Welcome in. Take a breath.
Let the dust of the day settle.
Have you ever noticed how much quiet energy we spend just trying to hold our world still? We organize our days, trace our steps in advance and mistake a predictable routine for a well-managed life. But life is an elemental, moving current, and safety is rarely where the soul actually breathes.
Consider the moments when the air shifts. A sudden change in your body, the quiet fracture in a room you thought was solid, or just the heavy realization, on an ordinary afternoon, that an old illusion you’ve carried with you has simply run out of breath.
Our immediate reaction is to treat these moments as errors—detours that ruin the real story. But let’s sit together for a moment in the quiet of that break. If you look closer, you see a deeper, more stubborn logic at play. What if the disturbance isn’t a detour at all? What if it is the skin of the story splitting so the truth can finally breathe?
True transformation never waits for a polite invitation. It interrupts. It breaks open the outer casing to see what is honest enough to survive the air, reminding us that what can be shattered was usually just a shell anyway. It is only through these precise fissures that reality rushes back in.
This month, we sit directly in the turn. We aren’t rushing toward a neat resolution or hunting for an easy exit. Instead, we look at the cracks in our own narratives—not as a diversion from our path but as the path itself, clearing the ground for whatever is real enough to stay.
Listen to the Turn
At Saccharum, we believe poetry belongs to the breath. Long before ink met paper, truth lived in the cadence of the oral tradition.
We invite you to close your eyes, press play, and let the immersive soundscapes carry you. Listen to the raw, distinct cadence of each writer as they speak their own ruptures into existence.
If this feels like home, consider stepping closer. By joining our tribe as a subscriber, you don’t just read the work—you sustain a living sanctuary for independent art, deep philosophy, and the ancient magic of the spoken word.
Listen. Breathe. Love.
the 11th Minute — S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A
Downpour. Treeline inverts— dark earth, boulders of sky. White flesh sheared from time. 11 : 11 humming flit of wing meridian— shadowed line of gnomon nighthawk antiphon— We face the cipher-weight unmade spine split by the heavy— hand finds hand. Single breath, swallowed brackish. Grey wave. Lignum vitae deadens— resin rippling grain. Stuttered drop, clepsydra: ___________________shared rain. To drown becomes the ground.
©2026 S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
On Life and Cutting Onions — Laura Catanzano
Peel me slowly
mind the scales
roots and tips wrapped
yellowed tunic.
I’m smack in the middle now,
knuckles still white
and not quite sure
whether the shedding
hurts,
or
whether I’ll be left
even slightly lighter.
Right now,
I’m paper thin and only mildly
enticing, my own
pungent smell
making me nauseous.
Either way, I’m
crying,
either way,
I continue.
Learning, at the
end of it all
it doesn’t matter.
Sliced open and changed,
changed,
and cut open.
In the end,
it matters not-
no one ever promised
I’d be whole.
©2026 Laura Catanzano
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
Prelude: Author’s Meditation
Does something or someone awaken within a person diagnosed with a lifelong condition? Are you reborn, or merely replaced? It must be that this new persona arising is the twin who was never born but was always meant to emerge as the stronger, better-skilled version of yourself, prepared to live with the pain, the anguish, and the unpredictable nature of the condition.
Fire In My Soul — The Monday to Friday Poet by Otilia Jones
Two broken hands that cannot mend,
This pain that cuts like millions
Of knives released with force
From an unknown source.
“You are not dead,” she says;
Pain is a feminine energy in my mother tongue.
She arrives wearing a cape of mystical
Salvation through the path of torture.
It took ten years of visitation time
For an answer to the question
To arise and remove the cape;
She was exposed, boasting no more.
Facing my enemy, looking pain in the eye
Did not remove but turned her into a passenger
Through this life of mine.
Two hands in prayer for time.
She became an interlocutor;
We agreed to disagree on most;
She was fluent in hurting me,
I became fluent in giving her scores.
On a scale from zero to ten,
I scored her four,
And she would rage
And often flare.
She has now distanced herself from
This body of mine that I tortured
With exercise, diets, and tablets;
I ignored her into fading.
In this sidereal waiting room
Where time is slightly shorter,
Where pain needs a special lock,
I am still hoping for a cure…please don’t laugh.
©2026 The Monday to Friday Poet
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
the stoned ape theory — Jozef Cain
smoke fills
his hermetic chamber
the hermetic chamber
within a house
the hermetic chamber
he called his home
inside, ash falls
onto a bed, as he sinks
outside, the sheet
fallen, no sheet;
raw dog mattress
chainsaw engine choke
placed on tension broke
a turtle on atlas
george clinton, on repeat
saying something
in the background, laughing
floating
but the shit is pulling
him back to where
he almost drowned
before
cloudy-eyed
dream state
deep sleep
still awake
pacin’ ‘round
eight by twelve
up ‘n down
sitting, standing
laying, smoking
tripping,
tripping
psilocybin
cold sweats
and death strokes
five corners
where drywall
waves meet
coloured sinusoid
there’s something
humanoid
in the furniture
sharp curvature
ash stains
the inside of his mind
the fire burns the soul
and his father,
oh, his father
the poster on the wall
is the root of all evil
rip it off, trash it
with the cigarette packet
and get clean
after the great escape
from this stoned ape
be a man again
seen?
