6 week writing Challenge

Hello expression monkeys; I am posting this again but with the current date so that it appears at the top.

This writing challenge I have done before but I am adding a little twist:

Theme: recreate a poem from a famous author.

Guidelines: use any part of the piece (style, rhythm, subject) to draw your inspiration.

Each week pick a new poem (for a challenge pick a new author)

Rules: no rules, don’t think and have fun.

Here is mine and please post yours in the comments or just follow along at home!!

Week 1: How to meditate by Jack Kerouac

Lights out

Fall, hands a clasped, into instantaneous ecstasy like a shot of heroin or morphine, the gland inside of my brain discharging the good glad fluid (holy fluid) as I hap-down and hold all my body parts down to a deadstop trance-healing all my sicknesses-erasing all-

Not even the shred of a I-hope-you or a loony balloon left in it, but the mind blank, serene, thoughtless.  When a thought comes-a-springing from afar with its held-forth figure of image, you spoof it out, you spuffit out, you fake it, and it fades, and thought never comes-and with joy you realize for the first time thinking’s just like not thinking- so I don’t have to think anymore

My answer

Propaganda: Meditation: fidgeting, obsessive thoughts covered in to-do lists cycling thought 5, 6, 1000 times a minute in between lapses of consciousness awoken by the sound of the snore and thud of the head. Bruised butt. Badgering myself into succumbing to the promised surrender and released within the fantasy of nirvana till the buzzer finally rings and a smile appears on my face knowing, that this shit is done and I can embrace the lesser suffering called life and it is good.

Week2: SHE LET GO by SafireRose

She let go

She let go without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgements.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all of the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely without hesitation, or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go. She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go.

She let go of all the memories that held her back. She let go of all the anxieties that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of all the planning and calculations about how to do it right.

She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it. She didn’t write the projected date in her day timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn’t check the weather report, or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step spiritual mind treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word. She just let go. No one was around when it happened. No was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her.

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.

My adaptation:

She grew up. Not on her birthday.

No cake or presents.

No secret surprise or pat on the back. She grew up.

It wasn’t drinks on New Years or confetti on the dance floor. No resolution to do it, or goal to attain it.

She just grew up.

Nothing special happened, no Prince Charming kiss or dream wedding bliss.

She didn’t become more mature or capture eternal youth. No words of wisdom did she preach or lists of lessons learned.

She just grew up.

There was no grand banquet at the office nor flowers placed on the night stand.

She did not fire the stylist and bedazzle the world with hair proudly of grey.

She just grew up.

She Grew out of believing what everyone told her.

She grew out of the doubt and limitations in her mind.

She grew out of pretending to be perfect and pleasing those who are less than pleasing to her.

She grew up.

No one was around

But it happened

No one noticed

But it happened

She grew up.

Like a cherry blossom budding in the spring, she just grew up.

There was effort.

There was no struggle.

There was much much pain.

Some was bad and some was good.

In the space around what was bugging her. She grew up.

A tear came to her eye and then a smile on her face.

The sweet floral sent flew through the air.

And the stars and sky ignited into infinity.

Week 3 The Road not taken, Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My adaptation

Two of swords, one a choice of pattern, the other a wish and a prayer.

Both equal in its temptation, yet far from satisfaction in the mind of the soul.

I could not control the ones who see not the wisdom pointing towards the brush.

Lookin down lanes of perfectly blossoming flowers and crickets, I took the purples over the pinks.

Through space and time I took a sigh and looked at the plow which paved this way, never to go back.

This be the one travelled by brave souls and weary hearts wrapped in redemption all along the way.

Week 4

On the Pulse of Morning, Maya Angelou

A rock, a river A tree. Hosts to species long since departed, marked the mastodon, the dinosaur, who left dried tokens of their sojourn here. On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their Hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in   
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,   
You may stand upon me,   
But do not hide your face.

My adaptation:

Green ball of branch and vine. Turtles and alligators in mud and water play. Both brought forth from the beginning, each different in intention.

Come stand upon these banks and see no danger lives from the crickets and fireflies. Skipping rocks into the ripples that atoms and electrons passed through the wormhole.

Wild turkeys in pairs come to me today. A witness to thoughts no longer hidden from dancing with despair.

You are created from the skin of the fish and light of the fireflies. The swampy Muck did clog too long. To do better, to know those words have power and swords aren’t meant to swallow no hiding dances in despair.

The fog calls out today, you may sit within me. but do not hide your dance.

Week 5 The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

My adaptation

One night of fate as I grew weary

Of life and love I sat in query

He came upon my heart space door. Knocking lightly to light adore. He came knocking but nothing more

For a moment I thought my soul grew brighter but I slept in wandered slumber. Still he came knocking, sitting at my heart space floor. Then I thought I almost knew it, hello good sir, what fate could prove it. Sadness is all that came to be passing through and never more.

The Angel wings sat so uncertain, eager to reveal the curtain. Red blood passion and purple vision tapping on my heart space door. Desperate wishing for the lost allore.

Sure was I there was a longing. Singing songs of eternal findings. Dreaming all that none shall dream, thinking all that ghost receive. May it be the Dame or damsal, swiping at the the front door chamber, it be the wind and never more.

Return to oneness I did challenge when I saw a fleeting orb. Wondered if this meant a wander, calling to be heart space door. I turned and trembled in the darkness searching for that distant call. Yet when tapping came to ponder it failed to be an Evermore.

Speak or lord please say it clearly. Is this be good or evil’s ploy. What would you wish all in heaven soft silent whispers gaining gore. Hark I ask you what is this bidding, the devil in the shadows cast. How can I move with all in timber forcing gentle nothing more.

That bird of blackness floating over, hear my cry of lonely whines. Are you the one to taunt or tempt me, ancient symbols hold me tight. Of gods and demons win me over take flight to all they thought to know. When all is lost and nothing spoken that tapping sound be never more.

Week 6

Eletelephony

Laura Elizabeth Richard

Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—

(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I’ve got it right.)
Howe’er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;

The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I’d better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)

There once was a dog named spot. He tried to plant in a pot. But the dirt had some kind of rot.

Oh me oh my, I don’t know why I try that doggy has no kind of green thumb and I’m going completely numb.

The more he dug the more I bugged and had to hold of the reigns before the late summer rains.

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