Tapping a Screen | A Poem

Poetry is likely best produced

By scratching away at parchment thick

Across creamy tan 

Not xerox white

The corners curled not pressed flat and tight 

With quill freshly dipped

In ink as black as night

However 

This deviation distraction device 

Is always by my side

Or in my pocket on a ride

Continuously within reach

To scroll and swipe and waste my time

Or tap away and write lines

True and deep

My thumbs pecking here and there

Rather than the usual fair

Of older tools full of analog texture and flair

Yet this thin thing can produce art

In the form of words trailing after each other 

I’ve read different tools you write with

Interact with your brain in distinct ways

But as for me, a tool is a tool

And while it’s true handwritten notes

Stick in my mind with thicker strokes

To compose upon a glowing screen

With tips of thumbs dancing

Is lovely in the way its speed

Keeps pace with the flow

Spilling from my mind 

To the muscles in my hands

To the symbols made of pixels

On my pocket notebook sized

Computer of a popular brand

Spade to Pavement | A Poem

There is a subtle peace 

In putting shovel to drive

The spread blanket of white lain down 

Softens the sounds around

Dampens footfalls and traffic beyond

While you work a steady line

Plastic tip or metal strip

Meet concrete beneath the brilliant sheet 

The constant push

The quiet scrape

Accented by plush plops

Dripping from your broad tool

As piles are made beside

Though this way is greater

Both in effort and in time

Than following behind

A quick cacophonous machine

It affords a space for the soul to quiet down 

Racing thoughts fall like flakes

As your body works your mind rests

Decrease the layer and raise up the heaps

Unfrost the cake topped with cars

Your mind settles 

Your body finds the rhythm

Of the shovel and the snow 

And the pavement below

Ready Not Ready | A Poem

The in-between times don’t pass with ease

They feel unreal

Like a dream

You’re not there yet 

But your mind is 

It’s left you here to scour the possibilities ahead

But you must stay behind

Your time has not yet come but lingers on

So you count down the days

And cherish the last of the special moments

Wondering how you’ll move on

Spilling tears mourning the loss moving on will bring 

Only to wish it was over and done with hours later

Attempting to be here and now 

To squeeze out every last drop of this experience that has been 

But soon will never be again

It’s the end

Of an era

You’re moving on to the next chapter

But you haven’t quite made it to the bit of blank page 

The part you briefly stare at before turning to the next one

The next page with its chapter heading

Cluing you in to what’s in store

A battle in your chest between desires to turn the page

And to linger here just a little more

In the meanwhile time goes all funny on you

The counted days seem too many

Yet you know they will be gone before you’re ready

This is the tension

The longing to be there already

While wanting to soak in the last 

Of what has become your new normal

You know you will miss

You love where you are

Yet long for where you'll be

Antigua | A Poem

Roads that resemble the ruins all around you 

Exterior walls that span entire blocks

Hiding tiny tiendas and expansive restaurants 

A market overflowing with delicious produce

Substancial sacks of spices

Totally authentic Nike sneakers

And handmade treasures 

All for “a special price just for you, almost free” 

Cars, trucks, tuks-tuks, and motos 

Serving and stopping and parking anywhere they please 

With a push of a button the flashers come on 

And the entire lane of the street 

Becomes your very own private parking spot 

Buses retired from hauling kids to and from school

Become ex-pats with fresh paint jobs

Kings of the calle 

Brilliant colors barreling down the road

Horn blazing with religious AND racy stickers 

Slapped next to each other on the back 

Get off quick because Esmeralda doesn’t stop to let you off

She just keeps rolling ever on

So the next time you think the street is too narrow 

To accommodate cars traversing in both directions

Watch as the chicken buses choke up the road 

And somehow keep continuing on

 