©2026 Jozef Cain
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
Gardening — Angledtay Ordsway Werd Gooru
We're standing in the weeds.
Pollen settles on petals
in the breeze working up a storm.
Nettles, soft and subtle
'til the sting.
When my inner child
was just me with a smaller shadow.
Prick of thistle, gasp of pain.
Refrain of crickets a lullaby balm.
Not a wound to weep over,
but a raised red portal to being noticed.
Walking away from grass that outgrew me.
Whisper a prayer of thanks.
Sunset is determined to
race us back to the truck.
Rumble voice matches the gravel
path to home.
Rough hands, red handkerchief
smoothed across welcomed welts.
Unbearable itch coated with calamine.
Unbearable need to be wanted,
covered with finally being seen.
Mud sinks a bit too deep
but stuck is better than growing up.
Squish of clay between toes
growing roots in do I belong?
Or did you simply sow a seed
to pursue a need to be normal.
A lineage of shaky hands, no demands,
not one plan to let the bud bloom.
©2026 Angledtay Ordsway Werd Gooru
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
The “Spirit of Destiny” — Mark Farley’s wandering’s
Malaysia
(a child’s thought ….)
the Jungle is noisy at night,
dense foliage, the moon is full, glimpses caught and lost …
shadowy ghosts played on the shiny wooden floor …
symphonies of sound …
buzzing insects - croaking frogs;
chirps - loud screeches - parrots squawking;
whistles of birds - occasional dog!;
elephants trumpeting - haunting screams;
roars of lions or tigers - calls echo - perhaps monkeys;
bats chirping - mysterious noises creatures unknown …
door, and floors creak …
I scramble back to bed …
untangling the mosquito nets …
as Amah speaks, “go to sleep, little one,” …
it’s only the Gurkhas on patrol …
eyes finally close, hear no more, until sunshine warms my cheeks ….
Mother
Children are to be seen, not heard …
a “Victorian philosophy” …
mother followed to the letter …
a cold woman, from the start …
she lived her expatriate lifestyle to the full …
I was just another belonging,
to be shown, dressed & booted,
whilst the ladies ….
then we left …
welcome new world ….
England was unfamiliar,
cold and wet …
I was miserable, alone …
urban sprawl everywhere you looked …
not a tree in sight …
they spoke a language …
I rarely used, or even knew …
odd food, no chopsticks, rice or spice …
potatoes, bread, cabbage, pies, little fruit …
uninspiring tasteless slop …
first year, school was another alien event,
not allowed to write, left handed, no more …
school mistress ruler bent, knuckles raw …
not sure which was worse …
year 3, another school …
a bus journey away, a thousand pupils, if not more …
a nightmare to start, but I found my way …
allowed to follow my path …
teachers helped, along the way …
otherwise a throughly disorienting experience …
my mother, nothing to tell …
I did see …
she spoke, she shouted …
best to ignore …
love, praise unknown emotions …
but there’s nothing more to say, a stranger… for all her days ….
nine years after we arrived …
a time of hell …
apparently I was to blame …
no twittering sparrows …
or Singapore slings …
I discovered my own, new world …
***
Life’s Lesson
Every time life knocks me down,
I get back up slowly,
Steadily I become me, once more,
Following the path I have forged ….
***
A Silver Ghost
braking hard …
the statue getting larger …
approaching rapidly …
nowhere to go …
jerked the steering wheel left …
almighty noise, crunching …screaming like a wounded animal …
obnoxious smells, hot oil, rubber, petrol vapour and smoke …
the metal box, I was travelling in, once a mini traveler,
disintegrating before my eyes …
defying logic, moving backwards, gleaming statue …
resembling a twisted metal can …
inside the twisted metal can …
misshapen like screwed-up paper …
I lay …
blood, agonising pain, broken limbs, fractured spine, burnt …
unconscious welcomed …
coma …
the spirit of Ecstasy looked on …
a life long companion …
a changed world …
***
Life’s Lesson
Every time life knocks me down,
I get back up slowly,
Steadily I become me, once more,
Following the path I have forged ….
***
Love lies bleeding in the gutter
Telephone rings, number unknown,
Hi, I’m your wife’s fuck buddy …
You’ve been cuckolded, he explained,
My heart shattered like a dam …
Bruises on her arms are where I grip her tight, he continued …
She wears those thigh-length leather boots,
Little else, he laughs,
She watches and controls …
He brags, she takes the reins completely,
As she rides me, into the ground …
With ferocious passion and lust,
You know, he boasts, with her wonderful aggressive rhythm.
Laughing, he goes away,
Devastated, heart racing, blood boiling …
The unvarnished truth …
Relationship ended, ego broke.
