Metamorphosis by tamaya garner ©




am I awake,,,
notes drifting in low,, so,,, low
from the forest floor
s l i t h e r i n g over logs
dead from time pasted

there is something else
something,,, something like that sound of static
somewhere in the background,,,

so still the cellos notes float by 
oblivious, resistant, indifferent
to who they pass or why
they float on by

the skin on my feet have thicken
more than days or months, I faintly remember,,,,, did the notes first come
like memories surviving within the horsehair threads
every note played response to intuition
only through music do they emerge
like whispers floating in the air

I walk blind to the morning sun and the night’s moon
walking on soft decaying leaves
protects me from sharp twigs
I walk following the notes

static now turns into tapping
tapping like a finger on a window pane
attempting to draw attention without startling
tapping,,, tapping,, tapping

I raise my face to the sky attempting
to breath in fresh life, new thoughts

waterfalls gently upon my face
pooling in the pockets of my eyes
my mouth opens to release the spirits within
as I open my eyes the water floods in
like a tsunami wave

I now see the treetops
but they are underwater
birds have turned into fish
the sky is now the ocean
have I changed?
was I  larvae now metamorphosing
into,,, into,, what?
the notes I have been following are still here
only I am not following
as much as breathing them all in
they seem to be everywhere
or I am now, them
have I become the notes
that I once followed
was the cello my beacon?

now I breathe in
the life that surrounds me
I move effortlessly
with just a thought
static is now no more
for I walk on the ocean floor

january 29 2018


Inspired by the music of
Jesse Ahmann Cellist
‘cello with rain on a tin roof’





Who Would Have Thought,,,


Who would have thought,,,
that floating in a pool of contained water
might have one feel like a dead leaf 
fallen from a tired old tree

Who would have thought,,,
that skin would seem to leave one’s body
like moon dust from the nights’ sky

Who would have thought,,,,
that memories would play
like a movie reel on the ceiling
leaving you lost, dizzy, wishing to be elsewhere

Who would have thought,,,,
that the movement of water beneath our body
could transport us to another time

Who would have thought,,,
that leaving one’s physical body could be so easy
water holding us like millions of hands
feeling so secure in the weightlessness
closing one’s eyes
first gently, then as the music builds we clench them tighter
for we want to stay in that zone
we want to be raptured with its intensity
we want to stay in that memory
holding our breath
our tears mix with the salty water
screaming with no voice
why must hearts be ripped apart
what purpose would the universe have for separating us
there can be no gain
nothing that totals to better things
who, yes who, indeed

Who would have thought,,,
that our lives were just words on a page
descriptive thoughts, a fantasy created in someone’s mind
to write a tale of love
a love so full of fantasy
surly, could never be real
could it?

Who would have thought,,,
that, the meeting was chance
that, reading a name in a booklet
could strike a note that would vibrate through one’s mind and body
retracing every inch of our memory roads
thoughts create a ripple effect
soon our entire being is racing and raising our temperature
sweat streaming from our pores like rivers from a mountain
our breathing plays like distant drums
we can hear nothing but the piano keys being hit
the vibrations of the base cello hitting my chest
my ears overflowing with deafening sounds of love
two hearts fighting to break free through layers of muscle and skin
exhausted they lie tightly together almost accepting defeat

Who would have thought,,,
that a single cell would die for them
creating the smallest of opening
an opening, where both hearts would escape
holding each other so tightly they merge as one
never to be separated again

Who would have thought,,,
fantasy or memory


january 26 2018




words can open your heart
words, expose darkness within
words, blanket us with comfort
words, of commitment
words, of separation
words, of frozen fear

a single word
can encompass an entire decade
a single word
can change a person’s life
one word can give you reason to live
or permission to die
words are the greatest gift we have been given
words are worth more than gold
words can describe how gold looks and feels
how it can captivate your soul
how it represents eternal love
how it has the power to destroy
some words should come with a warning label
other words should never be spoken

imagine buying your food with a poem
going to the theatre to read words on the big screen
we could give words as birthday gifts
baptisms or weddings or funerals

take any word
now add some before and after
you now have a collection
with the right words
we might be able to stop fighting
with words of understanding and openness
we might enjoy each other a bit more

open yourself
expose your feelings
then let the words flow out of you
with song or rhyme
or just on the rocks
or a twist of lemon
or an olive
words are a beautiful thing
to be enjoyed
my word today is share
what is yours?

december 6 2017




One Heart


lungs need air
eyes need a soul to see
mouth needs thought and words to speak

what of the heart
my heart
is it just a pump designed to flow blood
why is it in my centre
where I can place my hand and feel it beat
our two hearts pressed against each other so many times
is this not the true function of the heart

to fall in love
may be a statement of false
for we do not fall
instead, we give of oneself
we expose our hearts
we welcome the merge
the pressing of our chests together
with every kiss
with every embrace
another vein is fused
woven or welded together as one
such a bond
creates the strongest of heart

when one dies
every kiss
every embrace
must be unwoven ever so slowly
for, if we succumb to haste
we will bleed out, in great pace



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