Readings

Come to listen! Come to Participate!

Open Mic Night @ SBPL on Jan 30, 2026 @ 6pm-7:30pm


You can also hear Sarah Emma Ruth read any Tuesday night down as a participant At COMMA in partnership with CAW's Storytelling is The Revolution. 

** this is not a place for "good" or "polished" writing. It is a place to get in touch with what is true, for each of us in the room. Tayllor and Ade facilitate a safe and rich space for writers and artists of all experience levels and backgrounds. Find out more/register here***



Click here to watch/listen Santa Barbara Public Library Open Mic  on 7/11/2025 (filmed by my dad.) 

        Recordings I paired via QR code with the rocks I put on display at that show can be found on soundcloud, here: 

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Send Sarah Emma Ruth $5 for coffee via Venmo

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Morning Catch

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In the dream

In the dream In the dream you are still here at your best, giving me what I want. The ache is still here too. Someone dies something is lost but not you. You call me “sweets” and hold my hand and smell like you always do good. I wake up and starfish, limbs stretching over your absence as if just to check. In the waking dream too then, you are never                        really gone. 
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Divorcรฉ Dream

Divorcรฉ Dream  This morning I had a dream that there were two  of him, not one, that I’d lost two of mine, then two of my sisters, and he didn’t notice or care we’d been surrounded  by bad fakes. No one did, that is, unless I said something.  And saying it felt scary. Then again, what other choice did I have?  I told every woman I could. When I said it, my mom and sisters believed me. But saying it didn’t solve anything. In the dream, nothing did. I felt panicked, lost. That’s when I went inside myself,  In the dream, and cried “help!” In the dream, a small sun catcher wrapped in a homemade rose colored envelope- the kind my oldest daughter makes— Emerged.  In the dream when she floated above me  And unwrapped herself, I saw a small rainbow smiling, and it  said cheerfully “Hello, there. I can help.” Tearfully, I described them: first my nieces, then my youngest daughter. The love for them, the grief swelling hot in my chest and eyes. In...
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I Don't Like Poems That Make Me Sound "Troubled"

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