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 Page: Profile: Poetry   Total Views: 16,594,064  

Poem Specs

VxPoem ID: 47767

Category:
humor

Posted: October 23rd. 2018 10:20:50 AM

Views: 221

Who's There?!

by Radko Vacek

Age Group: Adult



In honor of the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe.

Now upon an evening dreary, while he ponders, weak and weary,
Over yesteryear, bygone faces and voices by the score--
While he dozes, half-way dreaming, suddenly there come sounds, seeming
Like paws stretched up tapping, tapping at his locked front door.
"Must be some stray cat, " he grumbles, "scratching at my front door--
Yet another! nothing more."

II

Yes, let us well envision evenings in dark and cool October.
How he recalls the days of summer, their joys over!
Verily he feels quite sad, remembering the beautiful things he had,
Lost to the darkness like that evening, a grayness to confuse,
Making goodness hard to see and choose, until we lose
What we love most, forevermore!

III

Fondly he recalls, as he looks at sports trophies by the wall,
He a former wizard in command of every ball,
But as surely as autumnal leaves wither and fall,
So you feel weak and weary as the years pass on,
And you start greeting the evening with a yawn,
Remembering what all you loved, that with the times has gone.

IV

Outdoors is an evening of the hooting of the owl,
Otherwise as quiet as the drifting of that fog,
But the barking of the distant, little dog
In his mind, working spells! seems to be the howl
Of a pack of wolves as he, startled to the core,
Hears more rapping, rapping, at his locked door.

V

Picture him, a man now quite old, all alone,
His hair standing on end, almost turning into stone,
His teeth chattering, his thoughts scattered,
Terrified of getting robbed and battered,
To the verge of nearly crapping,
By the rapping, rapping, at his bolted door!

VI

Worn out as he is, worried and weak,
He gathers all his might by the window, to peak.
How bleak it is, an evening made for home,
The trees like apparitions, of bodies bare, to the bone!
The sole living thing out is a bat, with its wings
Beating, beating, close by his very door.

VII

Suddenly he explodes, giving out a shout,
"What is all this infernal rapping all about!
Oh please, fiend or friend, would you tell me who you are,
Some odd being fallen from a star,
Or some ghost to haunt me, forevermore?"
Outside is silence. Nothing more.

VIII

That time of fear and wonder gives cause to pause and ponder:
How one mere eve of autumn, dark and cool
With fog covering like a veil, can well make fine wits fail,
In wandering on the edge and falling like a fool,
In grave peril, either life or honor,
Through again that rapping, rapping, at his door.

IX

He puts out the fire, hoping to retire
To bed and to sweet dreams, but no! instead,
Horrid fantasies keep filling his weary head!
"Is it some robber, " he thinks, "or peddler who bothers
Not with conscience, or some fiend of ancient lore?
Who keeps rapping, rapping, at my bolted door?"

X

He's bewildered, frightened, and now angry, for he didn't ask for it,
That knocking, KNOCKING, yet he thinks, "what we wish for
Can end up far worse than what we ignore.
When we give up wishing, for the goal seems too good to be true,
Sometimes that's optimal for kicking, and we score it!
Opening the door may be the sporty, honorable deed to do."

XI
Daring to stand on his own two feet, he opens the door to meet
A little green ET, a fairy with her wand, a brightly dressed elf,
And a three-foot-tall football star, the image of his boyhood self!
He can't stay drowsy anymore, as they all yell, "TRICK OR TREAT!"
Yes indeed, there is magic, as an old man in his nightgown,
In his own way, renews the glory, of scoring a touchdown!




Author's Location: Toledo, Ohio
More Poems: Radko Vacek has posted 831 additional poems- View them?
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