A landslide brought me down.
I did not choose who would gather my pieces. To peace is.

Who were you before your parent’s were born?

Who was I meant to be.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeee– the thunder rolls over the desert.
The rain reaches tides along the coast.

Who am I without you?

Emerald leaves turn red as the blood count rises.
pomegranate seeds.

Extricate myself from you, you are the ones who polished me with your stories.

with illusion.

I cannot reshape what you have carved me to be.

Cannot fill the cracks


Tools of love, redemption, betrayal, manipulation …




the space between each thought.

The silence.

It oozes,
and drops-
onto the sides of the paper.

the lines.
the energies.

And it was in the space, (in this silent space alone), between each thought,
that I found (all) that I was searching.

No need to find an anchor, it (I) was already here.

Pure radiant consciousness, (me).

The Light

The paisley scope of parallel skies paints rhythms in your head- draws illusions in your bed,
but you can’t see the demise,
built castles from those lies.
The walls won’t break with rattle snakes disguised as gargoyle eyes-
you shake the storm and with hubris you roam,
planting thorns amongst the clover.
But crooked is your foundation.

The light may seem as a thin veil,
but she has many proportions.
Dimensions deep-
The ones you seek, but too shallow to beholden.

Yes, you can knit this amber vest of bullet proof protection,
But light can seep through anything and catch all your deception.
An immolation you will be, despite your contempt.
The light, she has her legion, scattering confetti upon your descent.


This highway, this road, that leads to your old home, I remember so well- it surprised me.
I used to sing, Where is my King, long ago before Darkness had found me.

Was it silent in the car, we drove near, we drive far, or did we fill it with many whispers?
I don’t recall, the details, they all, seem so loosely

With silver string, and pretty things, I try so hard to sew them near each other.
But, the needle, weightless, feather it seems, slips between my fingers.

a lucid dream,
I cannot seem to capture.
Upon my walls, pictures of you all, my life and my laughter.

What was I to you, a child, a mother, a sister.
Those best describe the roles, the lies, the tender, the longing, the gifted.

It was not all as it seemed-
And, not nearly what we planned, while playing sticks in the sand,
but we lived the dream. Even better than many.

Within these new walls,
and public washroom stalls-
Forgiving forests,
and discerning rivers,
and, glacial lakes- the white-natives call it.

what they would not, could not name:
the ice in their stares, cold chilling, the cod they were selling.

Because, that would be impolite, to draw attention to the light-
the book of knowledge: the false truths, they were believing
the pictures on the screens,
reflecting a blue-green in their family and dining TV rooms,
made false images of us all, the great, the weak, the small- and of me and all I belonged to.

Spirits in my Head

There is a space, a room in your head, where spirits can roam- undisturbed.

They find the path from through you spine and slowly walk up the curve.
They knock three times at the base of your skull where the light shines and pools.
They enter through, find peace from snares-
and takeoff their dusted overcoats.
Some have wings, others just float, and some need neither nor.

They are related to you, through this web we weave, through this thing we call life.
Not having lived but once- we’ve collected them in all our dimensions of time.
They gently come, to disturb no one, but dwell with those they know:
We’ve forgotten them, in our conscious state, in this conscious state: our home.

Unaware, we lead these busy lives, these lives made worthy through busy.
But when the day leads into night and busy bleeds by attrition- we catch a furtive glimpse, a subconscious lift.
Because, we cannot reach the final end without the very beginning,
for that, my friend, has always been the one that’s everlasting.

The person within, the you that is all accumulating, will always be remaining.
She knows of all the creatures who come up the curve and tell you to stop spinning.

Pistachios and Prose

When we were children-
Noticing light through specs of dust,
Time slowing like monotony-
bodies feeling heightened sensations: it was too cold to play outside- skin hurts- we squirm as it warms-up: tingling feels like torture.
It’s the little things, you said, that make me stay with him.
Unraveling the easter-coloured tissue paper, making up for the big things is his art form, and I am dazzled at the sun seeping through like stained glass.

It was not like this before, but I eased into it- the metronome slowly built a gait and now we are galloping through this thing we are meant to savour. Except, with lightning speeds, the colours like neon bulbs, meld into each other, everything in life looks like an 80s music video. It hurts my teeth.

But when I look into her eyes, her grace is the same. The warmth in her gaze is kept- with ambers of undying hope.
Which, should have been lost. Could have been lost. May have been lost, long ago, but saved in the nooks of her luggage. Probably quickly packed in a roll of socks- held up between a cellophane of saffron and a bag of pistachios.

We fled, you know. But they don’t.
And then we say: there’s no more room.

Our hearts have shrivelled into the same size
as those
same specs of dust.

Sunset Strip

Because this dance, with you and I, has left me in a trance.
My bewilderment replaced by your chivalry-
will I finally get the chance?
To waltz with all those many few who fell for true love’s grip,
and dip with midnight prancers
on this moonlit strip.


The moss dips over
swayed branches
the frost suspends in
silver air particles
Your breath warms them over
my spine

Narrowly finding courage-
missing the window-
I smile.

It’s better this way,
lacing platitudes between my thoughts,

Will never miss what never was-

I chose to remember my feelings for you- enraptured in love inspired by you-
and the green in your eyes matched the moss.

~ Sareh Donaher