Was Leroy distracted, distressed or distraught?
Paul has no answers.
He is sixteen, and in shock.
Leroy had been his best friend.
Leroy’s parents persist their questioning.
Did you know what he was planning to do?
Paul is horrified.
Leroy had given him his sketchbook.
He had not realized.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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. . .a blue heron
Sketchbook Journal
east wind
each petal
just enough
Published Kukai thread--Sketchbook
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