absorbing aiming attaching
bubbling breathing
chewing chasing clicking crashing clinging
diving dancing disengaging
echoing ebbing emulating
falling flicking fornicating
grazing gagging galloping gallivanting gathering gesturing
jogging jiggling jostling
kneeling kissing kneading
lollygagging leaping loaping
mooing melting meshing munching
nudging nestling
orbiting obliterating
puckering punching
quaking quivering quavering
rolling running romping rumbling
screeching slithering swimming stalking spreading swishing shifting
tumbling teeming tip-toeing
wagging whipping writhing
x-ing out
yanking yawning yodeling
zooming zesting

What I Learned Doing a Poetry Marathon

The real secret to writing
isn’t a secret
The pros have been telling you for years
to act on your intentions
and write

It’s about priorities
It shouldn’t be the lawn
that needs mowing
the laundry
that needs washing
the friend
who needs validation
The writing comes first
No excuses

No one faults the business owner
for doing business
So no one should fault the artist
for making art

For me
it has to be
about thinking
and writing

Forget about what’s for dinner
There’s always cereal
and canned soup
and some of us thrive
on words

He always got it Write

Asked who, as a writer, I admired most, I

ran the options: novelists, poets, playwrights

reporters, essayists, columnists, commentators,

settling on the ultimate writers-writer: Paul.


Apostling not being the most lucrative gig

Paul started out as a stringer, freelancing then

finding success at building his brand;

reporter, biographer, essayist, op-ed guru,

occasional food critic, frequent advice columnist


Versatility to be admired, at the very least

the guy consistently bent genres, poo-pooed

convention and succeeded doing it his way


A lightning rod for controversy

he always had a Tarsus on his back


Dude had all the attributes of an NYT best seller;

compelling narrative, fascinating characters,

great story hooks, intrigue and crackling dialogue.

A natural story-teller, Paul also had unique,

finely-honed insight into the human condition


Like many top writers, he also had a pseudonym


Picture Paul at a first-century Barnabas and Noble

reading from his work at an author event

though I doubt he ever autographed book copies,

posed for pictures with having waited-in-line fans

his sales figures remain high


Critics be damned!


Paul dealt with writer’s banes; constant rejection,

haggling with gutless, wishy-washy editors, he

ignored continual barbs from critics, fellow writers


Paul had it going on


Experiences and a writing career many a scribe

would kill for: embedded journalist, stellar biographer,

revered social analyst and self-help essayist, social gadfly…

he built an impressive portfolio people still thumb through


Paul had, in every way possible, the write stuff.


~  Mark Lucker

Quoth the Poe

Down deep dark dreary pathways I follow
The pounding pulse, twisting violent turbulent turns
Gothic rhythms of your nightmares
Spilling spinning screaming
On aging pages
Hold me hostage

I dare not look away
I dare not leave
My blood pounding bruised beating heart
Pleads for peace and reprieve
Yet still I read
Captive to your craft

A dance with death
In velvet gowns and stolen souls
Deceptive dreams, fantastic fears
This wild madness flows
Like morphine for my writer’s soul
May I have some more?




“I’m A Poet”


Dedicated: To ALL POETS around the globe. Most especially to PENTASIAN POETS

(Photo taken from:Ms. Suzette)




When poets unwind

They truly explore

To reach the edge of the horizon

Search, meet strangers as family

Where words value, kept as treasure

Saved in every single moment


Those unforgettable moment

Those risky things unwind

Those most precious treasure

Expand twinkling as it explore

Cultivating soul in every family

Not giving up staring the horizon


Almost at the edge of the horizon

Fragile, difficult, risky each moment

Tears may flow, no one to embrace a family

Scattered teardrops fall unwind

Need to sacrifice, take the risk, explore

Hoping in the end, there is treasure


Finding a treasure

Won’t see, need to take the obstacles across the horizon

Need to dream, need to believe, need to plan to explore

Value each single moment

For every single moment unwind

There, can find true family


Not a real family, but a bountiful home of family

More than a treasure

Wrap, fold, unwind

In different edge of the horizon

Uncounted moment

Shared happiness, love and moment to explore


Keep on the eye to explore

Value every single bountiful home of family

Treasured every single moment

Most especially, a love to be treasure

Across the horizon

Unforgettable moments to unwind


In life, we unwind, to struggle, sacrifice, and explore.


Keep on dreaming to reach the edge of the horizon, don’t give up, there are people who waits for us, our family.


