Monday, 16 May 2022

A Poem a Day (506): Waking the sky

 
NaPoWriMo 2022 was a fun month of writing, so for May I’m using the prompts from April 2021’s NaPoWriMo to write poems.
 
 
Day 8

I call this prompt “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 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.
 
 
Waking the sky

We all walk through the fire sometime,
when the days are too hazardous,
too long, too cruel, too jaded,
too something we can’t deal with,
but we all have our own small gathering
of friends and family, and pets,
an assembly of all we love,
whom we can refer to as home.
 
We’re not sure how long we have,
even the Tarot cards won’t tell us how,
and so we try to live well and positively,
sticking to our ethics and inner compass,
treating others as we’d be treated,
and making the most of a timeless day,
seeking out the good and lighthearted,
trying to avoid the grim and overdone.
 
And, so I lie here, staring up at the sky,
watching the birds flit to and fro,
remembering when I was just a small boy,
and the summers seemed endlessly fine,
filled with bike trips and conversation,
new adventures and places to discover,
until we were called in by our mothers
to wash our hands and eat our tea.
 
The sky is blue today, fresh after rain,
and I travelled long before sleeping here.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 16, 2022


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