Outcasted kid with purple hair

Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee

And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie

My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so

I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or

Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple

Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and

That little wild flower aforementioned

whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers

'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair

And so I learned to get lost

In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons

While my classmates  coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?

Growing, I gained companions

A faery,
Athena,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated

Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava

Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!

And as much as we would like
to cling to our
individualism

at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one

Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is
beautiful

At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted

What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair

But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple

Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes

So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee

It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with

Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty

Dr. Seuss used to live in my city,
Where the trees are triumphant truphaloos.
Acid rain falls to make you more witty,
and the world shakes with the weight of your dues.
"Still, laugh along with everyone," you'll say,
And the ground will tremble beneath thy hooves
So with that turn to see the palm trees sway,
and chuckle when the sky above you moves.
Yes, Seuss' friends don't wander in the streets
they're far too busy strolling in the woods.
The smells of all Balboa take their seats,
So now, make the exchange, and drop the goods.
I see the world now through a dead man's eyes,
so now upon the world a new sun dies.

Six days left
In this oasis
In this escape
In this reality we’ve created for ourselves.
Six days left
And it already hurts.

Three days left
Where did my time go?
She’s one floor below me, and I miss her this much
What is twelve hours?

Half a day.
This will be the only thing about our relationship
That isn’t easy.

She has an early morning tomorrow.
Sleeping in our respective beds,
I don’t remember how to sleep alone.

If words could describe perfection,
I would paint a picture of phonemes and morphemes
Of syntax and semantics
Of beauty and wonder.
If words could describe her
I would bridge together vowels
Consonants
Punctuation
Grammar
If words could describe this
Trust me,
I would use them.

Shakespeare
Made up words when nothing else
Seemed right

I’m beginning to see why
He and Mr. Geisel
Were so unsatisfied
With the language at hand.

Five days in and I'm
Keeping myself busy so that I can ignore
The Aching that comes.
That always comes.
I'm afraid to hope that she'll
Be different than the others.
But she seems genuine
And I'm so satiated
When I'm with her.
Trying to be a better person for her,
I've never been with someone who could
Keep the panic over grades and schoolwork
To a dull roar.
I think I've got something remarkable here...
And I miss her.

Little thinks, discipline
ignoring, thinking,
who would know.

A line in thinking,
a thread of thought
who would know.

A stitch, to catch a run,
never saw it coming,
who would know.

Who are people, too.
You have imagined them.
Who knows what every body
thought,
such as you,
fed Ted Geisel, who knew.

Who would know,
if you told them.
I said, I sent you.

(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

If words were jellybeans on burnt toast,
I'd eat them raw, a bag at most,
I'd share them with my neighbour's ghost,
Who lives in a barn that smells.

If punctuation was a warrior's code,
With secret meanings meant to implode,
I'd message you before I explode,
My last words are I love you.

If definitions were a secret chant,
I'd yak all night about Emmanuel Kant,
The meaning of life my boring rant,
And I have puddles for shoes .

Please forgive and never forget,
A poet at play has no regrets,
Smiling, happy, a marionette,
I'll share my donuts with you.

The truthful simplicity of the untruth.
Is what Beatrice Potter said, of Ted Geisel's rhymes.

Is it true the untrue is so believable? Who know.

I, for one, must say I simply cannot say I know.
I, for another, might say I believe unknowing
is for one thing no worse than for two.

Any two agreed, as greedily as any two ever in was,
create a mind combined of two as different as me
from you… agree
and we form us, from a we wisht were true,

a we some see as awesome, just me and you.

Despite being an amateur
paperback writer wannabe,
whose storied protagonist
stars colporteur wannabe
(thinly veiled cover as yours truly),
whereby his antagonistic doppelgänger
donned as a frotteur trumpeting
animalistic, chauvinistic, egoistic,
averse to gradualistic, individualistic...
narcissistic, opportunistic hauteur
with a penchant for littérateur,
whose favorite genres
constitute the blending
(think Louis Pasteur)
of one criminally and mysteriously
hellbent expert pathologist,
whose found role of self chosen prosateur
loosing overactive imagination to guide
and to craft believable scenarios,
whereby provocateur earned himself
title of master raconteur
this side of Schwenksville,
actually a double agent
gussied up as rapporteur,
whose burning side kick
(splitting hairs over being primary
most intrepid gumshoe),
dolled up as a répétiteur
and co-owner as restaurateur
catering to Norwegian bachelor farmers
freshly baked Powder Milk Biscuits,
(cuz heavens they're tasty and expeditious
made from whole wheat that give shy persons
the strength to get up and do
what needs to be done
your family must try them),
and also serving the chattering class,
yet always being affronted
courtesy basket of deplorables,
the whole bunch of rapscallions
nothing but nattering nabobs of negativism
buzzfeeding, growing, and jump/kick starting
wild asparagus and overgrown kudzu
in serious need for secateur
to be placed in the hands
of well muscled olympian shamateur
adroit to handle tools
of the horticultural trade
with both his arms and legs.

