Sketchbook Poems | Examples

Color In Your Fingers

A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish

We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared

I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps

Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes

Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything

Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple 
when you drew black lines on our sketch.

a HAIGA from my sketchbook

footsteps
   in the streets -
echos of distant youth 


I think
so I paint,
I imagine and pen-
mix in a hiku
to make
a haiga-like zen

Dragon

Firecracker red under Equator sun, lion’s mane
bobbing, obscene tongue. Unseen,
the serpent slips inside, small as a whisper.

It curls around my heart, hoarding it like treasure.
Fans warm embers of my pomegranate cells, wakes
something deep inside the cave of my being.

It slumbers and I am haunted by its dreams, carry
a sketchbook at school and draw pictures of great
winged beasts. Enormous eyes. Shimmering scales,

miss out on playground games. Always a strange
child, I am told I have a great imagination,
but it isn’t hard recreating your own reflection.

Sometimes it wakes, blazes lazily to life.
A cherry tree in full blossom, through an acid lens
becomes a majestic head; my inner self cartoon bright.
My fire, even cold, ready to catch and burn.

CREATIVITY-PUBLICATION tenet 3x4

PUBLICATION

In this digital age

Our

thoughts

bonded

together,

though ever apart


TWITTER

quick thoughts

cut short


POETRY SOUP

will test

the best

Pleasant people inhabit

this PS workshop of varied verse,

posting posies of many kind-

comments & opinions abound

in blogs ,of the world around-

sponsored contests in galore

brings creativity to the fore

my short poems on twitter

art ekphrasis on Flickr-

and blogs in this soup


other efforts in Sketchbook

so come now, take a quick look-

and keep in the loop


I think

so I paint,

I imagine and pen-

mix digitally together

as one

As a haiga

Ict-English Tandem

By George P. Lumayag
https://georgelumayag.weebly.com/

Users learn English grammar when ICT is used.
Microsoft Word can check the misspelled words,
It even reminds the users' choppy words,
Google Doc can detect the wrong structure of words,
And Grammarly.com can recommend suitable words.

Writer's original composition can be justified when Turnitin is used.
They can not publish their journals if such papers violate the rule.

The online creation tools offer young minds become prolific writers,
SketchBook provides creative students to become digital editorial cartoonists,
Photoshop enhances student-users to become digital pic lovers,
And Weebly.com offers them to become online digital layout artists.

Learners can improve their speech when Youtube.com is accessed.
Learners can enunciate English accent through parroting the Youtube channel,
They can learn tenses of verbs on Youtube Language tutorials,
Therefore, they can learn English on Youtube.com

Artificial Intelligence can be the English teacher,
So, ICT is very much related to English teaching.

Earth Therapy For Me

The strangers came and went into the house.
I barely noticed; my dirt had just been delivered.
A truck load of rich, black, northern Iowa farm soil.
I threw myself down and laid in it for a bit, soaking it up.

I love earth more than most; dirt therapy keeps me happy.
I will make two gardens out of it eventually, but right now
At this second I am lying in my fine dirt, resting my eyes.
My husband told me later the strangers were looking.

In a few months this earth would be a garden of vegetables.
Carrots, cucumbers, radishes, squash, peas, and lettuce.
There might be a bit of renegade corn, as it came from Iowa.
But at this second I lay on the earth, feeling her love.

My opened after a bit and I began to plan.
The other garden would be flowers. Geraniums, marigolds, roses.
I reached for my sketchbook and began to make a list.
I laughed at myself; it was a joyful day.

Outdoor Wonders

Nature makes me blossom,
from the flower that blooms in my backyard,
to the tall trees that shimmer with green.

When I was five I remember exploring the outdoors, 
taking my red sketchbook everywhere.
Lines flying through the page,
as I try to resemble the observation.
Adding touches of color one by one.
Tunes of nature hum in my ear.
The chirping of the birds,
the crackling of the leaves,
the whistling of the breeze.
I cherished so much of nature.

