Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka
Seemed sturdy as a *Tonka-
Yet he gave kids minty sugar blades of grass
While fizzy lifting drinks made them rise with gas!
Willy Wanka & The Chocolate Factory: Book Author: Roald Dahl.
1971 Film Screenplay: Roald Dahl and David Seltzer (uncredited).
Haha, must be funny,
How I had substantial dreams for my early 20s,
I believed I would have an excellent life!
With a good job,
And possibly even a hubby.
Now in my mid-20s,
No job and no income to woo.
Dreams postponed and placed on hold.
I only have my degree to my name,
Like tying a knot, no income, no money!
Depending on my family, experiencing pressure,
Even difficult to get airtime on my own!
However, I will keep going, no matter what,
Wishing for the break to triumph at last.
I’m too young for this, life is playing a trick,
Unprepared for life's unexpected twists
Is joy just a wisp of smoke?
Why is life such a drag?
No fun to be found.
Oh, the misery of missing laughs!
There is no humor in the screenplay of this life.
Poetry is a busy crosswalk downtown,
when everyone moves together with elbows
held a little wider than normal.
Poetry is a middle-aged man, creased
and folded, sprawled out on the neglected
weeds in Woodruff park, eyes wide shut.
Poetry is the free fruit for children
podium in between the produce
and clearance aisles, oranges
and apples withered to marbles.
Poetry is a crying baby
at the 3 o’clock movie theater.
Poetry is a young boy in the park,
battered by curiosity, in a fight to the death
with furry flowers, their guts filling the air
with each oaken swing.
Poetry is giving a nod to the mailman.
Poetry is the unintentional eavesdropping
of the worst idea for a screenplay
ever fielded.
Poetry is the gait of a man recently
in love, thinking of hands
suddenly adored.
Poetry is the enigmatic ether that fills
the summer air so thick you have
so do the breaststroke just to
get back home.
And how can you ever think to write it
if you are stuck inside behind
grating blue screens or
painfully white paper?
Her independence deferred
History wipe, silenced in denial
Component of family unit secure
Current form stands as emblem
Entirety kindly quiet unheard
Cleansed of horror occured
Corpses buried won't stand trial
Heinous parade she could endure
Hosts pretense without problem
Outline dent, identity blurred
Safe matriarch role preferred
Sedating sandarac sent via smile
Dizzying aphrodisiac calamine cure
Disarming smooth cabochon gem
Exhibits traits 1950's referred
Dissolved scrag, unburdened
Drama curtains pull closing titles
Screenplay prosperity props are pure
Scripted mid century holds them
Outcast character murdered
Eleventh of New Year Era
By the time I'm somebody
I'll be picking out a stone
I'm headed in a dash
To forgetful(or alone)
I’ll be better parted
If I took the time to see
The chisel and the hammer
Wanted a picture(not of me)
I'll wait with no excuses
If the taker wants a loan
It's under and I'm over
(With no data on my phone)
I'll see the ordinary
Yet the claim is simply put
The plot, the page and rescues
Were a screenplay(with a But?)
I will ease into an easy
Yet a lay me down’s to sleep
So ask no quest to somewhere
(You'll find my plot too deep)
Like counting the rings on a sycamore stump,
Nobody answers the phone.
And then when they do, they just put me on hold.
Time has a will of its own.
It flows midnight to noon from December to June
And then back again, day after day;
An illicit affair between tortoise and hare
In a hickory-dickory way.
I borrowed a scene from a screenplay I wrote.
Now I'm repaying the loan.
My script for the sequel rejected again.
Time has a will of its own.
It rolls Summer through Fall till Times Square drops the ball
As the signal to start a new year;
An impetuous race where we all run in place,
‘cause baby, nobody gets there from here.
There's nothing to do on a Saturday night;
Binge watching Netflix alone.
I ordered a pizza two hours ago.
Time has a will of its own.
The shorter your patience, the longer the wait.
Time has a will of its own.
The one God who took me away,
One God who has bound me to screenplay.
The secret God of a so called atheist,
For it no God goes me against.
Sadly the distance is everyday increasing,
I loudly laughing and silently crying.
The traveler I went
In the opposite direction, arrogantly(?)
Not at all ... it is mistakenly.
I thought I'd catch her in a circle,
But alas! I didn't know that miracle.
She truly ran after me behind!
Without God who can be such a kind?
Did I learn to dream so much, dear?
Why didn't you call me near?
Though I know it is very rare!
How can that be,
Why God can run after an unknown priest!
