Water and salt and a little bit of dirt
Slides down my face
The salty goodness runs onto my lip
The wet taste of shame and pain
Of desire and longing
Of suppressed emotions
Expressed through a solitary drop
Once gone never returning
For the thought of this hidden action
Being seen by another
The thought of someone
Being able to see past the toothy smile
And read the inner soul
Of that solitary drop
Is frightening
This lonesome tear
Is shed in secret
Between the happy laughter
And the kind words
But as quick as it comes
It disappears
The back of hand:
God’s natural eraser
Removing all signs
That something deeper lies within
Behind that toothy grin
There is a lonely soul within
Made up of water, salt and a little bit of dirt
written: January 13th 2012

Place in the World

Life is a constant stumble and fumble
of navigating through the world
looking for your place
for where you are supposed to be
as if the universe designed a single little space where only you can fit.
But the you of yesterday is not the you of tomorrow.
Does the universe know this?
Does it change and adapt
as you change and grow,
change and regress?
Perhaps it creates numerous little spaces for you to occupy;
for when you find yourself alone and free
or together and comfortable.
Perhaps your mistakes and mishaps
reshape your little niche,
moves it from place to place.
So you struggle and fumble some more,
forever searching.
But maybe the universe mocks us all
and we never need truly search,
for we are always where we should be
in the time and place.
It seems we are destined to a fate of free will and decision
and it is only a matter or embracing yet not attempting
to solve this puzzle of a life
which allows our unknown place to reveal itself.

written: March 1st, on my blackberry, finished in the Plaza Mayor, Salamanca, Spain


Tengo una pregunta.
¿Porque me quieres? ¿Porque me ames?
No sé porque.
Y es la pregunta de mi vida,
pero la respuesta que no quiero.

Copyright Sarrah Coward 2013. All rights reserved.



In my room
there lies a nostalgic wall.
Memories upon memories
side by side 
lie postcards. 
Generic postcards.
Yet within each piece of dead tree and ink
there is a story
of a journey,
of a destination,
and of a voyage home.
Each rectangle and square
depicts a monument or event
tells an alternate tale
of adventure and discovery.
the past is relived
and feelings unearthed
by this nostalgic wall
forever remembering,
so that I do not forget.

Red Light

Red Light

Snipers run silent on streets: point and aim.
A target, the boy – his blood flies wild.
Lightning bolts rain hell from rooftops; their game?
To kill before being killed. Poor child.

The mice move on. Victim number two. It.
Her. Suspicious eyes. Bang! Bang! Red.
A baby wails in pain. Its heart was hit.
Both souls soar high towards heaven ahead.

The locus spread. Bodies and bodies pile.
Point and aim. The thunderclouds move for show.
Little girl, the target from a mile.
Her face says something that you didn’t know.

She pulls a gun from the heel of her boot.
The hunter now hunted. Point. Aim. Shoot.

This is a sonnet I wrote for Grade 11 English a few years ago. It’s not perfect, as in the some of the syllables and counting are off. 

♥ Turtles

A longing to create

I wrote this poem as part of my poem challenge. That challenge, which was to write a poem every day for as long as I can, has ended. About 3 days ago. I admit, I had missed a few days, but that was mostly because a poem was unfinished and I was thinking it over. This poem is called “A longing to create”. I really like to sew, cut and paste, make crafty things, and just generally create new stuff. But I’ve been kind of uninspired lately so that is where the inspiration came from. In my head, it is more like spoken word, so imagine someone reading it like that…

A longing to create
There is a longing to create
flowing through my veins 
from my heart to my brain
just giving me pain
and it’s a strain
to contain
wills and desires
a glittery lust
settling dust
of ashes burnt
from a muse’s flame
who inspires 
who retains
thoughts and ideas
and imagination
in a world littered
with diamonds and pearls
lost pieces of hope
sailing the river of soul
from my brain to my heart
flowing veins of art
suppressed in part
by time and chance
forever obstructing
the natural flow
eternally fueling
my longing to create.

Written March 21st 2011

♥ Turtles

I Won?

Remember that Spanish poem I entered into my school’s Spanish writing contest? (Here if you don’t know what I’m talking about). Well I won first place in the poetry category. Yeah. I’m kinda shocked and thoroughly excited. It’s the first thing I’ve ever really won. They had a ceremony on Monday night but I didn’t go, for various lame reasons (now that I think about it). The only two participants who didn’t attend were myself and a guy in my Spanish class who wrote a short story. My Spanish teacher was disappointed 😦 I wish I had gone but alas, too late now.

