Awake on the couch with a chill
deeper than the cold and damp outside
The cold and damp inside.
What rhymes with colonoscopy?
Cold alone *** copy?
Cold nose cope ***?
Time for your anxiety sir. Open wide.
I wrap a blanket around my shoulders
the way old men do to keep warm
in their wheel chairs
as someone rolls them out into the sun
like a potted plant.

Suns coming up.
I can hear Mazie panting
at the top of the stairs.
I hope she doesn’t fall
trying to walk down in the dark.
Down in the dark.
She’s very unsteady.
Losing her balance.
Occasionally she tries to run and play
chasing her lost youth like the stick I once threw.
I wonder if she fears getting old
Like we do.
Like I do.

I hear Twister shaking herself,
as if I can hear every follicle
shaking one against the other,
then jump on the bed.
She lays down in my spot
and keeps it warm for me.
Such a kindness to faithfully keep one spot in this bleak, coldness warm just for me.
I look in her eyes sometimes and see
All the sadness
All the hope
All the trust
All the love
All     that     matters.

I’m not sleeping very well
Up every hour or three to ***
Or waking to worry
about money, health, life or love,
or the eminent lack thereof
of all of the above.

Rob asked me about Melodie
It’s odd because Rob and I never talk
And here I am
having a more intimate conversation with him
than I do with Melodie.
He asked me why I never mention her
I told him there was nothing to say.
That there was little between us.
What an odd way to describe not being in love.
“Little between us”.
As if love were a kind of space
or a cushion
a nook
or a cranny
a fence
a wall
an ocean
a deep, echoing chasm
or a bed.

Love is a kind of space.
A sacred space.
A sacred, funny, crazy, maddeningly,
painful, life threatening,
perfectly imperfect space.
A space in which to be held and hold
A space to be well... loved?
A space in which to be well loved.
A space in which to be well.
A space in which to be.

Remember that line from the movie “Alien”?
In space…no one can hear you scream.

O mighty, tiny heart,
One thousand blessed beats a minute,
beating time, beating gravity, beating death
O mortal metronome
ticking seconds into that certain future
Little wonder Aztec gods bow,
and Nazca lines testify to your
glorious, thirsting, bursting
hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm of life

now still

An opening closed you could not see.
Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm

O purple thud
O feathery fall from grace
cradling leaf and Gulliver’s hand,
hourglass of heartbeats run out,
lived and gone as never was
Are we responsible for the things that die
because of things they cannot see
things we cannot see
things we cannot

(The Nazca Lines  are a series of large ancient geoglyphs stretching for miles in the Nazca Desert, in southern Peru. One portrays a hummingbird.)

Some say the heart’s an *****
that plays a catchy song,
It’s very simple. Just two beats
and we must sing along.

Some say the heart’s a teacher
of lessons we should know,
With every beat it doth repeat.
But alas I’m a bit too slow.

Perhaps the heart’s a lover
that seems what they say most,
And so we chase each other round,
till we give up the ghost.

Use your head and not your heart
I think I heard that too,
You’ll be safe and wiser then,
but is that really true?

Do not wear it on your sleeve
was my dear mom’s refrain,
Or you are destined to commit
your sins once more again.

But I say let love pierce you once
or as often as it takes,
For there is not a sweeter pain
than when our hearts do break.

And we are opened for all to see
beneath our sorry soul,
What dares to make us human
and seeks to makes us whole.

In that moment my dear heart
alive in death we are,
And happily may fade away,
glad to have come this far.

Robert C. Leung © Copyright 2017

What is the value of being old
if you’re not a cheese,
a wine,
a vintage car,
or an oil painting by some dead Italian.
A graduation corsage pressed flat in dear diary.
Love letter bliss-scented with ignorance.
Yearbook incantations remind you that you could have been…

a contender.

Why are some old things revered and others reviled?
Some adored and others abandoned like treasured toys we’ve broken or outgrown.

I see a future of stewed prunes,
crude rooms, rheumy eyes
filled with vacant stares
and the smell of things
I’d forgotten, I’d forgotten.

We all dine at the mortality table
but some of us leave early
so as not to get stuck with the check.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung

Gold tinged
just singed light.
The scent of rain washed air.
Padded paws on pavement.
and glittering, twittering,
of unseen passerine*
persuade me that I am not as alone
as I thought.
That gloss of moss
frames my loss,
And dew bejeweled leaves
leave me breathless.
Here I meander and politely philander
with the nature of these sweet things
And I am suddenly
surprisingly
aware!

© Robert C. Leung 2020

Is the nature of egoic fecundity
a reflection of human profundity?

