine.
  I sat staring at this collection for a while, then a crazy nonsense poem surfaced in my brain. It is almost too crazy, but as I cannot find anything else in there, I had two alternatives: Post the crazy poem, or post nothing. I went with the first option, read at your own risk!

Poetry Monday is a challenge, hosted by Diane at On the Border.

In the moonshine
I tie up my vine
using scissors and twine.
I go feed my swine,
on mushrooms they dine,
they were on decline
and not very fine.

In the moonshine
between eight and nine
I swim in the brine
Later visit a shrine
And down 'long my spine
the last drops of brine
roll down, I incline
my head, pious mien,
betrays not a sign
of the ticklish, cold brine.

In the moonshine
I cross the thin line
between yours and mine
I "borrow" the zine
- for adventures I pine -
And read of the tine
that with a great whine
burrows in the pine
that stands by the mine
all covered in vine.

In the moonshine
At exactly nine
she pours up the wine.
In terror they dine
while sailing the Rhine
beware of the spine
concealed in the fine
breaded chops from a swine

In the moonshine
These dreams I decline
and rise and go dine
with a friend of mine.
The dinner is fine
and with the last stein
of local moonshine,
all vestiges of whine
and memoirs of swine,
and poisonous spine
all vanish like brine
in the moonshine.

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Next Monday: Roses