I found out I had won something from a girl in my french class yesterday, who herself had won in the speech writing category. Today I went to the Department of Hispanic Studies to collect my prize: a pen, a mug and $40 to the university bookstore. Yea!! Now I can by some mints and sweater.

♥ Turtles


I decided to enter a Spanish writing competition at my school where you can enter a short story, an essay or a poem. And of course I wrote a poem, because I suck at short stories and the thought of attempting more Spanish grammar than necessary, is not particularly appealing.

I finished my poem on Sunday after thinking about it for the whole weekend. It’s called La soledad or Loneliness. It rhymes in Spanish, but not too much in English. The Spanish version is first, and then my English translation (it sounds better in Spanish :P)

La soledad

La soledad
es una oportunidad
para examinar la realidad
de ayer

La soledad
no da racionalidad
pero la claridad
en el mundo

La soledad
es una invisibilidad
y una dualidad
nadie puede ver

La soledad
es la tragedia de edad;
la longevidad
de tiempo

La soledad
es fragilidad;
es la casualidad
de ser.


is an opportunity
to examine the reality
of yesterday

does not bring rationality
but rather clarity
in the world

is an invisibility
and a duality
no one can see
is the tragedy of age;
the longevity
of time
is fragility;
it is the casualty
of being
♥ Turtles

Just a bit of poetry…

Think back to my Challenges post, where I said I would attempt to draw something everyday for 30 days. Well, scratch that. I can’t draw, and the prospect of doing that is actually very unappealing. So instead, I’ve decided to try and write at least one poem everyday, for as long as I can. Much more reasonable, although their quality is highly questionable.
So far it’s been going well. I started yesterday, because I like to start things either on Sundays or Mondays. I won’t post every poem I write but I’ve decided that I will probably post some from the week on Tuesdays.
The first one is a sonnet, because I haven’t written one since gr. 11 English. I’m pretty sure it follows the rules, but is not to strict with the iambic pentameter. It is based on my Me to We trip to Kenya, a year ago tomorrow (post to come!). Salabwek is the name of the community we stayed in.


A soft orange sun rises on the plains.

The rooster awakens with the new dawn.
Mosquitoes on my arms bring me new pains,
While scars across my body are drawn.

But the scars do not last long, for today
The skies are filled with a healing power.
By Mother Nature’s will I must obey
As the rain becomes my natural shower.
In the fields afar I hear a child
Singing a song of welcome to the air.
Jambo Bwana to this land so wild.
He sings: What is mine is ours to share.
I find myself so far away from home,
But embracing this land, to me unknown.
The second one was written today and was inspired by a line in The Gospel According to Peanuts, a book I am currently reading. The line is taken from Time Magazine: “Man now rejoices, said Time, ‘ that, to some extent, he has been freed from the fear of hell-fire, not realizing that he has instead been condemned to the fear of nothingness.'” Deep stuff.
What I Fear…
I fear for what the world will become.
I fear that which we have created will become that which leads to our own demise.
I fear that our belief in the tangible will destroy the unknown.
I fear that our civilization will result in nothing but a blip on the timeline of the universe.
I fear that the world will not explode, but whimper to its death.
I fear the vacuum of space, which will draw the last bit of breath from our lungs.
I do not fear Hell, but rather the vast emptiness of nothing to which we are all doomed.

p.s. Instead of saying handsome or beautiful, why not try “facially gifted”  it’s random 🙂

A Poem of Remembrance

A while ago, I wrote this poem inspired by a picture of a black, southern, slave with scars on his back in  National Geographic’s Concise History of the World (2006). Love that book. Sadly I don’t have a photo, because I’m not at home and will not be back for about a week.
Since it’s black history month, I thought it might be nice to post it, although I’m not the biggest fan of the month, but that’s another issue. No name for the poem because I suck at naming things 🙂
The scars of my people rang hot on your back
Their pain was yours to carry
The suffering, the crying of a nation spent,
Their hurt is what made you wary
But somewhere inside a part of you said
I come from a long line of kings
Brave people and faces who toughed all strife
Who were guided by a voice within
Your scars are reminders of battles long fought
The pain a distant numbness inside
My nation no longer weeps great tears
But still struggles to keep hurt aside
The thoughts and ideas that held us captive so long
Are still keeping many souls hostage
There’s a long way to go until true acceptance is found
Until we’re finally free of this bondage
But we give thanks to  those who gave hope to the people
Thanks to those whose voices rang loud
Thanks to the hearts who gave everything they had
We promise, we’ll make you proud