Matt’s given us a very interesting challenge for this week’s contest, one that I think will allow for some great variations. I felt confused at first read, so did what I always do when confused: went for it one step at a time.

The instructions are to take a famous poem:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

Now, I’m supposed to take the end word or words of the poem:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

Next, keep the end words in order. I’ve done that.

I need to give credit to the poet. This poem is “In Flanders Fields,” by John McCrae.

Lastly, the poem does not need to be about the same subject. In fact, it needs to be about the family pet. So, let’s do the hardest part:

In my opinion, cats all blow
They’d harvest humans, row on row,
    And preen their coats; watch birds in sky
    Not caring, since we cannot fly.
Then, try to trip us, down below.

I saw a dog, some days ago.
He smiled, relieved, his eyes a-glow,
    Loved and just loved; keen to lie
        In summer fields.

Your dog will never be your foe: 
He’ll fetch a stick from hands you throw
    And beg; whene’er you hold it high.
    He’s crushed when his dear masters die.
Not like a cat, preferring catnip grow(s)
        In summer fields.

Now, I think this could be even easier. No one said I had to follow the exact meter of “In Flanders Fields.” I could’ve written:

Roses are blow
Violets are row
Life is so sky
When I’m here with fly
In fields

Kinda catchy, isn’t it? Now it’s your turn! Go ahead!

©2022 Chel Owens