DAY 18. A GLOSA

I knew not what be a glosa

Until I attempted and found it to be collosa

Here it is and here it be

I gave it a try, called it a night with a "Whoopee" 

The challenge of the day was to write a "glossa."
This "involves an epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to. Then, write a poem consisting of four 10-line stanzas where the final line of each stanza is a line from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9 and 10 must rhyme."  What follows is my attempt.... based on the beginning lines of Whitman's - what else given this prompt "Song of Myself"

“Song of Myself” 

Walt Whitman

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul

I see about me the fields and cities the

desolation, destruction and dancing

of this whirling cerulean marble we share

oceans, lakes, mountains and deserts

forests and plains winding merging

each and all connected as a threaded Oneself *

shimmering in a sparkling panoply of vibrancy

each texture, taste, sight and lyric sound

connecting each to each within a collective sunself

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself

I feel about me the pain and joy the anguish and

pleasure of each, from newborn

blinking eye to shuttered lash of ended time

blazing, blurring, blotting, bleeding, bolstering

this cerulean marble we share

the essence floating of all exhaled exhume

pulses within each corpuscle pounding

particles of light within the ray of my being

illuminate all, beyond imagined flash of sonic blasted boom

and what I assume, you shall assume

I taste and hear and touch

each blade of grass, each droplet of the diamond

rain, burn the bottom of my feet on the scorching sand

freeze my skin in the avalanche of ice

burst eardrums to the screams of hungry children

sleep lulled by the sweet song of mothers’ succulent love

the sweet nectar of honey glosses my lips

as bitter herbs rest in the cradle of my gut

each to each and all to all converge in one unfathomed melodious hue

for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you

For self in the collective tapestry

is lone, but a dull thread

dangling in the stratosphere

a filamented figment of what could be, dropped as a stitch

in the grand design of each shout, scream, sigh, touch, taste,

and emerald blade of dew wet grass rising from earth damped hole

desolate, striving, wretched until recognition relaxes melting

self into reconciled, reverenced, reconnoitered remembered role

I loafe and invite my soul