I have learnt that none is really an atheist.
it's been a while
since your spine broke in half
and pieces of your repsol
spread all over the concrete
then heavy water camouflaged someone's irises
and blinded ours
but I saw you
mended and reposed on that metal sheet
didn't have the strength to kiss you
wouldn't wake you anyway
couldn't even touch you
I just stared in silence
while the storm was howling in my soul
they've lowered your eyelids like a flag on a spear
and that spear tore our roots apart
by order the wall was built around the truth
and over painted by screenplay
even though the story started to peel instantly
couldn't unveil it alone
not for a moment I believed in that planted scenario
it sow a seed
so our roots tore apart
my ribs went shrunken
but I preserved you in the lungs
I'll breathe for you
I inhale
watching a movie trailer on Youtube;
I can smell it, feel the salt on my lips;
So many memories laced in the taste;
In the air
mixed with the script of Hollywood,
Buttery smooth you’re reeled in;
Frame by frame, you just devour it;
Each moment
hours of magic that sizzle off the oil;
The noise of the machine crackling
the scent wafting, enticing an entire building;
Waiting in line
screening prints til’ all hours of the night;
Cleaning, counting, even robbed at gunpoint;
Unleashing more than a scent as it pops
filling me with flashbacks;
Rolling through the screenplay
So many memories laced in the taste;
I can smell it, feel the salt on my lips;
Popcorn.
Slaves of wages for generations
long forgotten in history’s screenplay.
Each hand for a moment has held
the torch.
The people are waiting in lines.
All toilers have resisted.
All skins have felt the blaze of blood.
The people are waiting in lines.
While trash still clutters the streets,
while starving stomachs
roam like rabid dogs.
The people are waiting in lines.
Our tears have been cleaved
and parceled,
sold like floodplain to the blind
by corporate politicians,
while the people are waiting in lines.
We are lured to live among the cushions,
to rest here where the river rises.
No markets can be called free
while hosting inequality.
The people are waiting in lines.
We medicate to escape,
numbing to the barbarization.
No economy can be called just
without democracy.
The people are waiting in lines.
We shall watch for clues.
We will know the signs.
Every torch shall rise.
The people are waiting in lines.
Published: Dissident Voice, August 2, 2020
BIO MODIFIED – CONCEITED IMPOSTER
Conceited
A poet a playwright, an actor and dreamer.
I love my reflection, a challenge, applause.
I’ve thought of a screenplay, a sit-com and novel.
I feel I am perfect, a genius, appealing.
I fear I’ll be wrong on all three of those feelings.
I’d like to write music, to sing and to dance.
A resident of dreamland, I don’t have a chance.
Imposter
31st March 2020
Bio Modified contest
Sponsor - Dear Heart
The dramatic screenplay off the grid
with twists and turns, bent and half-quid.
Time rides loopty-loops, rebids,
yanking bucket eyelids -
trite for spilling squids.
rewrite acid,
book on skids -
forbids
kids.
11/7/2019
Rhyming Nonet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charles Messina
In the middle of the war ...
World War one...
a horse in the middle of the barbed wire caused
to a cease fire ....
With a white flag
a soldier from one side
came to his mercy ...
On the other, a soldier,
an enemy becomes
instantly a friend
and brings pliers ...
The enemies, now friends,
come together to release
the horse.
A singular, human moment ...
The two cut wire here and there ... and
release the animal ...!
work done,
shaking hands
saying goodbye both came back
to the trenches to
they war again ...!
PS. Based on a scene from the film WAR HORSE - 2011
Screenplay Lee Hall and Richard Curtis, based on Michael
Morpurgo's novel of the same name.
Here a text created by me, alkas poetry
My mind is...
Living through a blue fog
Falling down an abyss
A video game world
Simulation of life
Insecurities
Every mirror is a microscope
Tragic monologue
Unfinished screenplay
Fear of a smile
Routine movement
The withering of a rose
Vessel of a heart in a glass jar
Voodoo doll of the 21st century
Drama
Crashes, collisions, stealing, killing, lying, living and dying--
When I thought of the drama
I felt compelled to sniff the storms
After with I no longer wish I wasn't born
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Drama
I heard a shocking, documentary hitting
All my soul within me outfitting
With such a passion for fitting
I had dreamed of quakes submitting
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Drama
I heard a narrative, right slamming
The melodramatic melodrama mouthing
My mind always strays to volcanoes
Back into my memories thrusting
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Clasping and clasping with my collage
And the screenplay never chipping honors
My mind always strays to aurora picture perfect
That palate plate tectonics, that palate plate tectonics
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
4/28/19
Sub Categories
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