Or is it just that we are blessed
with ourselves to be obsessed.

And thus to give no further thought
to all the wrongs we have wrought.

In spite of all the things we’re taught,
Even though the sacred we have sought
No peace of mind have we bought.

And no true purchase have we yet found,
Upon the steps of higher ground.
Hollow though this promise sounds.

Perhaps as humans we’re bound to see
if there’s a chance that we might be
Better than we thought we’d be.


© Copyright 2018 Robert C. Leung

Stand still the way deer do
when danger is near.
Maybe it won’t notice you.
Stand still the way children do
when something is wrong.
Perhaps nothing bad will happen.
Breathe shallow.
It will pass.
The darkness that abraids the skin.
Hold your breath.
Don’t move.
Pray It won’t see you
as it draws ever near.
Stop your heart!
Smell its fetid breath.

This too shall pass.


© 2018 Robert C. Leung

My body speaks
cartilaginous creaks
and my organs groan from within.

They talk of past deeds
And unspoken needs
And of course the occasional sin.

My heart skips beats
With random deceits
As I gasp with innocent surprise.

My stomach churns
And regularly burns
So much it brings tears to my eyes.

And those eyes are now blurred
larger type is preferred
Is this not the path of the wise?

My brain still remembers
But sometimes dismembers
The order in which I surmise.

My fingers they swell
And they hurt like hell
And perhaps that’s where I am bound.

My ears are still good
I still hear as I should
But all I hear is meaningless sound.

My tongue lost it’s taste
And now flavor I chase
And so I pile on the spice.

And my dear sense of smell
Is leaving as well
And that doesn’t seem very nice.

So what do I retain
From this sad refrain
Of my ability to engage with life?

To discover reality
Is naught but travesty
And there’s little meaning to the strife.

Like a switchblade my ******* flashed out
Angry, self righteous, without any doubt.

A weapon or protest stabs innocent air,
skewering injustice and all things unfair.

Well oiled and oft used it stands at the ready,
Resolute, on point and ever so steady.

It leaps forth with such speed I could swear the air sang
with defiant rebellion and an audible twang.

It appears on the seen without much provocation,
except for my own insecure invocation.

Ah those were the days with scalpel like ease
and Errol Flynn skill I’d carve all that I please.

A happily buoyant juvenile revolution,
which had much to do with my evolution.

But now quiet and still in its scabbard it sits.
Tired, wrinkled and dull like my wits

Slightly arthritic and just a tad slower,
My weapon of choice now a disdainful glower.

Are there simply less things that annoy me enough
to expose prodigious digit with a great huff?

Do things matter less with the passing of time?
My insurgent uprisings reduced to sad rhyme.

Has peace come at last to this humble shell?
Tranquility now no more raising of hell?

My memories defiant and still fresh, they do linger.
But now it’s unlikely that I’d lift a finger.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung

What a quaint turn of phrase
To describe my malaise
tis an accurate way to frame it.

To excrete or not see
Not a fun way to be
And no one upon which to blame it.

Is life often this way?
Nothing good either way?
Just a sad choice of what’s bad or worse?

Is this all we’ve got?
The noose or a shot?
And is this life naught but a curse?

I’d like to believe
We weren’t meant to just grieve
That a future with joy lies ahead?

Not just **** and blindness
But some hope and kindness
Something nice before I notice I’m dead!

Perhaps my reward
Is meant to be scored
Just after my untimely demise?

In which case I must say
I’ll begin right away
My quite excellent will to revise.

I fear everything.
The things that have happened and the things that may.
The thoughts that persist and won’t go away.
Like you’re not good enough. That’s and old one I know.
But it’s still a favorite part of the show.

I fear the things I know and the ones that I don’t.
I fear the beginnings and of course the ends and even the means to an end. For those are often the worst.

I fear the bump or the lump or that mass under there.
That skipped beat of heart that none can repair.

The bill that comes due on what once was you.
That time of desires which suddenly expires.

That sentence unfinished stopped in mid stream.
That breathless breath ceasing mid scream.

I fear having to say that although it’s been fun.
I’m incredibly bored and I simply must run.

I fear not giving a **** and I fear giving too much.
I fear being ignored and then longing for touch.

I fear being alone and I fear the crowd.
I fear things I’m permitted and those not allowed.
I fear having too much time and losing what I’ve got.
I fear shoulders so cold and stares that are hot.

I fear not being loved. I fear smothering too.
I fear losing myself in all that is you.

I fear knowing and not knowing as well.
That seems a unique and exquisite kind of hell.