I began to see a blur of an animal in the distance,
covered in brown with speckles of white dots.
It came into a clear view.

It was a baby deer!
Sweat beads formed around my neck. 
My hands began to tremble,
rushing to find a blank page to draw my observation.
Pencil gripped in my hand.
I began to draw.
But the deer quickly raced off.

Before the Film Begins

Rolling into bed-n-blankets;
I turn to ensure that my pen, journal 
and sketchbook are beside my bed.
My dream-companions need me,
as much as I need them.
they need my imagination and its wanderings,
to spill upon their pages,
like water droplets, cascading into a wandering river.

At some point, I will awake
and pour my dreams
onto the white abyss;
my pen will sing and sketch universes
from the dreamtime realms;
My soul will bubble with elation.
Such treasures, perused time and again;
Will birth myriads of heart-songs.

Sketchbook

Here with fond wit
Opt cheer to fit
Move joy's fine bits


Etch a true style
Apt that grand smile
Thrill sparks worthwhile


Make time for space
Ink words of grace
Dream syncs this place


Treat works that tell
Old touch greets spell
Wise worth glimpse well


Now and here note
Peace brings warm tote
Ends meet brisk vote


Near and far see
Taste what will be
Heart knows mind's spree


One by one sense
Urge grows sure tense
Spruce up suspense


Easy feel knows
Mind reads deep flow
Yields thus may show


Signs flavour nice
Keep fragrant spice
Embrace good vice


Taste that pure dream
Choice and poise stream
Heart knows sure cream


Boom here fond grace
Oil in smooth trace
Old and new face


Keep lavish store
Ink words plus more
Dance from stern core


Embrace fond gist
Apt that short list
Sure feel persist


Note here and now
Opt love's endow
Work why and how



Leon Enriquez
01 June 2019
Singapore

Sunny Moon

Into my yoga room she came with a half moon
The sun burnt it, she said
For the moon dared to show in the afternoon
Her distress equalled the moons
Her tears, when they came, could fill a water balloon
I distract her with pictures in cartoons
Of animals and birds cooling down in the monsoon
Just then raindrops fell on her sketchbook
Filling her teacup with rain, I hand out a spoon
Thus, she stopped crying for the moon.

Muse Enthused

She screams me awake; no rest tonight.
I arise, rub my bleary eyes
Grabbing pencil and sketchbook,
She pours onto the page
And I am amazed
That is so cool
Wish I could
Have done
That.

Now That's Just Sad

Talk about your nuclear weapons.
My brain feels like it’s about to explode.
Last summer I started sketching
with a group called Sketchbook Skool.
I drew and colored and Zentangled and arted
every day for months and months.
I felt so alive
and so energized
and really, really exhiliarated.

Then winter came and I got tired.
And put away all my pencils
let my watercolor tubes and trays
dry up and blow away.
All my sketchbooks are still there
mocking me from a jumbled drawer.

Now it’s summer again and I
feel poetry springing from my brain
my eager, excited, easily stimulated
brain.

So now what?
Am I doomed to the same tired pattern
of summertime creativity
followed by wintertime gloom?

If I didn’t already know it was an acronym
I’d say,
“That’s just S.A.D.”

Hollow Sounds of Bamboo

hollow sounds of bamboo. . .a blue heron


Sketchbook Journal

East Wind

east wind
each petal
just enough


Published Kukai thread--Sketchbook

Sketchbook

Prize how you feel with thoughts that sum;
Opt finesse here with words that spring;
Etch what you will as feelings come;
Match pain and cheer with surge and fling.
Seek a sure tell in verses scripts clear;
Keep a true heart that primes good zest;
Expect to dwell on what fits dear;
Touch frames grand start in journey quest;
Choice treasures poise in sparkling say;
Health knows the way of kind delight;
Brave ideas voice the vivid play;
Obey sure stay in hidden sight;
Offer to be a sanguine soul;
Keep gaze comely on what fits whole.




Leon Enriquez
04 April 2015
Singapore

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