Our challenge for today is to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, and then write our own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead.
I read several of them, lots actually, and realised how intertwined these deceased authors were, which led me to thinking that mine should have at least two characters involved, so I went for two monologues with a wide gene pool that I swam in as a child and passed on our street.
I waited ten long years for you to return to me,
Ten, long, lonely years to savour your delights again,
To feel you next to me, to hear not your breath,
How could I?
But to welcome you back from my waiting, my wanting
You were always out of reach, as you are now,
Lost in your own dreamscape world.
The sun warming, glistening, illuminating, your forehead,
As you sat waiting for my return on the cold front step.
Your temptation teases me to this day,
Not the parlour filling aroma of Sunday roast lamb.
As salivating as it was, no,
You had me manacled in devotion chains, with what followed.
Warmed with a bellyful of brewed hops and barley,
I would ache for you, my Salome to dance at my table,
To furnish the tea-stained mahogany with my just desserts.
How you filled me with pride, that satisfied look in your eyes,
And laid before me; rice pudding!
Handcrafted with love, cultivated with devotion, heaven-sent by an angel.
And always for me, the children satiated and asleep, my special treat,
Burnished by the flames of passion, that caramelised, ebony necklace,
That nectar, charred token of admiration
O Ely, when can I dance in your kitchen again?
Take me by the flames of your glossy fire grate and make me happy – again.
Even now I have to listen to him going on, and on, and on –
Good God, he did talk some rubbish at times.
Mr Highfalutin La Dee Da, the poet of the saloon bar,
Too good for us at home, O yes
Not that the neighbours knew, O no
For them, the dandy Charlie was something to aspire to
This, what would he say? This Charles du Carapace, his Lordship of the back-to-back.
Give me strength.
Never judge a book by its cover they say, damn right they are too.
The hours I sat waiting for him to come back from the pub,
The kids hungry for their dinner but having to hold court until his majesty returned.
In he would roll, like Humpty Dumpty from a drunken stroll,
Dishevelled and disinterested, wreaking of ale,
A glint in his eye, but he knew his manhood would fail.
I swear, if he had a crown, he would have worn it to dinner,
Sat on his throne, conducting the kids with his roll-up baton smouldering.
Good chefs keep their secrets in the kitchen, as did I,
Just for you my darling I made your Sunday treat.
With snow white milk, from swan-necked pasteurised bottles,
Melded with cane grown ambrosia, as you might say,
But here’s the rub.
The kids did not like the burnt bits one bit,
And just for you, I added spit.