My Morning Head


After a night of open eyes
a galaxy spinning in my head
I wake with body parts feeling torn
lying flat on my back with eyes closed and think

is it weak
that part of our body that bends
is it the source
of emotional distribution
is it our circuit breaker
designed to protect and restrict
the openness of our mouths
reflecting before too much damage is done
is it hinged
so we may change our mind

my neck,
like a tree branch
broken under too much pressure
still attached at the throat
enabling speech and nutrition to flow
soon the rain will come
the splinters will soften
auxins will flow through cambium layers
a crown of leaves will grow
a bird will build its nest
and new life will emerge


all of this before my feet land on my matt
the creative mind is both a blessing and a curse

Trapped In The Hole Of A Doughnut


chair higher than it ought be
long, sand coloured counter pressed against the wall of glass
exposed bites, on the half, eaten old fashion doughnut
sitting next to the ceramic coffee cup

why am I here?
at this crowded doughnut shop in the city
cars zipping past on drive-thru exits
summers furniture sits on the outside patio
bolted to the pavers
snow caused by the cold
words of love once written
on wet snow
now frozen for who knows how long
christmas music calling angels
plays on the speaker
it’s not even december

how many are here
either before or after
visiting a loved one
in that home
yes that home
across the parking lot
across the double lane road
that three story red brick complex
called a ‘home’
funny and odd name for something its not
It would make more sense
to house our loved ones
next to the airports or train stations
giving them the illusion of travel
airports for the old and used
long halls lined with beds with curtains of privacy
side table with lamp and toiletries
once chair placed at an angle
marker boards with names scribbled
days attendants, nurse and doctor on call

when the bell rings all are woken
and one by one they walk or are pushed in wheelchairs
then lined up once more
with a great view of the wall of glass
here they can see hope and dream
watching the planes take off and the workers buzzing about like ants

or they could also be at a train station
listening to the whistle blow and the tracks vibrating the floors
they could imagine themselves sitting in one of those seats
let’s not forget the harbours and cruise ships
with the seagulls flying past the windows
and the smell of sea salt in the air
fish and chips would be on the menu there

why am I sitting here
looking across the way
at the three-story building
that was in part my home for three years
there are days when I miss the smiles
the conversations that inspired me to dream up a life
when speaking to a dementia resident
I became part of their lives and their past
why would I not
the days of walking through the doors of key codes
of seeing his face light up and hearing him call
I would give my life to have that back if only for one day
to be in his arms and feel him patting my head
she is so sad, is what he wrote when he still could
line drawing of my face on a canvas of golden sun

I am sitting here because I miss him

Strange Faces
Painting by Sculptor Bruce Garner 2009

The place took hold of me and I felt compelled to write.
No editing, or thought just pure stream of consciousness.

Dance Of The Dawn


drawing by tamaya garner 21/11/17 ©

Its dark but morning is here
I lower my body till the feeling of sheepskin touches my skin
I exhale
shoulders still heavy from yesterdays thoughts
my eyes still closed, but I can see shadows
like moving images from a subway station

left arm extends
I feel for the heat coming off the coffee cup
passing my fingers over the slippery glaze
singed by the hot coffee inside
my fingers slip through the handle 
as my thumb rubs its back
stroking  it like a lover’s face

beautiful glazed vessel is brought to my lips
violins play in the background
soft and with grace
giving soul to the morning pace

I take in with full breath
the fragrance of steamed coffee beans 
mixed with a touch of hot peppers
my hands hold the cup 
in the same manner as a priest holds a chalice

track 7 unites the earthbound piano keys 
with the winds plucking long strands of hair on the harp

that first sip
 my nose inhales the aroma hovering in the cup
a transfusion, an awakening of my senses 
the first slow dance of the day starts with 
my morning cup of coffee

track 11, the final dance, as the harp circles the room for one more twirl with the violin and piano.
Taking the final bow

november 21 2017 

I thank Angele Dubeau and La Pieta, along with composer Ludovico Einaudi

The Power Of Music



I stand with left foot firmly placed on the matt
right foot bent at the knuckles and placed on the other foot
my belly leans against the counter before me
a typewriter sits, waiting
a white ceramic countertop
fingers move across the keys
holding thoughts from my mind
to the right,
a thin stemmed red wine glass sits half full
within easy reach of my right hand
the room fills with classical sounds 
violins, piano and cello
with its deep tones that are able to lift me off the floor

Right-hand reaches to pick up the glass
tongue creeps past my lips 
moving back and forth 
to moisten
to prepare
to be seduced by the fully aged red
that tastes like a burgundy
like rose petals that have fallen
and left to soak in the sun
enticing the sugars to dance
the first sip has all those qualities
it lingers and speaks
only, to the insides of your eyelids

As I lean forward
still with eyes closed
I wonder what the point would be
to take a second sip
for the second will only pale to the first
no more will there be anticipation
no awakening of the senses
the map will have been drawn


Sit back and listen
to the movements of the violins and cello
let the spirits take you
to your inner world
that only awakes 
when your eyelids are drawn
when your heart opens to the song




In The Night…

Photo on 2017-11-09 at 4.34 AM

You know it,
that feeling when you roll over in the dead of night
I know you know it,
when you keep your eyes closed
when it feels as if you have a weight on your head
when your mind starts having a conversation with itself
keep your eyes closed
or you will break that sleep connection
so, you lie there pretending to yourself
I’m still asleep, I’m still asleep
if you don’t say the words
you will remain in slumberland
don’t look at the clock for that will make it official
there is a tug of war being played
two figures with a rope in your head
one is smooth and white
the other muddy with cracked skin like a dried river bed
each holding onto the rope
tugging it back and forth
not a one winning or grabbing a tighter grip
your eyes have had enough they open
sleep is now officially over
the membrane has been broken
you swing your legs out from under the warmth of the duvet
pulling yourself up you make your way in the dark
a packet of strawberry and apple tea
what a combination, you think
who decides that combination?
water fills the porcelain white cup
into the microwave it goes
you listen to the engine roar and wonder how the water boils
watching the timer you quickly open the door to stop that horrid beeping
could we not have Beethoven’s 5th instead?
two minutes to wait
you decide to roll strange velcro type curlers into your hair
why would you not, doesn’t everyone?
it becomes obvious that midnight logic is different than daytime
the tea bag is lowered into the hot water
you begin to make your way across the room
passing two lamps, but you decide to do it in the dark
till you walk on the birch tree bark you left on the floor
fumbling you reach for the table lamp
a glass of water is knocked over
you hear it thump onto the floor
how did it not break?
still in the dark
it becomes apparent that functioning in the night is futile
sipping the second cup of strawberries

november 9 2017
‘in the night’

Photo on 2017-11-09 at 3.50 AM #4