Wednesday, November 27, 2013

A Re-mix...

November PAD Challenge; day 25

For today’s prompt, take a poem from earlier in the challenge (that you’ve written) and remix it. You could take a free verse poem and re-work it into a villanelle or shadorma. You could re-work multiple poems into a new one. You could take a line from one of the poems and write a response poem to it. Or you can take it in an entirely different direction.

  prompt 22 re-vamped to a sonnet

Earth, like an umber casket
Has cradled every bloom
November mourns, its heavy robe  
Enshrouds each stricken plume
For nature’s fairer filament
Has fallen; flow’r and leaf
Slumbers where wretch and prince preside
Bound for its steadfast sheaf

Moment folds over moments
Ephemeral eclipse
Of petals, poems and parting
And then its present slips
Into the crypt of ‘bygone’
An unrelenting plot
Of had and held remembered
And none exhumes its lot

The remora of hours
Does not release its prey
It drinks a field of flowers
And turns raven to gray
November’s stark procession
Bows where its laughter fell
Its dirge, a somber silence
Beneath Time’s evening bell

A sonnet
Earth, like an umber casket holds each bloom
for all things living are bound for decay
November mourns; its solemn robe of gloom
enshrouding brittle plume in brown and gray
The fairer filament of countryside
is stripped of fawning fern; of flow'r and leaf
They slumber now where wretch and prince preside
before we too lie in its steadfast sheaf 
The ticking clock offers no hint or clue
To tell us when That Great Roll Call is due 

Moment folds over moment; soft the lips
of Time part to exhale another hour
Future, present and past in sync eclipse
Man's days are like the wind-blown grass and flow'r
The crypt of bygone, an unyielding plot
yet every half-breath moment resides there
where no one can exhume its tethered lot
or beg a refund for its squandered fare
There is no Time with He who holds our script
and none can tell how far The Scale is tipped

The remora of hours tips Time's flask
A week, a year evaporates like rain
This pioneer does not release its clasp
nor turn the snow-white lock to gold again
November's stark procession bows its head
Where summer's laughter fell now all is still
Save for a dirge of wind-song for the dead
Beneath Time's evening bell day yields its will
We pause to reminisce, somber, astute
for soon each one of us will follow suit


No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed by the visit!