After Eight Moments…

Cyranny's Cove





It is a very human thing
To imagine that
We can rule time
With words…
Days, weeks,
Months, seasons…

Flowers are much
Much wiser…
They just wait
For the sun to rise,
And if it is warm enough…
They bloom.





If you want to know what After Eight Moments are about, click here.

Description for the visually impaired; Close up on a late summer, white flower bloom. 

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Why Using Pencils To Write May Be More Eye-Opening Than You Think

Your Friendly Malaysian Writer

Person holding a sharp wooden pencil

As much as I recommend avoiding the romanticism of the writer’s life, I do find myself fascinated by famous authors’ creative processes.

And what better way of fuelling this fascination than by gawking over their tools of creation?

To be honest, the only reason why I have a LAMY 2000 sitting in my drawer is because Neil Gaiman uses one to draft his stories. I’ve also written on Vim to emulate George Martin’s preference for Wordstar.

But now that I’ve decided to stop blindly going down the path of tool-collecting, I’ve found myself gravitating towards simpler and cheaper options.

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I want to see you again….


I want to see you again.

A Poem by Coyote Poetry
"Good days become sweet dreams with time."

                  I want to see you again….

The powerful Pacific ocean hide the love stories of fearless lovers.
I wandered the beaches of Monterey.
I looked at faces. Chasing ghosts of old lovers and sweet kisses.
Longing for the embrace of sweet lovers lost in time.

I sit with my sweet red wine. I wander to better days and beautiful faces.
I remember my beautiful Beatrice. She loved the sea.
We would hold each other tightly.
Listening to the music of the waves and the breeze.

The empty beach was our paradise.
We needed some wine and a blanket to protect us from the cold night.
I remember my beautiful Beatrice dancing alone with the ghost of unknown past.
She would bring me up and we would dance like free Gypsies with…

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Tell me, how you lived…


Tell me, how you lived?….

Old poet told the people at the poetry reading. Dead men, do not rise. He read some quotes. “For each man kills the things he loves, Yet each man does not die” Oscar Wilds” “Who knocks? I, who was beautiful, beyond all dreams to restore azure skies, chaos, broken softly, in the dust.”

I chanted for war, now I chant for peace, the dead cannot be awaken. Now I know. Us, who love the posies shall ask. Tell me, how did you live? Was your hand outstretched in the offer of friendship? Did you beleaguered the world create chaos or did you blessed the world with kind face and gentle words? Did you befriend many? Love many?

I  shared some wisdom “Please laugh often, love often and dance often. Know the fragrant of the deep sea, dance in the field of the wildflowers and make love…

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Writing Circle

Piano Girl

Sharing two poems I wrote in a recent poetry circle facilitated by Ali Grimshaw I continued to be amazed at the beautiful connections made across many miles over computer screens. ❤️

At Seven

It is difficult
To remember
The me who
Once was seven
Do you find
The same
To be true?

Oh, there are
Flashes of
Aided by
The reciting
Of stories at
Family gatherings
I believe at seven
Happy outweighed sad
And freedom came
When swinging
To the sky
Then bravely
Jumping out
It is difficult
To remember
The me who
Once was seven
But I am grateful
For her spirit
To reside in me
Even when
I’m afraid
To jump out
Of the swing

Tiny Boxes

Hours spent
Make me want
To remember
Not just the present
But every visit past-
Each block of time
Long or short
Places another…

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