the hues are washed
and lifted off the canvas
free the frail and delicate
gentle silky petals
caressed with spring's appeal
only pure magnolia
can offer such magnificence
beyond a stream of opulence
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The King
The king was quite old, but not senile,
And his problems with sex were not penile.
He could rut with the best,
When put to the test,
And got plenty of rest in between while.
The Queen
The queen wanted Sir Bruce for her lover,
But said knight had his sights on another.
She became unenamored,
When she caught him unarmored,
And in bed with Sir Frederick, her brother.
The Prince
The crown prince of a country in Asia
Loved a commoner named Anastasia.
When his parents demurred,
He said, "Don't be absurd",
And promptly employed euthanasia.
The Princess
The queen's plot was more than merely a jest,
But still Princess Winifred proved she was the best
When that small pea-sized lump
Left a dent in her rump
And allowed her to pass the "sensitivity" test.
The Duke
The Duke of Milan was an arrogant man,
Pugnacious, mendacious, and vain.
He was also a mess
For he loved to cross-dress
In ruffles and bustles and trains.
Painstaking plumes of surest gait
To wield diamond steel over fate;
With slow pair of wit-guarded lips,
As otiose words sway great ships.
Invincible flair and exacting knack
To stand out from the frothy pack;
Ochred with all blue-penciled skill,
For nabob’s dimwits do mimic still.
With the far-scanning aquiline eye
That fowls unborn miles like a spy;
Plus an ear for tiniest voices tuned,
For idlest vowel by vagaries ruined.
Gigantic empathy for pinched souls
Hewn down by lot’s inclement fouls;
Felt tear for fellow wayfarers stung
By blunt luck's blade rashly swung.
A little but constant sacrifice betimes,
For bereft chum eschewed by dimes;
Or even total strangers in want of bail
Out of a jinx along existence’s icy sail.
Bated young as if moth,
our rushlight engrossing as inferno,
to minds untaught of hell.
As hell itself to learned folk,
cursed with mystic beginnings,
drowned deep within their well.
Before the airy days of care,
can gently ease them in,
to the world as sheer as veil.
We bury deep insecurities,
in soil that we are oblige to love,
and scorch the earth in ways that time will only tell.
The old King took to the battle
and leapt into the fencers fray.
“Noblesse oblige” his cronies cry.
“Our King will save the day!”
He was a bull to their gazelle
nae a fair fight, nae by half;
he'd fight just to see the thralls fall
he ‘d pierce those peacocks for a laugh!
His continence was so fearsome.
His two burly arms a rare threat.
Some would nae fight His Majesty
nor fight of his knightly get.
“How is this fair?” the Lord’s lament.
How well met can these odd match be?
“Unless, of course, ‘twas nae ‘bout fair
this was nae called noblesse oblige!
In heavy plate with blade and pole
with broadsword, He’d bested the field;
so, as the fencers broached this game
the wiser lads all chose to yield.
They would nae raise a blade to him
nor would they save for him a dance;
many a brave man whispered there
and the bolder looked on askance.
“Let Him have the day! We’ll nae play
Noblesse oblige, my fine backsides!”
And, so the fancy fencers fell
like pretty harp seals on the tide.
There are many a way to win
and sure, many a way to loose.
Yet ‘tis the metal of the man
shows in the way that he chooses.