Reflecting, wife once was close to me,
Sexual gratification elsewhere,
Leaving heartbreaking rage in her wake,
Why, oh why.
***
Life’s Lesson
Every time life knocks me down,
I get back up slowly,
Steadily I become me, once more,
Following the path I have forged ….
***
Dementia and I, and …
I have an acquired brain injury,
That’s also traumatic …
Greedy some might say …
Physical , cognitive, emotional …
Like a fish on a beach …
I have an aneurysm, the brain …Artery ruptures …
Brain bleed …
No one to blame …
I’m not going to meech …
I have dementia, stealing memories, long and short …
I have dementia, looting my thoughts …
I have aphasia, robbing me of my speech …
I have aphasia, stripping me of my pen …
Dementia and Aphasia are a leech …
A wise man sits on my hospital bed, observes,
“what did you do?” He murmurs,
“Karma for sure”,
“but he’s not going to preach”,
The Professor then rises …
***
Life’s Lesson
Every time life knocks me down,
I get back up slowly,
Steadily I become me, once more,
Following the path I have forged ….
***
A low point
Houseboat on the Medway,
Home,
Nine years, bliss,
Forever gone …
Adventures and memories,
Aplenty,
The sunsets,
A bereavement.
***
closing the loop
but …
flip being lost …
change …
a freeing experience …
uncharted territory …
unhindered thinking …
gone, constraints of familiarity …baggage no more …
liberation from constraints …
freedom …
…
let the wandering commence ….
***
Satisfaction
A sensory shift …
Starkness exists …
Silhouettes …
Stillness …
Solitude …
Sound …
Illuminated by twinkling distant lights …
Serenity ….
***
the ride
life’s been a rollercoaster …
a chaotic experience …
twists, loops, turns …
intense highs …
deepest lows, unpredictable journeys …
***
but looking back …
I accept it for what it’s been …
great moments aplenty …
healthy challenges …
as the ride slowly ends . . .
Reflections
I find beauty in simplicity …
I find reverence in the quiet of things simply being …
I find my life is a meditative state …
I feel small but connected …
I find the warmth within the heart …
I find every day begins anew …
I feel reconnected to Mother Earth ….
Life’s Lesson
Every time life knocks me down,
I get back up slowly,
Steadily I become me, once more,
Following the path I have forged ….
©2026 Mark Farley’s wandering’s
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
The Necessary Disruption: Breaking the Illusion — Sacred Rebelle
There comes a moment - quiet, inconvenient, almost rude in its timing -
when the illusion begins to crack.
It appears as the thinnest hairline fracture
running through what you thought could only ever be solid.
You’re washing dishes.
Answering emails.
Saying “I’m fine” in a tone you’ve practiced for years.
And something in you whispers:
This isn’t it.
Because the illusion of separateness is not loud.
It’s not a villain with a name tag.
It is patterned. Inherited. Practiced.
It is the way we learn to brace against the world
instead of moving with it.
Because somewhere along the way, we picked up the lie…
that safety means disconnection,
that love requires self-abandonment,
that survival means: go it alone.
And so we do.
Becoming exquisitely skilled at being islands
while quietly starving for the ocean.
Waking up is disruptive -
the kind that rearranges your nervous system’s sense of reality.
The kind that interrupts your patterns mid-sentence.
The kind that makes you realize…
oh… I’ve been participating in something that hurts me.
Somewhere along the way,
I stopped living from the heart
and learned how to survive from the mind.
Sometimes disruption looks like chronic pain that refuses to be silenced,
because the body is done carrying
what the lineage could not metabolize.
Sometimes it looks like everything suddenly feels… misaligned.
Disruption can feel like loss
before it feels like liberation.
So let yourself have space to recalibrate.
Because what is breaking is not you.
It is the agreement you inherited…
that you are separate from your body,
separate from your ancestors,
separate from the living field of everything that breathes with you.
Awakening is not an escape.
It is a return.
And return requires disruption.
Because you cannot come back into relationship…
with your body,
with your truth,
with the wider field of life—
without unsettling the patterns that kept you separate.
Disruption matters…
Because it creates a pause
where there used to be repetition.
And in that pause, something new becomes possible.
Like…
a breath that is actually felt,
a boundary that does not collapse,
a recognition…
soft at first, then undeniable…
that you were never separate to begin with.
Only conditioned to believe you were.
So if you find yourself in that strange, in-between space
where you can’t go back,
but you don’t quite know how to go forward…
You don’t have to force the awakening.
You only have to stop resisting
the disruption that is already here.
The crack has formed.
The light,
quiet, persistent, and enduring,
is already finding its way through.
©2026 Sacred Rebelle
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
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I'm so moved by all of these raw and honest pieces.
Beautifully heartbreaking and held with such care.
xoxo
A privilege to have been involved, thank you to Sylvia and Jozeh. The soundscapes added another dimension to the readings. A moving experience listening to the other artists involved reading their poetry. 🙏