I sit ensconced in my deepest fear
held intimately close, held tightly and dear.

It‘s been with me long and as I near the end
I start to see it is as some misunderstood friend.

I fear I’ve misjudged you such a pity is that.
I can no longer lie here growing sanguine and fat.
Oh, I beg to differ! I can definitely do that!

The piper pipes and payment is due.
He pipes for me and he pipes for you too.

I fear that my fears I may misconstrue.
My fear of me is quite often of you.

I fear being afraid which seems a bad joke
upon which my protagonist might easily choke.

I fear old age and not getting old too.
And the way to stop aging just simply won’t do.

I fear that this poem is not very good.
And that I’ve never been the best that I could.

I fear everything.

The things that have happened and the things that may.
Those thoughts that persist and won’t go away.
"You're not good enough." That’s and old one I know.
But it’s still a favorite part of the show.

I fear the things I know and the ones that I don’t.
I fear the beginnings, and of course the ends
and even the means to an end.
For those are often the worst.

I fear the bump or the lump or that mass under there.
That skipped beat of heart that none can repair.

The bill that comes due on what once was you.
That time of desires which suddenly expires.

That sentence unfinished stopped in mid stream.
That breathless breath ceasing mid scream.

I fear having to say that although it’s been fun.
I’m incredibly bored and I simply must run.

I fear not giving a **** and I fear giving too much.
I fear being ignored and then longing for touch.

I fear being alone and I fear the crowd.
I fear things I’m permitted and those not allowed.
I fear having too much time and losing what I’ve got.
I fear shoulders so cold and stares that are hot.

I fear not being loved. I fear smothering too.
I fear losing myself in all that is you.

I fear knowing, and not knowing as well.
That seems a unique and exquisite kind of hell.

I sit ensconced in my deepest fear
held intimately close, held tightly and dear.

Its been with me long and as I near the end
I now see it as some misunderstood friend.

I fear I’ve misjudged you such a pity is that.
I can no longer lie here growing sanguine and fat.
Oh, I beg to differ! I can definitely do that!

The piper pipes and payment is due.
He pipes for me and he pipes for you too.

I fear that my fears I may misconstrue.
My fear of me is quite often of you.

I fear being afraid which seems a bad joke
upon which my protagonist might easily choke.

I fear old age and not getting old too.
And the way to stop aging just simply won’t do.

I fear that this poem is not very good.
And that I’ve never been the best that I could.

I hold you

I hold you in contempt
But I hold you.

I may hold you at arms length
But I’ll never let go.

I hold you just out of reach
And sometimes I do worry.

I hold you this way
because I know no other.

I hold you in the only way I can     at a distance     from both of    us.
But by God, I hold you.

Scorn me, but never doubt
my unfelt embrace.

Hold me any way you can
But hold me.

Inspection leads some men
to brief resurrection,
But that course can also
lead to a defection.

There’s often some needing,
for a frenzy of feeding,
When we seek to feast,
on an ego that’s bleeding.

Is it real or some mirage,
lost in forest or garage?
So many casualties of truth,
how can we triage?

This is that place
too well we know,
if you disagree
that’s your ego.

And right or wrong
you must submit,
Or be tossed from the circle
a dishonorable ****.

How is it we can be so blind,
to not see we are of a kind.
Who run about with desperate shouts,
without a mindful mind.

In the dark I see that wraith
Perhaps a remnant of my faith,
Ephemeral and tinged with rust
Forgotten father of my trust.

I’m not speaking here of thee,
Oh what’s this paradox I see
You said that! No I did not!
Oh, what a travesty!

Walk a mile in my shoes,
see for yourself what you may lose,
Perhaps you’ll find the fit so right
that it awakes you in the night.

And there you’ll lie and toss and turn,
amidst the loss amidst the burn
Oh, sad child who would not learn
Please say a prayer for me.

Inspection leads some men
to brief resurrection,
But that course can also
lead to a defection.

There’s often some needing,
for a frenzy of feeding,
When we seek to feast,
on an ego that’s bleeding.

Is it real or some mirage,
lost in forest or garage?
So many casualties of truth,
how can we triage?

And this is that place
too well we all know,
that if you disagree
well that’s just your ego.

And right or wrong
you must submit,
Or be tossed from the circle
a dishonorable ****.

How is it we can be so blind,
to not see we are of a kind.
Who run about with desperate shouts,
without a mindful mind.

In the dark I see a wraith
Perhaps a remnant of our faith,
Ephemeral and tinged with rust
Forgotten father of our trust.

I’m not speaking here to thee,
what’s this paradox I see
But you said that, no I did not,
Oh, what a travesty!

