DeMille and Fielder, those we know,
and the sea-serpent, too, fo sho.
I think I'm going to extremes.
I have Cecils in my dreams.
Yucatan, etc.
Cortez, DeMille are gone.
It's now the locus
of postgraduate honeymoons,
urban fugues, a minor literary genre.
Knowledge and ejection predispose us
to technological parody--
antique busses, burros, plumbing, pyramids--
as if nothing ever caught on.
There is no CHRONOLOGY, the pace and mores
are too counterproductive--
poster Indians pee along the road,
the women never dust.
We like the Sartrean-Spanish askewness--
bugs, sex, dysentery, moonlight--
as if, though settled with us,
the Fates vacation here.
Cecil B DeMille
Buttons the clown on the lam. . .
dramatic train wreck
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Published 2018 in "Hollywood Haiku" via wattpad.com
Can't Walk Away
Oh, this obsession, and the need
to reach that high once I've begun;
so hard to stop, can't walk away
till this addiction's had its run.
Oh, please, you know I cannot stop,
I tried so many times before.
I get that urge...it conquers me;
not ready yet, so close that door.
You know I must descend inside
my mind to where it's bright and clear;
to see those visions that excite
and rev my thoughts into high gear.
Be patient now, soon I'll be done.
It's working, see...I'm breathing slow.
My soul is feasting on this bliss!
All comes together, see the flow?
Thank heavens now, the need is filled...
I've reached the summit, and I won...
My poem is done!... Now, out the door...
Okay! Let's leave to have some fun!
Sandra M. Haight
~7th Place~
Contest: That Colorful Drug
Sponsor: Lewis Raynes
Judged: 06/02/2016
"Creativity is a drug we cannot live without." Cecil B. DeMille
Summer grass in which I rest,
cooling in shade from labors made
is as green as glass from a soda-pop bottle,
its fragments that ride, washed up
in the tide, refined in sand, undesigned
by hand by artisans in Italy, or
the rain in Spain.
I'm prostrate to air perspiration drench,
pleased as I am with the sweaty travail
of brush and pail that made something old
seem new again. But, please, no pictures,
motion, or still, I'm unprepared, Mr. DeMille--
No close-ups for a new book cover!
Neither friend, nor foe, nor past-tense lover
could uncover that other who in an earlier
incarnation received this oblation: "Your mother's
a Fox," no plain Jane mom of chocolate chip
cookies in home room trips,but, she
in a mini-skirt and laced-up boots.
Sad to tell, (can't stop the bell) sound
it will! No longer in her springtime revel, "Fox"
no longer fits the stage when age betrays.
With graying locks and widening girth, it's clear
she's "Gone to Earth," Forget false cheer,
brush and pail don't function here.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.