Skip to main content

Tribute to Dr. Seuss

In this episode, A Tribute to Dr. Seuss . . .

by; Patrick Ball

From Amazon, it must have been kismet,

I received my first book, such a joy to revisit.

Hand-delivered by truck,

Dr. Seuss, Oh, what luck!


Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

I know what you’re thinking,

“You’re too old for kids' books, wake up - stop dreaming.”


The winter is dark, a rediscovery - who me?

The thrill of reading, It’s what sets you free. 

Like you, I’m off to great places. “We’re off and away!”

Reading is fun amidst the news of today.


Come on - you’ve read Ted Geisel, you may recall,

The Grinch Christmas podcast was recorded last fall.


That wasn’t a book, but a digital rendition,

We read from a Kindle, Oh My, we Broke tradition!

It worked, on an iPad, artwork in color.

But let's be clear, it wasn’t that clever.


Somehow - someway - it’s just not the same.

Having a book in hand, that’s the name of the game.

What a tactile sensation,

Not to mention the smell - no agitation.


Folding back pages has a sensory feel,

You just don’t get that - with a tap - that’s the deal.


My friend - you know better.

Stand up - be bold! You're never too old.

By fair means or foul, it appears to me,

Kids' books enlighten, just wait, you’ll see.


I’d love to keep rhyming,

But, I’m no Seuss that can do so by trying.

Just maybe, perhaps - a book in your hand,

Feels more natural than any Gadget can.


Thank Dr. Seuss, for this lesson today!

Your new book is waiting.

“So . . . get on your way!”


I’m Patrick Ball; thanks for listening; see you in the next episode.

Comments

Don Hanley said…
Thanks Patrick - as a poet, you'll do
for there's no one so true!
keep it up my friend
you may start a trend!

Most Popular of All Time

Confidently Wrong: The Art of the AI Tall Tale

In this episode, A chat with Adamas the Chef on hidden recipes causing digital hallucinations. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee—and please, for your own sake, taste it first. We need to have a quiet chat about why your computer sometimes decides to reinvent reality with the confidence of a five-star chef who has clearly lost his mind. In the world of technology, we call it a  hallucination . It sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it? As if the computer decided to ignore your instructions altogether in favor of a vivid, technicolor imagination that simply hasn’t met reality yet. But in truth, an AI hallucination isn’t a breakdown; it’s just a very confident, very polite mistake. Think of it like our friend Adamas , the Chef. Adamas is a master of the kitchen, but he is also a bit of a romantic who refuses to say “I don’t know.” When you ask him for a classic recipe he hasn’t made in years, he doesn’t stop to consult a cookbook—that’s far too pedestrian. Instead, ...

Opening Day Magic 2026 . . .

It’s back. Baseball—yes, baseball ! If you’re someone who finds themselves inexplicably drawn to this peculiar ritual, let’s be honest with each other: it’s a bit odd, right? I mean, 162 games. That’s a lot of hot dogs, a lot of standing around, and a lot of grown men in oddly tailored trousers spitting with remarkable precision. And yet, here we are, poised on the precipice of another season. Thursday, March 26, 2026, to be precise—Opening Day. It’s a curious thing, this Opening Day. You walk into a stadium, or turn on the TV, and suddenly, everyone is infected with a highly contagious strain of . . . Optimism . It’s a spectacular form of collective amnesia. All of last year’s fumbles, the endless losing streaks, the existential dread of watching your bullpen implode in the eighth inning—poof. Gone. It’s entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, childlike belief that this year, finally, the baseball gods will smile upon us. The Cycle of Hope and Despair As a Cubs fan, I know this cycle intim...

The Cowardice of Corporate Jargon

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...

The Light, The Void, and Integrity

There is something different about pre-dawn this morning. Sitting in my reading chair, an almost eerie, luminous glow crept through the window, demanding to be acknowledged. Stepping outside into the quiet chill, a nearly Full Moon was sinking into the West beneath a crystal-clear sky, the Big Dipper hanging faithfully in the dark above. But looking at that Moon meant looking at a ghost. Because light takes time to travel, the Moon we see in the sky is not the Moon as it exists in this exact microsecond. It is the Moon as it looked about a second and a quarter ago. When we look up, we are forever staring into the depths of the past. And right now, somewhere in that million-mile abyss between our present and that past light, four human beings are hurtling through the vacuum of space at unbelievable speeds. Today is Good Friday. For centuries, it has stood as a profound marker of the universal human experience—a day that asks us to sit with suffering, injustice, and the "dark night ...