---

This is a poem I wrote about the city I have lived in for 9 months now. Antigua, Guatemala. I'll explain some things in the poem because if you've never been to Antigua it won't make much sense. Antigua is a world heritage site so inside the city the roads are still cobblestone and must remain so. They look cool but make for one heck of a bumpy and slow ride. A "tienda" is a small convenience store where you can buy the same kinds of things found in a gas station mini mart in the states. A tuk tuk is like a tiny taxi that can take a few people at a time around the city. It's pretty much a motorcycle with a covered bench behind it. Everyone in Antigua parks in the road when they have a quick errand to run inside of a store because there is no-where else to park if you just need to stop in real quick. So you just put your flashers on and everyone drives around you. There is just barely enough room, and many a side mirror gets smacked. People drive American school buses from the states down here, paint them with bright colors and name them. They're everywhere and they choke up the already narrow streets. It is crazy. It's a beautiful city. I hope I've captured just a little of what it is like.

An Unfamiliar Room | A Poem

Soft voices.

At least those who know each other.

Everyone else,

Sitting, waiting.

Wondering.

Wishing for prognostication.

Sitting in a seat they weren't sure of picking

But chose in haste to get the attention off of them.

Chosen in haste to get the seating eyes of

Unfamiliar faces from scolding their comfort bubble until it bursts.

Sitting down to a small smooth desk that they can call their own.

For the next four hours

They will look at its scratches and drawings.

Their own small space of individuality

Clothing them from the rest of the class.

The rough rustling of a back pack,

The sweet sound of someone sipping coffee.

Tall decaf double shot non fat raspberry mocha latte,

Iced.

Eyes searching plain white walls while

A few coughs echo off their banal surfaces.

The calm steps of the teacher as he walks

To give his welcome to the class.

He hides his anxiety he shares with his students well.

Eleven weeks will soon pass;

And this now familiar room, these now familiar faces,

Will surprisingly be missed.

---

This is a poem I wrote for a creative writing class while attending the Art Institute of Seattle earning my BFA in Animation and Media Arts. I probably wrote it around 2004 as a 21 year old. We had classes once a week for four hours, and each quarter was eleven weeks long. In that time I always was amazed at how a group of strangers had become a familiar class I would miss.

Coffee Coffee | A Poem

Coffee.

Coffee.

I like coffee. I like drinking coffee.
I like drinking coffee in the cool hours
Of the night while drawing, doing homework, or driving.
I like to drink coffee.

I don't mean fancy coffee.
Just cream
and sugar.
Coffee of the kitchen countertop.

No espresso stand or coffee carte;
Whipping up something special.
I'm talking a big, red, metal can
Of Folgers in your cup-board.

The best part of waking up
Is Folgers in your cup.

The best part of staying up
Is Folgers in your cup.

Getting coffee at a Shari's IHOP, or Denny's
Two in the morning with Folgers in your cup.
The feel of the silver spoon
Hitting the white sides of a porcelain cup.
I can hear the sound it makes. Ting ting.

Stirring in the cream and sugar.
I can see the cream swirling in black until
It fades to a creamy tan.

I like to shake the little sugar packets and listen
To the small grains shift to the back of the pack
As the paper goes crinkle crinkle, crinkle crinkle;
Much faster than I can say crinkle.

Crinkle.

To hear the sound of coffee being poured
Is a treasure to the ears.

Its euphony brings a sliver of energy soon to be delivered
On that first taste; after you
Set the spoon down on your napkin and
See it creep brown slowly.

Slowly across white fibers textured in pattern.
First sips travel and coat your textured stomach
Similarly.

Your eyes seem to open just that much more.
You first start to notice the haze around you as a restaurant.
That big bright pillow you fell onto is a
Booth now sturdy and stiff.

You sit at your table and mix the cream
And stir the sugar.

You forget about getting here at midnight.

The lights are on, everyone is awake

Conversing as if it were midday.

You continue working on your midterm or your final,
Or maybe just your sketchbook drawing, and
Before you know it, almost everyone else is gone.

