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
comeuppances
rain down
steady as
steady as
chatter
chatter
remember me
the embers of me
unscattered
you buried me
while i was alive
and once again
made sure i died
haggard
.
remember me
untethered
tongues of me
crawl into your bed
to unsettle your raw bride
6-inches into her/his skin
shrivel galaxies hidden
everywhere aware
here/there
.
remember me
can never be rid of me
foolish one/twos
stamp your shoes on me
spit your 7-curses on me
time again
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
btw
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.
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 
You certainly got the hang of the creepy part of the prompt. Scarey!
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The words themselves crept up on me….
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Wonderfully, creepily horrible, knife-sharp revenge!
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It all awaits us,,equalizes us
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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
https://www.bartleby.com/104/43.html
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I have no more words. Just emotion to digest these gifts.
Thank you for the silence, leaving planets, thank you for the tears you planted
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