These lines you see

these lines you see
are all coded bits of me
every time my heart grew with passion
every tear of disappointment 
every day I spent in wonder
every time I fell into the depths of love
every time of contemplation, live or fly
every door I opened and closed

all the giggles and questions of the young
those precious little voices and faces
are embedded in my lines
they make me smile 
they make my heart swell 

you may see aging lines
I see a life lived
no one can or should live forever
youth is for the young
I am happy to be tired and happy to sleep
my lines tell me that now I can rest
for I have done my best


What is a home


walking on shadowed footprints
my soles weakened, thin, bruised
standing in front of yet another door
another passage for me to travel
what now?

months of sorting, trashing, packing
four solid days of burning
forty years [i guess] of files, receipts, birthday cards, letters
memories and momentoes

reading and reliving every recipt, every note
the flames dance entertaining me with their different colours
trying to distract to amuse me
flames acting like small court jesters
they seem to understand how difficult this is
for this is one of the hardest things I had not ever anticipated

I did this, I saved every single recipt
every single hand written note
I ask myself why
did I ever think this would be important to do
why did I date every single drawing he drew
this matters to no one

Have I given my life away
as I lived in his shadow
did the sun not reach my heart and soul
now, I stand completly alone
will the sun even see me
or will I be one of many seeds that never sprouts
a seed that remains underground
its only purpose to fertilize the earth
for others to grow

So many thoughts racing in my mind
words gridlock
blocking every exit
I will drive till I find one
then I will plant seeds of my dna


When Self-doubt Hits


when self-doubt hits

it seeps into one’s flesh

spreads with haste

a painter’s brush

coated with pigment

like a kiss

it touches the water soaked parchment

camouflaging all intentions

swiftly it moves across the surface

changing everything

into shades of   anything

insecurity hits and leaves a mark

like a bruise deep into your muscle tissue2

it changes you

you might look in a mirror

you might see a reflection

is it you


is it one of a stranger?

does it possess a hint of what was

is everything slightly off

does it look like vertigo feels?                                       3

one’s equilibrium thrown off kilter

reality is fickle

once  known

now a stranger

looking back at you






december 10 2018

drawings © by tamayagarner




what is reality
is it a circle
does it have a razor’s edge
do we live in one dimension
are there doorways in constant loop
changing angles, colours, temperatures



are we bits of memories
floating through space
unaware of our true physical selves
if in fact, we are


perhaps we are merely code
being created every second
an anomaly that exists like dust
floating about with every exhale
we are so impressed with ourselves
yet we did not create this planet or universe
we may very well be a mistake
what will one day rectify itself

this poses more questions
of which I am cautious in reflection
perhaps science is just a method
to understand the mechanics
leaving the wheel of life
to its mystery


december 4 2018

First Snow

Sitting here
the room full of white light
reflection of the morning snow
Sitting here
my fingers concentrating
mini stitches on my quilt
Sitting here
no real desire to step outside my room
watching artist documentaries on youtube
Sitting here
no ambition
no thoughts of future
no aspirations
still, I feel warm, content,
mindful and awe-inspiring of such greats
Andrew Wyeth
Hammershoi of which I have never heard but now love
Sitting here
my finger on ‘enter’
within seconds I am engulfed in lives
Mary and Christoper Pratt
I think of their brilliance
I think ‘what is the point?’
Sitting here
knowing we are not to compare
but truly what is the point
Sitting here
I am relieved that the microwave has beeped
I can now leave
comfort myself with lemon tea
another documentary
perhaps to find purpose
‘The scene continues with a dialogue  between artist and microwave’
Yes! I am coming! I am coming!
microwaves will rule us yet.
This has been silly side effects of the first snow day.

Child of White Light


Who is this child

so small

her smile in full bloom

I pick her up

I hold her close

she brightens the room

not like a light bulb

not like the sun

more like a pure white energy

who is this child

that appeared in my dream

holding her I walk about in this small house

from room to room passing people I feel I know

there are no faces

there are no voices

the house seems full 

as if it were a gathering

I hold this smiling child close and tenderly

as I walk from room to room

there are no walls

just beautiful, contented white light

who is this child

that came to me in my dream

this child that brought me peace and contentment

this child of white light





what and why do we?

is there something for to see

i feel no memory vibrating in me

nothing left by the queen bee

while she was in a mating spree

even if so briefly


a miracle as such

should surly insomuch

gift us initial touch

hidden in our memory hutch


if our minds truly are 

the greatest computer created

should I not then be able to retrieve

all the memories that created me?

to feel the warmth

to feel no anger no fear, no resentment 

to feel the miracle happening

temperatures rise and fall

the walls move in and out

then there it is

the one seed that is meant only for me

other cells peacefully disburse

leaving the dance floor open for the transformation

only what was meant to be will be created

one becomes two becomes four becomes eight

till a dotted spine appears

two large eyes, webbed fingers, little toes

floating softly, hearing, sensing

we do not retrieve this memory as our birthday gift
that moment when turbulence forces us out

perhaps that is why I am so drawn to the ocean
could that be where our memories are stored?

why it pulls at my umbilical cord 

why the sound of its movement calms me

could that be my memory 

my birth day?

listening to Dan Evenson’s Sound Healing.



with peanut butter and rye toast

waking my tastebuds

with a stream of caffeine flowing down my throat

with Galloway’s flute filling my room with sweetness

I sit in my wicker chair

waiting, and watching the morning wake

 my sky with so many shades of grey

grey, a word worthy of a metal

it dances for many others

without taking the lead

at times it will soften the edge

or intensify the starkness

grey is so misunderstood

even speaking its name we tilt our voice downward

giving the impression of sadness

grey is not sad or empty 

it’s not the void of light

grey walks with everyone

it prepares you for the brilliants of a fuchsia morning sky

or sets you down gently in the evening light

grey is courageous and trustworthy

it will hold on to your tears

for it knows they are precious 

often returning them to you as a lullaby 

my grey sky is waking

it’s opening the door for the hues of gentle pink 

grey is calling me and it wants me to dance

for the morning sky is coming

the morning sky is coming