Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Purple (11/05/09)
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TITLE: A Royal Obsession | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jennifer Galey
11/11/09 -
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across the river Rhine,
a dynasty ruled in power—
now known as Liechtenstein.
A certain king of royalty
and Austrian descent,
distinguished his authority
by shades to represent.
He summoned that every inch
of each illustrious room,
“Be draped in purple niceties;
doused in orchid perfume."
The windows donned a tapestry
of velvet in plum hue,
and colors deemed inferior
were quickly bid adieu.
His purple robes and tights to match
were tailored to his shape—
with stature short and belly round,
he looked just like a grape!
His heart grew insatiably
(much more than a passion);
he knew there must be so much more
than décor and fashion.
He hailed his servants to his throne
and every knight and lord
to scour all the calendars—
no day should be ignored.
Their quest was one of noble kind—
it was their sole mission—
to ascertain a holiday
for purple tradition.
“Ahem,” Lord Bernhart cleared his throat,
“How doth the month of May…”
But the king leapt up from his throne
before Berns said which day.
“The month of May. Hooray! Hooray!”
the king exclaimed with glee—
for he had a proclivity
toward grandiosity.
He ordered every calendar
be displayed on easels
and marked each day with stains of grapes
(the spots looked like measles).
Each day would hold festivities
greater than the prior,
and wrap up with a plum-good feast
that would please the sire.
The king was feeling generous
and rode his royal horse
to give the poor a lofty sum
(in amethysts, of course).
And when that day finally came
from great culmination,
each lord and lady near and far
joined in celebration.
Amidst the royal revelry
of vineyard muscadine,
the king in royal protocol
tipped his goblet of wine.
With purple cloth displayed across
an infinite buffet,
the vittles, braised and bluish-red,
were hard to separate.
Scooping up a lavender lump
The king asked with care,
“From what doth this originate?”
(The answer was not there).
Sniffing at the smorgasbord stretch
in flabbergasted voice,
(referring to the mush of orange)
he asked, “who made this choice?”
A skittish gal with frazzled hair
let out a feeble sound,
pledging that her rutabaga
was purple in the ground.
Despite the nips of radish dip
and herb eggplant soufflé,
the king was less than gratified,
“annoyed,” as we would say.
With earnest eye and ample nose
(a culinary sleuth),
the king espied chocolate pie
for soothing his sweet tooth.
Devouring the decadence
of rich truffle shavings,
he plunged into this perfect dish
to appease his cravings.
With belly full of half the pie
(the rest on his mustache),
He asked from curiosity,
“What makes this such a smash?”
Lord Berns arose upon his toes,
(an unexpected cook),
“In the pursuit of purpleness,
some liberties, I took...”
“In lieu of sugar and butter,
a noble surrogate,
for sweet perfume, a pound of prunes,
one will soon not forget.”
Although the king did not reply,
his stomach made a tune,
concluding “Purple Holiday”
not a moment too soon.
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