2008 WINNERS
1st prize
MY ASSIGNMENT TODAY
by Larry Hunter
My assignment today
For which I pray
Is to write my worse poem ever.
This is quite an endeavor.
The group is Scottish you see
Should the topic be
About hoarding money?
Or perhaps about the beauty of the motherland?
I'm told it is absolutely grand.
Or the beverage called Scotch
Which is quite the drink.
The people who invented it are neat I think.
Or the plaids of their clothes
Which cover from their heads to their toes,
The topics are many for such a diverse group.
It's like searching for a letter in alphabet soup.
Since a theme evades me
I will go sip some tea.
My thoughts have departed.
I better quit before I'm martyrd.
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2nd Prize
THE BARNACLE
by Jim Frost
What a strange thing is the barnacle
It sticks to my boat when to my farm I go
Here an explanation I should give
For it's not on a farm that I live
I go to my boat that's on a lake
Along side the road that I always take
To get to my farm that's far away
But someday maybe I'll go astray
Missing the road that goes to my boat
Alas, too long it could remain afloat
Coveed with barnacles, dozens and dozens
Perhaps I'll go over and use my cousin's.
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3rd Prize
ODE TO THE TEAPOT
By Ann Douglas Heflin
The teapot, that most civilized of inventions.
The teapot, always bodes us well of it's intentions.
Some are small, serving up a delightful treat for one.
Some are quite large, made heavy, sturdy, designed for a party fun.
The teapot, small, cunning in it's shape.
Perhaps with flowers on it's sides.
Dainty, feather light, for the hand of a fair young lady.
Whom in my heart abides.
Perhaps with a matching set up cups.
Small, too, for that dainty hand. Sweet little
treats, cookies in matching colours for that same
dainty hand.
The large teapot, the common teapot as one has
seen in a pub.
This common fellow, this container of hot comfort for
the weary.
Is a friend to all. A penny or two, paid to a serving
maid, will buy us a cup and lift the winter pall.
A dash of good spirits. A large bun, and a smallish
bit of cheese. Let the rain fall!
The Master of the house, on the hill.
He of the oveflowing till.
He has his own teapot.
The one made in far off China.
The one with the dear little boys, all
done up in pigtails and blue pajamas.
He has first pouring.
His tea is strong.
The cook in the kitchen, she bides her time.
She will have her second pouring of the tea when the Master
is tucked in for the night and she hears him snoring.
Her teapot is smaller, not so grand.
It is of pottery made in the town.
And it is brown.
The teapot of Old Granny that lives in her chill rooms,
Provided by her son.
She gazed at her Dear old teapot.
The one with the chips and cracks.
It's time almost done.
As is hers.
She remembers it new.
She sees the face of her son.
Rapt and excited to be given a taste of grown up fun.
Alas, he does not come to tea with her now.
He has a wife and four children of his own.
He pays for her keep.
He buys her less costly tea.
But he will not stay and visit.
So she sits and dreams of days gone by.
She and her teapot.
Tiny play teapots.
Sturdily made, to survive the tine hands that serve
up pot after pot of plain water 'tea' for the little girl's tea partys.
She had invited all of her dollies.
Teddy bear and giraffe look on from a shelf.
Sometimes Mother will stop by and have some 'tea' herself.