Three Poems

by Stephi

Esme

The feel of soft gray downy fur
A sleeping feline softly purr
The sound to me gently soothing

She's curled up dreaming on my chair
I fear there is no room to spare
You're in my spot, so you're moving

My Bad Poetry

Taking my own initiative
I write poems derivative
Of Silverstein, Kuskin and Seuss

People think I'm quite a bit strange
Some think perhaps I am deranged
I fear I am one silly goose

Just Me

When I grow up I'd like to be
A tall weeping willow tree
Or maybe a fat yellow bumble bee
A bee would bring me much glee
Would you want to be a worker bee?

Maybe I'd be an extravagant marquis
I'd call myself The Magnificent Louis
Perhaps I'd grow a lengthy goatee
It would grow to reach down to my knees
Would you want to be set free?

I'd be a doctor and get a degree
And sail across Caspian Sea
I'd feed you some Indian tea
I'd be very happy I guarantee
Afraid of becoming an amputee?

Perhaps you'd agree
If you're much like me
I think I'd rather be
Just me