Author: VJ

Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

An Escape Plan

An incorrigible hag
engages my loneliness –
like an assassin sniffing out
any scent of vulnerability

I am lowering standards
this history of imprisonment
enabling inappropriate openings

I cry for new perspective
ponder after boundaries
intending to defend

Like an unwanted bullseye
I am pursued on repeat
malice considering me
a problem to be solved

Who is this old woman
whose thoughts are daggers
who calls upon predators
to devour my freedom?

And what ancestral legacy
sets me on such tenuous ground
entrusts the key to my soul
to such devilish factions?

I strike out and miss
am twice thwarted
but refuse to submit

Have espied the resources within
will defeat the infernal voices
and confront the witch

Wits calculating
confidence a repellent
teetering on the edge of victimhood
not a path I care to repeat.

(Ink sketch my own)

Where Are The Dogs?

Contemplating risk –
a reunion with a former self
looking for an exit

When did I become a snake
restrained?
When did I become persona non grata?

I slither between stories
convince myself I can fly
distraction a ruse

I have big cat energy
overstepping boundaries
socially adverse

A faulty jewel
dreaming of abundance
 but there’s a dragon to disarm

My mother’s burden on my back
identity a slippery grasp
always outrunning disaster

Fraternize with celebrity, but
too busy boarding
Warehousing:

spiders in the cellar
straight pins on the floor
newspapers akimbo

How will I put self first
while catering to others, upended?
Unable to park this relentless ache

Boundaries, my soul cries
Enact self protection
Install dogs at the door.

(Image my own)

Mother

When I had a mother
my hair would cascade
in curls of auburn perfection
a red velvet bow to accentuate the wave

And I’d wear my best
newly sewn frock
with lace at the neck
and fishnet stockings
and patent Mary Janes

And the girls giggling with delight
would skip hand-in-hand
to the school prom
and the boys shyly perched
against the back wall would wonder
how to behave, and we’d blush
in return, begging them to dance

But now I have no mother
and no matter how hard I try
I cannot tame my too wild hair
it’s bi-coloured frizz
a nest of betrayal

And no girls invite me
to join hands
my state of dishevelment
a conundrum to be ignored

So I stand against the back wall
and hide amongst the boys
and stay far away from the gossip

And everyone says it’s because
I have no mother.

(Image my own. This poem originated from a dream, so is meant to be metaphorical, not literal.)

Self-Sufficient

Isolated and incapacitated
I am prohibited from partaking
of the influx of information incessantly presented

consequently cut off
from prescribed expectations
dictating costuming and culture

external expressions of acceptance
are sorely missing, suggesting
an overall lack of self-worth.

Interestingly inverse to such conclusions
is the sudden contentment that arises
from escaping the mayhem

Internal relief overrides dictated performance
surrendering willingly to intrinsic motivation
and renewed self-acceptance.

(Originally written in 2014. Image my own)