No one is talking anymore, there is much less noise.
You look down to see that a myriad of
Sugar packets have been shook, poured, and stirred.

You peer back to the door you drowsily entered and see that
There is light outside. A new day has started without you and
Here you are without memory of night passing.

But,

Your midterm is minutes from completion and all you
Have to do is make it to that one class and turn it in.
You can then go back home and have your night,
But it will cost you the day.

However, when you wake up,
There is always coffee.

---

This is a poem I wrote for a creative writing class while attending the Art Institute of Seattle. I probably wrote it around 2004 as a 21 year old. As I write this, that was 18 years ago but in some ways it feels like only a few. Crazy how time flies.

The Man From Snowy River | A Haiku

I love writing Haikus. They're super short little poems. I love that they force you to constrain your words into so few syllables. It may seem like an oxymoron, but constraints actually make art thrive. It's true. Check out this cool article sometime called Proof That Constraints Can Actually Make You More Creative. I started writing a themed book of Haikus, but I'm also going to start writing some that I'll just share here on my blog. Here's the first of many more to come. If you want more Haikus check out my book in progress called "Explore (108 Haikus)" free to read on Wattpad. Leave me a comment on there and let me know what you think.

So here is my Haiku about a beloved movie I watched over and over again as a child:

The Man From Snowy River

Snowy River Jim
Rode a horse like no other
Down really steep hills

Poetry on the Horizon

We just moved, which means unpacking a lot of boxes. Some of these boxes were left unpacked at our last house. I'm not sure why, I guess we either didn't have the room for all the stuff in the boxes, or we knew we would eventually move again so we just left it unpacked. Either way, I have been finding stuff that I haven't seen since my wife and I first moved back to our hometown from Seattle. One of the things in a box I found while unpacking was a collection of stories and poems I wrote in college for a creative writing class. I was majoring in multimedia and animation but to earn a bachelors I had to take a certain amount of elective classes. I've always liked writing and so I was excited to have an elective class that I knew I would like. Anyways, I started reading through some of the poems in this book. There are a couple short stories, but I remember those so I just read a few of the poems. Some of them I forgot all about, and one of them I really like. I remember recording it and putting a little bit of animation to it for one of my animation class projects. Who knew then that I was learning how to create a podcast? No one because podcasts didn't exist for another year or two.

I'm sure I have the documents printed on these pages I found somewhere on a disk in box in the basement, but writing them back out will probably be faster than finding them. So over the next little while as I finish the third draft of my novel I'm going to publish some of them on here in text and audio. I'll post my favorite one first. It's about how much I like coffee. Reading these reminds me of being in school. Man that was a long time ago, coming up on a decade in a year or so here. That is crazy. Anyways. Look for some old poems of mine to come soon. Have a nice weekend!

A Poem by my Great Grandma Ruby

My Great Grandma Asta Ruby Brown passed away at the age of 99, just a couple months short of turning 100. She was a brilliant writer, and I just got to borrow three books full of her poems yesterday from my mom. Even in her 90s she would write us hand written letters on our birthdays, in perfect cursive script, and you could really hear her youthful spirit in those letters, as her voice had grown shaky and slower with age. I'm currently digitizing all of her work, and intend to publish them on a website once they're finished. For now I will share my favorite poem of the ones I've been able to read through so far.

The Old Farm

The old buildings are sagging and swaying tonight
And ghosts are abroad in the pale gold moonlight
The soft feet of destruction are sure but so slow
The farmhouse and the barn in their painful death throe
Still remain but are willing and sighing to go

The outside snowball trees can but partly obscure
The poor broken-down home that once held such allure
Tho' the view 'cross the water is just as before
With the lights from the town flickering as of yore
And the air--the clean air penetrating each pore

A lone bird on the tree in a song of lament
Seems to grieve over how all the past glories went
While the pink hawthorns bloom in memoriam tonight
With the snowballs so round and so purely white
Oh! The ghosts are abroad in the pale gold moonlight