Walk a mile in my shoes,
see for yourself what you may lose,
Perhaps you’ll find the fit so right
that it awakes you in the night.

And there you’ll lie and toss and turn,
amidst the loss amidst the burn
Oh, sad child who would not learn
Please say a prayer for me.

It seems like today
I have little to say
Nothing amusing or clever

No biting retort
Nor subtle bon mot
Or an idea to use as a lever

To open the crypt
Of my bottom lip
A relevant thought to deliver

The very concept
Makes me feel quite inept
Yet also sets me aquiver

No funny remark
Providing a spark
Which bursts into creative flame

So while others may hark
From lives shallow and stark
Remember that this is no game.

On a soggy day reading soggy poets
searching for something to say.

They moan of rain, drone about blackberries,
wail about trees and the meaning of mud.

What’s to be found there?
Even footprints are lost.

Gray matter marinated in meter and rhyme
wordy intoxicants abound till nothing matters
– much.

My dog bathed and brushed
fluffy as a puppy.

The other snoring lightly into a comforter.

Haikus cradle the ferry road.

The sonnet sea wombs our island dear.

And I fan a spark so hard in the dark.

But alas there’ll be no flame tonight.



© 2018 Robert C. Leung

I thought I had something to say
Profound and rich with worth
It might go down in history
It might just move the earth.

I thought it must be marvelous
as I am wont to do
It swelled my heart and then my head
what else I leave to you.

It must be quite a thing indeed
being of my own creation
For genius is the natural end
of my imagination.

At least it will be noteworthy?
But alas t’was but a dream.
The cawing of a silly crow
lost in corn flakes and cream.

I thought it must be timely.
Should’ve thought before I spoke.
Now standing here with crimson face
It all seems quite baroque.

Please accept my sincere apology
Think of me as the dearly departed
Go on about your lovely day
And pretend I never started.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung

Let me tell you of Mayer
Seer and soothsayer
A man born out of his time.
A dreamer a mystic
and oft solipsistic
No one better to join in your climb

To crest the peak of oneself
I’d choose no one else
Than this compassionate incarnate priest.
So gentle and kind
when reading my mind
and tempering my raging beast.

A strange combination
Of logic and sensation
Has born this rare jewel of a man.
Whose artistic soul
is never quite whole
Lest he caring for all those he can.

His primary vanity
Is his love of humanity
Expressed in a singular life.
He’s plotted his course
With little remorse
Always seeing more joy than of strife.

A man among men
There be far less than ten
That I can trust with my heart.
A teacher and friend
Who’ll be there in the end
And together the tempest we’ll thwart.

I simply forgot, what a silly old clot,
It was here and then gone in a ****!

I can’t keep them in, midst the silencing din.
Up they go through the hole in my roof.

A gentle reminder, would seem so much kinder
But alas I forget that part too.

I call myself dumb and beat like a drum
The poor soul of me and of you.

Ideas, memories, like wind through the trees
Drift away on a whimpering sigh.

Though I try and I pray, each night and each day.
To recall those forgotten goodbyes.

Like life they’re soon gone, but one must carry on,
For what else is one to do?

But to temper our distemper, and try to remember
The how, what, where, when and who.

I’m older if not wiser
Can’t *** like a geyser
And I think I can hear the bells toll.

They’re a little less distant
And a bit more insistent
And no longer seem quite as droll.

Out the corner of my eye
I think to espy
A dark figure with malevolent intent.

A voice with a tone
Like the scraping of bone
that leaves me whining and spent.

Is it getting closer?
Is it there in the toaster?
I worry perhaps more than I should.

But I’d be lying
There is no denying
I wish now that I’d done more good.

(With apologies to Dr. Seuss aka Theodor Seuss Geisel)

Green eggs and ham is what I pick
I like my poems un-iambic.

To much pomp and circumstance
Has me gazing quite askance.

I ask your patience Sam I am
For poetic posing I must slam.

My poetry I like to rhyme
In simple form and simple time.

And have it held with just the same
Respect and even mild acclaim.

A birthday card I shall not ****
For that to me would be a sham.

Nor baptism or bar mitzvah
I just do not have the chutzpah.

No wedding notice or get well
Poetic arrogance we must quell.

Each greeting billet I shall defend
As one of our true brethren.

Yes poetry indeed I’ll slam it
No synecdoche* or enjambment.*

I’ll have no Haibun* or Kyrielle*
No Triversen* or Villanelle*.

Is simple rhyme anymore silly
Than didactic forms we praise so shrilly?

I do not like to follow forms.
I do not like these contrived norms.

