napowrimo day 8


quagmire rises to release her/his words

up to no good

no bad – birds knife at the dirt to wake 

up the dead

inside her/his head

he/she’s never slept in the depth

night/morning yawning

from an 8-foot down-echo chamber 

chill whispers come up


            rain down 

                     steady as

                               steady as



remember me

the embers of me


you buried me

while i was alive

and once again

made sure i died



remember me


tongues of me

crawl into your bed

to unsettle your raw bride

6-inches into her/his skin

shrivel galaxies hidden

everywhere aware



remember me

can never be rid of me

foolish one/twos

stamp your shoes on me

spit your 7-curses on me

time again


dismember me

remember this

statutory lying-in begins

endless as sins

lying in waiting

there’s no escape 

remember me

remember me



April 8, 2021




And last but not least, our (optional) prompt. I call this one “Return to Spoon River,” after Edgar Lee Masters’ eminently creepy 1915 book Spoon River Anthology. The book consists of well over 100 poetic monologues, each spoken by a person buried in the cemetery of the fictional town of Spoon River, Illinois.

Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead. Not a famous person, necessarily – perhaps a remembered acquaintance from your childhood, like the gentleman who ran the shoeshine stand, or one of your grandmother’s bingo buddies. As with Masters’ poems, the monologue doesn’t have to be a recounting of the person’s whole life, but could be a fictional remembering of some important moment, or statement of purpose or philosophy. Be as dramatic as you like – Masters’ certainly didn’t shy away from high emotion in writing his poems.

6 thoughts on “dire

  1. Lucinda Matlock
    Edgar Lee Masters – 1868-1950

    I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
    And played snap-out at Winchester.
    One time we changed partners,
    Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
    And then I found Davis.
    We were married and lived together for seventy years,
    Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
    Eight of whom we lost
    Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
    I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
    I made the garden, and for holiday
    Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
    And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
    And many a flower and medicinal weed–
    Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
    At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
    And passed to a sweet repose.
    What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
    Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
    Degenerate sons and daughters,
    Life is too strong for you–
    It takes life to love Life.

    ——————————–> also


    Liked by 1 person

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