"geisel" poems
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.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
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.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 1:45 PM UTC
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.
Jan 15, 2023
Jan 15, 2023 at 6:51 PM UTC
(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
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC