And the man said,
your oar is filled with holes.
It’s not an oar, said I, it’s a holy spoon,
and I, sat in my canoe, glided upon
the position he held,
a gargoyle guarding
dead middle
of the stream.
You mean a holey spoon, he said,
a slotted spoon, he thought,
as waves licked the salt from his belt.
No, said I, a holy spoon,
like a holy cow,
or a holy grail.
Mine, said I,
is a holy spoon –
I cook.
.
.
Margo’s Mirror-Mirror Try-Outs
http://margoroby.wordpress.com/2012/09/25/mirror-mirror-tuesday-tryouts/
Photo inspiration at
http://thisfragiletent.com/2012/08/20/the-ghost-of-the-kyles/
What fun! I like puns, and I honour cooks.
Glad you liked it. I might play with this prompt more during the week.
Oh, I like this very, very much! While I am not the greatest of ‘cooks’ I’d like to think I have a few ‘holy’ spoons. Reminds me of the story of two sets of people given long handled spoons at a feast…one group whined and complained because they could not feed themselves. The other group enjoyed their meal because they fed each other.
Oh what a wonderful story! I love that. Thanks so much, Jules, for stopping by for a read and leaving a comment.
I love not knowing where the poem was going and I love what waited when I got there.
Thanks, Margo, and I love that you take the time to read it.