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Poems
I'm such a slow writer, so I figured I'd share a small collection of poems instead.
These were written while working on a creative writing minor back in college.
I’d walk across the Atlantic Ocean, and let the soles
of my feet soak and wrinkle until I could finally reach
land. I wonder if the water is clear enough to see an
orca whip its tail before it emerges out onto the open
ocean or spot a shark spiral beneath me while I try to
tip toe a different direction. Then, once my skin is too
heated from the plunging rays of the sun, I’d swim deep
underwater, enough to notice the tint shift from blue
to indigo, and sway with the pink and purple corals
‘til I could no longer hold my breath. During nighttime,
I’d gaze at twice as many stars twinkle, some dancing
back and forth to mimic the shifting tides, and two
moons spaced at the same distance from where the sky
and the ocean converge to follow the vast horizon. Imagine
if there was a meteor shower. I’d watch the stars shoot
from the sky and dive deep into the ocean, probably so
fast that I couldn’t sprint swift enough to catch one.
Simple origami instructions
deviously designed to confuse
the dexterously incapable.
A hat. A boat. A crane.
And even simpler, a rectangle.
Step one: begin with a square
piece of paper, six by six.
An altered step one: begin with an eight
by eleven piece of paper, and with two
crooked cuts, acquire the correct
dimensions–six by six.
Step two: fold the paper diagonally,
easily done by coordinating opposite
corners and adjacent edges together.
Step three: Following the existing creases,
form a flap and flip the flap to the front.
Folding forward to join the crossing corners
inward, unfold the edges outward–slightly
downwards and angled upwards–to create
an inverse-backward base.
An altered step three: Crumple.
Then, repeat steps one through three
until you can crease correctly and finally
follow the simple origami instructions.
Crease. Wrinkle. Crinkle.
Simple. Crimple. Crumple.
Stacks of scrunched spheres of paper,
origami rocks pile to form the summit
of the canyon of my grand frustration.
Papa’s fingers danced across the keys, a slow waltz
he'd practiced since ten years ago. Mindlessly, he tapped
his fingers to the beat. Had he forgotten how difficult
mastering the position of each key had been?
When his fingers first learned how to dance, he hardly
knew how the keyboard worked, nor how each pixel
on the screen aligned with the movement of the mouse.
Yet, even with no rhythm, he willingly studied each beat,
attempting to acquaint his fingers to the waltz. As he
rehearsed, his fingers would sway in the wrong direction,
or incorrectly tap two fingers to the same note. Still, though
he struggled to find “q” or “v,” he tried to type at thirty
speed, frustrated if he danced at a slower tempo.
At times, he'd ask me to judge and score his performance.
With a watch in hand, I timed his fingers move from key to key,
typing the English words he'd learned after his native tongue,
a time when he only knew to sync his wrist with black ink.
And gradually, the tempo to which he danced advanced
to ten, fifteen, then twenty-five, and finally thirty. At thirty
words per minute, he knew he had mastered his own waltz.
Indifferent of faster tempo, he watched the letters appear
on the screen to his finger’s command; a choreographer of
his own waltz, he admired the elegance of the performance.
These were written while working on a creative writing minor back in college.
If I could walk on water,
I’d walk across the Atlantic Ocean, and let the soles
of my feet soak and wrinkle until I could finally reach
land. I wonder if the water is clear enough to see an
orca whip its tail before it emerges out onto the open
ocean or spot a shark spiral beneath me while I try to
tip toe a different direction. Then, once my skin is too
heated from the plunging rays of the sun, I’d swim deep
underwater, enough to notice the tint shift from blue
to indigo, and sway with the pink and purple corals
‘til I could no longer hold my breath. During nighttime,
I’d gaze at twice as many stars twinkle, some dancing
back and forth to mimic the shifting tides, and two
moons spaced at the same distance from where the sky
and the ocean converge to follow the vast horizon. Imagine
if there was a meteor shower. I’d watch the stars shoot
from the sky and dive deep into the ocean, probably so
fast that I couldn’t sprint swift enough to catch one.
Origami Rocks
Simple origami instructions
deviously designed to confuse
the dexterously incapable.
A hat. A boat. A crane.
And even simpler, a rectangle.
Step one: begin with a square
piece of paper, six by six.
An altered step one: begin with an eight
by eleven piece of paper, and with two
crooked cuts, acquire the correct
dimensions–six by six.
Step two: fold the paper diagonally,
easily done by coordinating opposite
corners and adjacent edges together.
Step three: Following the existing creases,
form a flap and flip the flap to the front.
Folding forward to join the crossing corners
inward, unfold the edges outward–slightly
downwards and angled upwards–to create
an inverse-backward base.
An altered step three: Crumple.
Then, repeat steps one through three
until you can crease correctly and finally
follow the simple origami instructions.
Crease. Wrinkle. Crinkle.
Simple. Crimple. Crumple.
Stacks of scrunched spheres of paper,
origami rocks pile to form the summit
of the canyon of my grand frustration.
Papa learned how to waltz
Papa’s fingers danced across the keys, a slow waltz
he'd practiced since ten years ago. Mindlessly, he tapped
his fingers to the beat. Had he forgotten how difficult
mastering the position of each key had been?
When his fingers first learned how to dance, he hardly
knew how the keyboard worked, nor how each pixel
on the screen aligned with the movement of the mouse.
Yet, even with no rhythm, he willingly studied each beat,
attempting to acquaint his fingers to the waltz. As he
rehearsed, his fingers would sway in the wrong direction,
or incorrectly tap two fingers to the same note. Still, though
he struggled to find “q” or “v,” he tried to type at thirty
speed, frustrated if he danced at a slower tempo.
At times, he'd ask me to judge and score his performance.
With a watch in hand, I timed his fingers move from key to key,
typing the English words he'd learned after his native tongue,
a time when he only knew to sync his wrist with black ink.
And gradually, the tempo to which he danced advanced
to ten, fifteen, then twenty-five, and finally thirty. At thirty
words per minute, he knew he had mastered his own waltz.
Indifferent of faster tempo, he watched the letters appear
on the screen to his finger’s command; a choreographer of
his own waltz, he admired the elegance of the performance.