It is the freedom of poetry
that first attracted me to thee.

And why can’t all poetics be
Of an equal equality.

Perhaps it’s not the forms I hate
But the pompousness they doth dictate.

I will not stand for Seussian abuse
I relish odes to eggs chartreuse.

And so I say to thee dear Sam
My poems are happy as they am.

© Copyright 2018 Robert C. Leung

My breathing is gentle
Though I’m feeling quite mental
As if everything I could rhyme

It’s rapturous and great
I must note it, can’t wait
This experience is quite sublime.

I started to bed
Then things pop in my head
Instead of just popping out

I awaken in fright
In the middle of night
To discover I’m stricken with gout

Oh woe is me
It seems easy to see
That life is not easy at all

And that each step I take
Is just prep for my wake
And I’m one step away from the fall

A fall that won’t end
And a break that won’t mend
That’s all that there is left for me

Down the stairs in the dark
And the dogs they will bark
I’ll die getting up for a ***.

Is this all that’s left
To be sad and bereft
That seems unfair and quite cruel

To lie in your grave
And not misbehave
Neath a tombstone that says you’re a fool

So if you can’t cope
Don’t feel you’re a dope
For most of us don’t have a clue

A tisket a tasket
Just lie in your casket
And hold your breath till your blue

Robert C. Leung © Copyright 2015

I awake with cloudy eyes
on unfamiliar limbs
as if walking for the first time,
as if walking forever
down the stairs to river
then upward to become the other
blue peak beneath our quilt.
Each a snow capped prominence.
Each with it’s own lofty view of the world

while the wind howls between.

Into that echoing emptiness
a dog leaps.

Blessed nestling reminder
that even mountains
can turn and touch.

As I begin to lose
my sweet memory
The flotsam and jetsam
and ephemery.

The regrets, the injustice,
the pain and despair
The resentments, the insults,
the hurts and the fear.

The timeless reminders
of not good enough
That pale yellow post it:
“Hasn’t got the right stuff.”

That time that you said
what no one would say
“I don’t really love you
now please go away.”

Most of it gone now,
I can’t quite remember
It whispers to me
from a foggy December.

Am I better off for it?
Perhaps in some way
Have I gained from the loss?
It’s a bit hard to say.

I need no longer sit here
and artfully languish
In all the sad fury
of my piquant anguish.

Like my father before me
I’m one of those old timers
Reaping the benefits
of beneficent Alzheimer’s.

The Gains of Loss by Robert C. Leung

As I begin to lose
my sweet memory
The flotsam and jetsam
and ephemery.

The regrets, the injustice,
the pain and despair
The resentments, the insults,
the hurts and the fear.

The timeless reminders
of not good enough
Pale yellow post it says:
“Hasn’t got the right stuff.”

That time that you said
what no one would say
“I don’t really love you
now please go away.”

Most of it gone now,
I can’t quite remember
It whispers to me
from a foggy December.

Am I better off for it?
Well perhaps in some way.
Have I gained from the loss?
It’s a bit hard to say.

I need no longer sit here
and artfully languish
In all the sad fury
of my piquant anguish.

Like my father before me
I’m one of those old timers
Reaping the benefits
of beneficent Alzheimer’s.

Robert C. Leung © Copyright 2015

Mayer and Wright are such *****
I’d like to impale them on sticks
Of commitments they remind
Like a kick in the behind,
And they stick to one’s *** like ticks

Mayer and Wright are such weasels
Perchance they’ll be run over by diesels
They whine and cajole
Like a second *******
I hope they come down with the measles.

O words of advice they’ll be hurling
And many are tinged with Sterling
They may chant the code
Eye of newt leg of toad
That’s when my head will start swirling.

They both try to help I must say
But their limits do get in the way
Wright thinks he’s quite bright
Mayer thinks he’s quite right
O what an insufferable buffet.

I humor them in their quest
To do for me what is best
They’re kind and determined
There are worse kinds of vermin
On which a man like me might be pressed.

Please consider us poets.
What a novel conceit
driven by our desire
to occasionally eat
of the fruit of validation
the wine of faint praise,
and the ephemeral haunt
of one worshipping gaze.

Tell me that I matter.
Pay attention to me.
Just see what I’ve done
and in it see me.
For on just such a thread
my esteem dangles dear.
In hopes that dense strangers
will treat it with care.

We seem willing to throw
our words worth to the winds.
On just the sad hope
that we might be let in.
And if we are
what can we hope to find.
But inevitable proof
we’ve lost more than our mind.

© Copyright 2018 Robert C. Leung