There’s a lot of things to be treasure, but the most of it can’t be value by money, and the most memorable – unforgettable ones are those moment.


(C)seth:kw:23:18:june15,2015:ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


poem #7 I was late for motherhood

I was late for motherhood
the appointment was in a neighbourhood
I didn’t know      hidden behind billboards
and bare-limbed trees
for years I drove the highways
but the map given me at childhood
was missing pieces
like a puzzle where someone stole
all the blue edges

I had to ask directions
the doctor made me pass a test
I flunked the first time
later he would help me study
prescribe me vitamins
tell me not to worry things would work
I tried to follow his car to where
I thought I should be

you weren’t certain you wanted to live
there in that toy-strewn house
where the large windows first beckoned
at night I would dream of infants
and their tiny whispernames
in the darkness just before light broke
I would drive myself to where
the babies might be
that rendezvous I always meant to keep

it would be years later
when two boys became men
that I would remember
how it felt to be unfinished
missing those blue pieces
and realize
it was never about motherhood

“A Poem to REMEMBER:being A mArAtHoNeR”


In that straight

More than 24hours awake

Studying sentina

And working household chores

As well as to calm the mind

And relax the heart

My mind stocked to understand

What sentina is

And the clock comes lesser

To write, I have none

I’m about to stop

My mind says hop

My bed says come

My heart says write

I focused

I focused in my heart

And I followed each hole

I was challenged

Not because there were writers better than I

Not because I was a new comer in this race

It is because, here I saw diverged

Every single Tictac of the clock

A pen’s value in tact

And soul to rock

My shadow walked

As I stood

I’m done

I can’t imagine

How I finished the game

Its not just a game but a plan

An undreamed run

A memorable ground


(C)seth:kw:13:46:june15,2015:ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

a great marathon of poets in time and space

starting eastern time 9 am 13 June  2015

moving for expressing in each prompt

creating poems

raw emotions raw verses creating

making poems creating and revising

posting for PUBLISHING

whether a half marathon or full marathon

moving creating and posting

for 12 hours 12 poems finishing a half marathon

next 12 hours begins

surely patiently eagerly moving to a great plane expedition

finishing full marathon

poets expressing themselves the sleep prompt which is final marathon prompt

ending  8 am 14 June 2015

what a blast!

adding to my humanity’s experience

kudos to organizers and fellow marathoners in this endeavor


I remember, towards the end
You asked me why I don’t tell you
You are beautiful

I thought it strange you would ask such a  thing
As I recall, I told you so every day

I smiled when you ever came to mind
Which was always
When I saw you, I wouldn’t hesitate to kiss you
When you would pass by
I would embrace you
Never to let go

You said, I didn’t show it enough
I didn’t tell you enough

You were mistaken, mi amor
I told you every day
Every moment you were in my presence

Could it have been that I did not say it enough?
I won’t deny that
In my defense, though, you knew I was of few words
My heart did not reside on my sleeve

In fact, the truth is
I did not dare attempt such a feat

To tell how beautiful you are
How much more I fall in love
When you look at me
Your way

I can not encapsulate the extent of your grace
Within the mire of words
Sought and placed as markes
Upon the portrait you are

It would be as futile a thing to attempt
As it would be for anyone to describe a sunset

Try as I might have, it would be done in vain
For I could never put words to what I could never understand

It is my greatest regret
For all that we lived
For all the love we had

You could never see
The words I spoke
In ever kiss
In every look
In every moment when all I could do
Is stare in wonder

How could a wayward soul like me
Be so lucky

To find such a beautiful thing
In such an ugly world
And somehow convince it
To love me


Creation in its smallest from is something that not many people see or believe

A single event in a single time on a split from the world that has created it

But what of those things that the world has not create or refused to acknowledge

What stands between the world that exist and that of a time that has past us by

The creations we seek are not the things that catch are sight or interest

They are the things that make us invisible to the world outside

The large and small things that make us think about all the other things we see and hear

Creations of what they do make us question whether or not the world sees itself

Always wanting more than what is required

Questioning if the things we do is correct or if they lack that something special for the full creation requested

What will the world create in the absence of time and in the void of darkness

Something remembered only when fear and loneliness take over what is not seen

A creation forgot in the wake of time and the lack of all else

The world will always become something greater

And the creations that came in its wake is something that will be un-measurable in time

