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| Poem: The Spoon (Based on Emily Dickinson’s works) The wind about the willows The lightning in the sky As the window’s curtains billow And the storm do henceth nigh As the heavens do split open As the rain flows earthward hence As the thunder cracks and crashes The atmosphere remains e’er tense Outside there is a raging gale The horse within the stable Fears an unknown evil force… The spoon atop the table. Its innocence is deceptive In its unobtrusive guise But hark! Be cautious of the spoon For it wears a cruel disguise The power within this single spoon Is terrible to think upon Only a senseless, heedless goon Would ignore the terror whereupon Its terrible reputation Spread far and wide And throughout all the world’s nations Has made people run and hide. The spoon sits on the table still The storm goes on outside All is quiet, sound is nil But for the tempest previously implied But hark! The kitchen door Opens, and the patter of unshod feet Walks across the linoleum floor Unaware of what he shall soon meet A little midnight snack he wants This hungry adolescent He doesn’t know of the terror that haunts His cozy kitchen under the moonlight crescent He walks to the refrigerator He quietly unfolds its yawning hollow His stealthy enterprise will be ended premature By a most unworthy Diablo The spoon attacks! The star-crossed youth quails before it The monstrosity strikes like a vorpal axe A second before the youngster is hit Suddenly, a shining light steps in A flash of brilliance fills the locale A heavenly strain fills the night winds Heralding the arrival of donuts supernal The spoon stands rigid, struck dumb with fear And then, all at once, it is gone in a flash The threatening evil is no longer here The donuts have halted the attack so rash And then, they too have gone The youth stares mute at their exiting place “What just happened? What’s going on?” At least the silverware is out of his face Shaken, the boy heads back to bed It must be some sort of freakish swoon A little sleep should clear his head Until morning, he will retreat to his warm cocoon. But what will come, come morning then? Shall all become a fading reverie? Or will he walk into the kitchen And find instead the twisted form of cold reality…? |
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