Limerick: Mother’s Foolish Threat
She was a fool; strived to create something new.
Her inventions seemed circuitous
Until one was made famous.
And then it hit us,
What if mother did end up in Bellevue?

Pantoum: Tree of Invention
As I plant seedlings of ideas in my notepad at night,
The seeds begin to sprout and grow branches, to be able to support the details from my invention that will begin to blossom,
While the roots explore new grounds of ideas hidden in my mind.
Oh, don’t mind me and my little inventions.

The seeds begin to sprout and grow branches to be able to support the details from my invention that will begin to blossom.
Hopefully this tree of invention will weather the upcoming storm of discouragement.
Oh, don’t mind me and my little inventions,
For the creations of planes and rockets is left to the big men.

Hopefully this tree of invention will weather the upcoming storm of discouragement
While its roots explore new grounds of ideas hidden in my mind.
So I sit in bed sketching convenient gadgets to produce, and father rhythmically snores beside me
As I plant seedlings of ideas in my notepad at night.

Acrostic: Chapita!
Collecting the pieces of my disintegrated speech, I think of
How could my ignorant father attempt to destroy the road to my near success?
Anger, a burst of shame, a load of hopelessness, and fury raced through my veins.
Putting the pieces of my speech towards my broken heart, I wailed like a newborn, lost as to what to do since
Intense rage blocked my senses.
Throwing the blurry blizzard of pieces of my torn speech, I yelled
And it escaped my lips- “Chapita! You're just another Chapita!”

Rubai: Raging Volcano
Haunting fear had been suppressed in the deepest part of me
Along with the dread of a death sentence being put on my family
Fear, dread, and feverish fury had been contained in me like lava in a volcano
Until it bubbled and erupted when I heard her eulogy

Cinquain: Invention
Invention
Useful, Productive
Formed, Sketched, Disapproved of
Complex, Purposeful, Venturous Innovation
Imagination

Imagery: Burning the Midnight Oil
My old, drained father
snores monotonously
and shares the warmth
of the soft, worn bed
with my petite, exhausted mother
as the night stars gaze from above.
Click. Click.
She starts up her pen
and shuffles to find an empty page
to fill to the brim
with scribbles and shapes
that take the form of her
unique inventions.