Yet the world will continue in its unmistakable creation of things to come

The World Creates

The world creates small and impossible things

Something that is and always has been forgotten to others

Things that only exist to those that take turns and watch them grow

Small things that no one can see

Or just things that that have become inconvenient to most

Those that find the world to slow in its turning and too slow to be noticed

Will never see the small things that are being made and frown in the world around

There is always something more than the big things that you can see so well

What of the sunset you see as you quietly sit on a bench under a tree

Maybe it’s the bird that wakes you in the morning as you lay in bed and smile

It could be smile you get when you have the one person say how much they care for you

The small things are what we miss the most when no one is watching

They are sometimes the beginning of the day

And at other times they end the day on a smile

The world races around itself in hopes that things will one day be better

And yet no one had come to the thought or the ides that the world’s race is what helps everyone miss the small things

To slow down and see the world as it has always been

Would be something that no one in this world is willing or wanting to do


Clearing windows. Open doors, existential rooms. View surprising, tantalizing. Unremembered dreams, endeavoring scenes. Moments recorded throughout time, different place, different lives. Expanded views from skyscraping angles, clouds that dangle. Breathtaking, painstaking, never faking, real. City living, dangerous beauty, feel. No regrets, dark nights, cold kisses. Hours fly by, drunken misses. Painstakingly pleasurable, unforgettable. Old files locked away for rainy days. What ifs, maybes, the ones that got away. Clearing windows, exhausting. Padlock, won’t cost me.

Keep Finding

What keeps one finding that that was never done

For they cannot see the world as it should be

What finds them hunting for the wrongs that another does

How is their world held together when wrong is all they say

That which is done is never truly done as long as they see what is left behind

A world that takes only that where they find all wrong

Where can one find true bliss if it is never done their way

How does one search for that which was once for love

When what was done before was done as two

But now it lies to one to finish

Yet even when an attempt is made to make another happy

The wrong is still what is found as the day goes on

Where will one stand when their attempt is not accepted

Even if the wrong is completed it is still a wrong that was never done

The hope stands tall that one day all will be done right

But even then a wrong will be found

And yet the world will still turn to the perfection of one

But a wrong can never be right by the other

The day will go on and another wrong will be connected

But hope stands faith that the wrong will be right

And yet still a wrong will be found


he induced poetry in me.

reduced me to mere words

my love; my muse.


he lef tme nowhere to hide,

nowehere to find comfort

than where i’d always found them: in words.


i bled for him,

cried for him.


my heart and soul emptied out;



and now,

not even words left

to me anymore:


Living versus Responsibilities

What’s happening?
I want to leave.
Why can’t I just go for it?
I want to just leave.


I want to be gone,

being responsible for everything…

Whether it is my fault or not!


I just want to live already!

I want to feel ALIVE!

I want to go to concerts,

Go take a hike on one of the eight wonders of the world,

Walk on the hills of the highest mountain

Scream as loud as I can!

Have a great time with friends,

Meet someone I can love,

Meet someone who can love me right.


Have my story to tell,

With many have twists and turns

but that’s the fun part of it I believe.

And even though it may turn out to be a large mess,

I know that it would be worth everything:


the travel,

the lust,

the fun,

the pain of love,

the education,

the hatred,

the flirtations,

the stressed out finals week,

the music,

the romance,

the anger,

the crazy deadlines,

the wondrous words that I write about the journey of my life

Is it selfish of me?


I don’t know.

I have responsibilities:

I have younger siblings,

I have a mother who needs me,

why does it have to be this way?

I feel like I am a financial burden.

I feel like I should just earn it all on my own.

I feel like this is done.



Wave Upon Wave

I forget the world I once had as a child that grew

The imagination that was created in the world’s that I wrote

At a time when escaping the world around me was a better choice

When things where different and the world was simpler

As long as the time was available and no one was around

I escaped to a world that was all of my own

A place that I could make things as I wanted

In a time that I could lose minutes on top of hours on top of days

My world was something that could help me and hinder me

For the world that I create could be a place I could never leave

From character to character and day to day

Once I was inside and caught the outside world would just melt away

As to why I left that world I will never know

And the more I try the less of the world I see

To become lost in a world that was once me

When can I find my true self

And where will I be when that world comes crashing on me

I wait for the waves that once over came me

That closed around me and invaded everything I was

For the creativity that was once my whole world

Where will my creativity come from and when

I am ready for wave upon wave of worlds to create

And for a time that I can lose minutes upon hours upon days