The Road Not Taken 

BY 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 Life

Remembering my childhood
Makes me wonder if its all true
The good things that I still can see
The bright shining sun and sky oh so blue
My tic tac friends and bus ride pal
Who had the biggest bear to carry around
Sleep overs with friends night after night
Seeing ghosts and hearing creepy sounds
All of these things were oh so good 
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

Grandmas house was surrounded by wood
With paths and places to walk and see
The junk we’d find on a day long search
Making up stories of what they could be
Like Tarzan’s house with a hanging rope
Or the train tracks that went through the trees
Falling on glass and stitches in hands
Lucky to have two unscarred knees
We never knew what was in the undergrowth
And sorry I could not travel both

Playing field hockey and trying soccer
But not a good runner so too slow for fun
Ballet and jazz with great big recitals
Knowing the stage showed I was the one
Singing real loud in a chorus-sized group
Playing the flute, hate the baritone loop
Makeup at plays but not wanting to act
Writing in notebooks, my best friends pact
All the grades how I see them all good
And be one traveler, long I stood

The boyfriends and girl groups never did last
So many times the group found members all new
But I was a friend to the groups they were not
Some of the kids thought my friend circle few
I was happy back then and I started my life
At a party I met the man that I would soon wed
I never knew grief like I did those two years
When my love and my son both ended dead
I found me another true love that is so good
And looked down one as far as I could

©2023 CBialczak

The glose or glosa is an interesting Spanish form that reminds me a bit of the golden shovel or cento. The basic premise is that you quote four lines of poetry as an epigraph from another poem or poet. These four lines act as a refrain in the final line of the four stanzas written by the poet. So the first line of the epigraph would be the final line of the first stanza, the second line ends the second stanza, etc.

The most common convention is for each of these stanzas to be ten lines in length. There are no other hard and fast rules for rhymes or syllables, though line length is usually consistent within the poem (so the epigraph kind of sets the line length).