Poetic challenge using Frost's 'Stopping by Woods...", same format, your own story Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi all,

Based on Mary's thread in here Karnak Critiquing Robert Frost, I've been inspired to throw out a challenge.

Taking Frost's poem below, create your own using the same end words and format as his. The words are: know, though, here, snow / queer, near, lake, year / shake, mistake, sweep, flake / deep, keep, sleep, sleep.

Good luck!
~Cleo

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost, 1922

[JustDaniel]

A Visit to Sleepy, Hollow Wood

Most Karnak visitors I know;
some others do come see us, though.
Those secret few may stop in here
where we hang words on trees like snow.

The passers-by will think us queer
to blather on while no one's near
our woods; they're off to swim their lake
and may be back some time next year.

(I just slugged down a veggie shake
too quick to catch my kale mistake;
I think I'll take a break and sweep
the kitchen floor of old corn flakes.)

I'm back to write, but nothing deep;
my way-down thoughts will have to keep.
To read such things would make you sleep,
and I'm the one who needs the sleep.

© MLee Dickens'son 27 May 2016

... and Larry, here is an older play on RF's poem. Perhaps your remember it?

Non-Stop but Woods on a Summer Evening

Whose roads these are I do not care
for I but travel them to where
I’d rather be; just stopping here
to un-tank from my caffeine share

that guides leased Lancer without fear
that into some deep ditch I’d steer…
for auto-pilot’s not a choice,
not even cruise control this year,

and I’ve no chauffeured black Rolls-Royce.
I’ll call to hear my honey’s voice,
relieve at every pause I must,
play tapes of James Montgomery Boice.

I’m glad there’ll be no snow, but just
some rain and wind… no frost, I trust…
so back to Bridgeton now or bust
... headlong ... to nestle at her bust.

© MLee Dickens'son 24 June 2004
from Syracuse NY to Bridgeton, NJ