I ask myself the following rhetorical question.
How does that hot germ oven idea coalesce
from figment of imagination
to fully fleshed out magnum opus?

Lucky those prospective and potential authors,
who start writing at a young precocious age,
perhaps when in utero,
hearing mellifluous cadences
of punctuated words
courtesy family and friends
(constituting a veritably healthy melting ***
of diverse creed (dancers
fluid in movement as clear water
in attendance at a revival)
ethnicities, genders nationalities,
political stripes with the caveat
(so long as each person
considers him/herself a Democrat)
races, religions, et cetera
comfortably ensconced
and seated within or upon
a cozy environment
of lazy boy chairs, and bean bag pillows,
thus auditorily exposed to countless languages
spoken with various and sundry
naturally uttered modulations and amplifications
particularly homeschooled with access
to online material and tutorials
writing their first of many
New York Times best sellers,
when just a lad or lass.

Bennett Cerf, Theodore Geisel
(otherwise known to children as Doctor Seuss)
Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein,
represent a small number of popular kids writers
during growing up years of mine,
which came to mind courtesy Google search
videre licet list names of children's authors
during the 1960's and 1970's,
when Beatlemania in full swing,
though yours truly
totally oblivious to the fab four,
who burst upon the scene
skyrocketing to fame and fortune.

Ineffable and mindblowing
how ingenious an attention grabbing
an innocuous sounding title
(many times an obscure author
whose book(s) purchased
at Worthwhile Thrift Store
in Collegeville for pennies on the dollar
(more so when color coded tabs
confer discount on certain days,
plus getting that senior discount
knocks the total price even further),
yet within minutes attention of mine riveted,
where I must continue reading
until sleep overtakes me,
or less likely death do me part.

Dr. Suess
By: Robert Herman
(in the style of Dr. Suess)

Theodore “Ted” Suess Geisel,
also known as Dr Suess.


March 2nd, 1904 was not a bore,
For MOTHER Henrietta and      FATHER Theodore.
Behind closed doors.
His mom let out a ROAR!
And dad knew he scored.
For that was the day,
They adored their newborn baby.
A Junior Theodore!
At school,
The most popular!
Ted and his sister.
YES SIR!
HIS SISTER!
Ted has a sister.
A sister named Marnie,
Who has things she likes to do.
Some evenings after supper,
Is sit upstairs in her small room
And use her Thinker-Upper.
Ted learned a thing or two,
From his sister’s thinker-upper.
Ted thunk-thunk his way to school.
Ted attended Darkmouth College
For some learned long-term knowledge.
And wrote for the Jack O’ Lantern
And was acknowledged,
As the first time he ever used Dr. Suess.
Dr. Suess he is.
Dr. Sois he was.
Doctor of rhymes of course he was.
HE WAS! HE WAS! HE WAS!
Dr. Suess he was.
Dr. Sois he is.
Doctor of twisters of course mister.
MISTER! HE IS! HE IS! HE IS!









1927 Ted was in heaven and married
beloved Helen.
When Ted found Helen could not bare children.
He wrote his first piece.
A booked called ABC.
T T t t  What begins with T?
Ted telling timeless tales to tiny toddlers thirsting tea.
Thingama-this, Thingama-that.
He wrote books like Cat in the Hat.
And Sam I am, from Green Eggs N Ham.
I do! I like them Sam I am.
So, I will read them here and there.
Say! I will read them ANYWHERE!
He wrote,
ONE BOOK
TWO BOOKS
READ BOOKS
DREW BOOKS
By the end folks, forty-six, tongue thrilled, fun filled, tongue twister, kid books.
1991 Ted laid to Rest
TED
BED
Ted in bed.
BED
TED
Bed on Ted.
THE END!