Post 5


I did like the in-depth analysis for Shannon’s webtext What I did not like about Shannon’s project is that she wrote her summaries in one large paragraph, which made my eyes tired. Usually, for text online, it’s better to have shorter paragraphs. I also think the black background and the white text made it hard to read.


I liked the navigation bar that he set up for his webtext. I think that makes it easier to go from one analysis to another, rather than having to scroll up and down. I also appreciated how he broke up the paragraphs. However, I didn’t like that the webpage size appeared to large for the actual screen. This might have the result of a faulty code.


Out of all the webtexts, I liked Amanda’s the most. I really like the homepage because of the color. Green is often associated with the recycling movement, and the appearance of that color created continuity. The large numbers helped navigate readers through each source, too. Amanda was very precise in pointing out the rhetorically effective elements in her sources. The one thing I would criticize about her website is her main typeface. It appeared to be infantile. I would have preferred if she use a serif font, which is much more serious for the topic of recycling.

I will combine elements from both Shannon and Marcus’ webtexts. I know that I will not use a dark background and light text – I will do the opposite. I will include options to jump (Jump to Top) from one section to another on the same page. And, of course, I’ll post the examples and then my analysis below.

Time to Wake

Poem #1

I wake at the edge of the bed, wrapped in downy-scented Mickey Mouse blankets,

Arms pinned to my side.

I know I started out at the center, squished between Mom and Sister,

Who gave me warmth that only they could provide.

Mom’s lavender perfume sticks to my pillow.

The ceiling fan wheezes as its blades turn.

Outside, cars whiz by, and light wastes away, sinking into a hill.

The lullaby of ice cream suddenly beckons me—and already I reach for my piggy bank in my

Dresser, surrounded by a mess of underwear, glittery rocks, and sea-beaten shells.

But my hope gets crushed when footsteps burden the old stairs,

And Mom’s hushed voice echoes in the hallway: Con, xuống ăn cơm.

I inhale an errant waft of fresh rice.


I am the youngest in my family.

Every day I waited for An and Dan to come home from elementary school. Living in a small apartment, the three of us shared a room. My mother would combine all of our beds and we’d take naps together. I remember feeling so safe during this time, surrounded by my family, and I never wanted to leave. I was always the last one to wake up, and I’d lay in my bed and listen to the whispers of activities going on around me, which soothed me like a mother’s lullaby. 

We had to write about a specific place in our first poetry assignment. I couldn’t find one that stuck out to me, so I thought of the times when I felt comforted and loved: in my bed in Apartment Four on Scott Road – back in the old days.