April 27, 2009
Six and More...
1.
As I look back to glance at your origami
I could see how I missed one of our activities going CCP
It was one of the best times you would bundle us
And I didn’t come because of house chores that always
Impeded my speed.
Yet those times I was with you at the Writing Center
Created powerful jet trails in me
And beautiful clouds that GOD has drawn
2.
I remember your word “candid.”
It meant so much when I write my essays, especially when I’m tempted to lie,
And use quotes not my own.
I remember you were my first father confessor, too
You didn’t laugh at me, but only instilled respect for a writers professionalism.
My funny first drafts – were torrid, and bloody
But then, our workshops were inspiring
And those were the times – I would never forget you, teacher
3.
Your voice, I never heard
Your hands, I never touched
Your face wasn’t even visible in my dreams
Yet
The time my soul was panting
You were right there standing, in front of me
Sharing your books
As a father would
To feed his child
4.
I never see you anymore
My thoughts cry missing you
Pulps in my brains come juicy as orange
In our creative exercises every Friday
Some wouldn’t want it, but I do.
You cared a lot
You always shared
Imbedding and locking
mysteries in my creative being
5.
Thank you for believing in my first fiction story
For getting me out my shell
And showing me that
I could write
6.
My sentences come alive because you always check it
My crafts come better because you always improve it
I learn my life
Six and More...
1.
As I look back to glance at your origami
I could see how I missed one of our activities going CCP
It was one of the best times you would bundle us
And I didn’t come because of house chores that always
Impeded my speed.
Yet those times I was with you at the Writing Center
Created powerful jet trails in me
And beautiful clouds that GOD has drawn
2.
I remember your word “candid.”
It meant so much when I write my essays, especially when I’m tempted to lie,
And use quotes not my own.
I remember you were my first father confessor, too
You didn’t laugh at me, but only instilled respect for a writers professionalism.
My funny first drafts – were torrid, and bloody
But then, our workshops were inspiring
And those were the times – I would never forget you, teacher
3.
Your voice, I never heard
Your hands, I never touched
Your face wasn’t even visible in my dreams
Yet
The time my soul was panting
You were right there standing, in front of me
Sharing your books
As a father would
To feed his child
4.
I never see you anymore
My thoughts cry missing you
Pulps in my brains come juicy as orange
In our creative exercises every Friday
Some wouldn’t want it, but I do.
You cared a lot
You always shared
Imbedding and locking
mysteries in my creative being
5.
Thank you for believing in my first fiction story
For getting me out my shell
And showing me that
I could write
6.
My sentences come alive because you always check it
My crafts come better because you always improve it
I learn my life
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