When Self-doubt Hits

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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

or

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

 

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Questions

 

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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

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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

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december 4 2018

First Snow

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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.
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This has been silly side effects of the first snow day.

Time, Illusion or Reality​

Time Illustion or Reality 2018

looking into the mirror

seeing a reflection

glare of wonder

will the image change

if I lock on and freeze eye to eye

a slight burning of the lids distract

floaters passing by like fluffy clouds in an open sky

when they dissolve  and the mirror is again in focus

for a moment an image is captured

or a thought is born

no one really knows

I look again and 

past my reflection deep into a corner

I see life of a past time

like a movie reel ticking along

is our life present connected to our life past

do each play out in different zones

have I discovered the rabbit hole to my own existence

how often does our life play out

does my mirror reflect inside

reflect inside, reflect inside, inside, inside

past becoming present

present becoming future

is my life a kaleidoscope of time

do I even exist or 

am I just a flash of  light in the mirror 

are these my thoughts

my handwritten words

am I a form of electromagnet energy bits

collecting and passing time

is that me I see in the mirror

or is it something else

something I don’t yet understand

The Power Of Music

 

2

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

NOW

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

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Day In Corn Field

CORNFIELD

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between the cobs
secrets held tightly
rows upon rows
little bodies in cocoons
no pink or yellow bows

my world is a cornfield
of endless paths

one – you chose
two – you walk
three – you discover
four – you question
five – you doubt
six – you look back
seven – you rethink
eight – you adjust
nine – you fail
ten – you contemplate
eleven – you decline
twelve – your at the end
my world is like a corn field

the sky is full of the ancients
you might have seen their faces in the sky
as they were drifting by
maybe you have heard one calling
could it have been a crow’s cry

life is full of questions
never do I feel satisfied
when one path I decide to walk
the other passes by

I stand and watch the moments
that mimics me to a fault
then sit in my square of stalks laid bare
where secrets are kept in a vault

still I hear the whispers
chasing me around
sometimes they make me giggle
but often they make me frown

the sun feels warm
and makes me feel secure
secrets of the cornfield
I must forever endure

dark sky draws near
blue figure begins to appear
sound of cracking on cascading stalks
not a whisper heard as they walk
they frighten me for idle fun
I hear the footprints, I don’t run
frozen to the ground, I can hear them come

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like shadows they move through each other
flying like a butterfly
still, sit and wonder
why cornfield children don’t cry

they sleep alone
perched onto the stalk which is their home
leaves layered all around
golden hair falling down

I call to whispering shadow
to stand in front of me
for I would like to dance a waltz
and have a cup of tea

shadows in the field
was that you calling me?
or was it just the crows 
flying up into the tree

I will walk upon your row of rows
till the north wind blows
forever to sleep upon your chest
hold you till eternal rest

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This day I sat, all day in the middle clearing of a cornfield. After some time creating photo poems I began to write. I wanted to see how sitting and experiencing the solitude would change my writing. Observing my reactions to the solitude. With the sun and clouds moving overhead, it was the wind that held me most. The wind whispering in the rows deep. Then like flying birds, it would rise and join the sky.
I was surprised that I became frightened as the wind would jump about for my mind interrupted it as ‘ghosts gathering’. owwwwuuuu
Till in the end, I sort of accepted where I was. As the sun came down my friends called over the tops of the corn tassels. Coffee was brewed!
I was quite content to leave the field and all its whispers.
All and all I think it was a good experiment and one that I will do again, in a different isolated place.
There is also a mini video on YouTube, though I was not able to add a link.

 

 

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Sitting
elbows weighing heavily on the wooden table
chin
bearing down in the palms of my hands
breathing
irregular
chest
held captive by
words, thoughts, images, sounds

Where
are the waves crashing against the ancient rock
the ocean, filled with memories of time
where
is the cello that moans with the wind
quenching my parched heart

I fill my ears with notes of Glass
the tapping of ivory keys
vibrate through my skin

my skin
my skin
that has been holding a million tears
holding, like some golden treasure
an illusion that I have created
a place that I run to when the world feels foreign

Glass fingers keep tapping
causing my heart to swell, expand, expose itself
music eclipses sorrow
holding and slowing time
I pause 
allowing my breath to penetrate
my heart to go quiet
allowing myself to feel the rhythm

One note
a continuance of notes
all are the blood that nourishes
my mind and heart
it can be heard everywhere
it can also be seen
as it touches  a leaf on a tree
or skips along the water’s surface
music
the motivation of life

september 12 2017

 

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