It's kind to offer a shoulder
to a person in need
but make sure
they don't turn on you
and suck the lifeforce out of you
Beware of vampires roaming
in sheep's clothing
AP: 2nd place 2025
Skinny girl cat was horrified
When she finally realized
She looked more human than cat, her reflection was petrified.
How can this be? She asked her ma who lied.
No idea, her mother said.
She knew her husband and preferred to not be dead.
Why you look more human, is odd as lead.
We really do not know, her daddy said.
There are pelican prints on this map the suspicious sea captain said.
We all denied seeing a fowl using his desk, for we wanted our heads.
He had a cutlass and was not afraid to use it on any of us.
I know you know about Peter, he said. He’s an ornery cuss!
Peter the Pelican is actually trying to get us all to agree.
To overpower the captain and have a gay mutinee.
We did not know what to do, so we lied through our teeth.
He did not believe some of us, we walked the plank and fell underneath.
Libby Lou was a professional intermeddler
She had her hands in all most all of the towns people’s pots
Adding carrots and potatoes to some, digging tomatoes out of others
Criticizing the amount of thyme and pepper,
Constantly tasting, moving between their houses, burners and pots
Taking out, putting in, advising everyone, fixing things
Stirring, stirring stirring. Constantly stirring.
She came up missing in the middle of winter, chili fixing season.
We did not find Lilly Lou’s body until the park thawed out in March.
Murder was afoot.
There were potholders placed over her dead not-now-prying eyes.
It must have been a woman killer, the police chief said.
It is potholders, right? A woman’s weapon.
But wait, what about Marty, the short order chef.
Does he use potholders?
Coroner could not figure out cause of death.
Police gave up after a year or two.
Too many suspects.
Whole town knew Lou.
She had been fiddling in their stews for a long time
Criticizing everyone’s pot.
No one suspects the poet
To be the subject of the piece
The poet is expected the least
No one thinks the poet
would write about them self
When they write of no one else
No one assumes the poet
Ever needs help fighting
They just congratulate the writing
No one worries for the poet
Their hell-ridden heart
Is just a piece of the art
No one suspects the poet
To think they've reached their time
It's just the last line
Every day at quarter to four
There is often a rush to the library door
The ‘usual suspects’ are often there
Sitting on a library chair
They speak to the teacher who they have upset
It may have been deliberate or even for a bet
They could have been fighting, swearing or smoking
When they arrive for their chat no one is joking
Disturbing others, using their phone or often being late
They will end up in the library - it’s not just down to fate
Some may learn and try to refrain
But the ‘usual suspects’ do it again and again
After a short time their chat is over, and to the bus they run
But I love to see the days when the library list shows ‘none’
Our staff they do a marvellous job to try and educate our youth
Poor behaviour can stop this task, it is the sorry truth.
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