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

Janet~