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.

Be My Guest

I entertain worry
like a long-anticipated guest,
as if she is a distant relative
crossing oceans to visit me

I fluff up the pillows,
and bring out the good dishes,
setting aside well-worn routines,
as if comfort might reveal something

offensive to her senses,
as if she is the queen, and I am
honoured to be put out by her
not a word of complaint uttered.

I entertain worry,
making room for her family,
a cot for anxiety, a lounge for distress,
might even forego my own bed for insomnia

would hate to think that
I’ve been discourteous, failed to demonstrate
appreciation for those, often uninvited, who
temporarily take up residence in my home.

 

Snapdragons

Snapdragons transport me
back to father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate flower mouths

forbidden as I was, tiny
feet banished from tiers
of ordered colours, how
he worshipped those rows

hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer, attention
lavished on nurturing
growth while I shrivelled

at the sidelines, longed
to dig beside him, sully
my hands and share
a passion, ignorant of

an inner drive to weed
out imperfections, felt
only walls of separation,
the coldness of perfection

and in my wilful way,
rebelled against taboos,
tiptoed through the soil
and pinched snapdragons.

 

If I Was a Kitchen

If I was a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning  pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike.

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

(Originally posted on June, 2016)

Up In Smoke

Should have known when
the first light passed
without a sound,
morning half gone
before consciousness
pried my eyelids open.

Should have known when
my Ninja pushed back
refused to blend
breakfast smoothie
forcing me to sip sludge
through straw

and when the line
on my browser
failed to budge
past the quarter mark
leaving me frustrated
I should have known then

but I ignored it all,
pushed beyond the signs
reached for that infallibility
gene (that never existed)
and almost set the house
on fire – element left on

and that’s when I knew
reflexes not kicking in
exhaustion claiming brain
emotions revved in overdrive
that today was not my day
and I should have stayed in bed.

Passion Exposed

Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…

step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope

my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.

(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic.  Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)

The Journey So Far

From the North we travelled,
left just as autumn’s brilliance
retreated under the startling
white of winter’s cold breath

Drove through towns grayed
by overcast skies, witnessed
a reversal of seasons, return
of burnt oranges, rusted reds

until green gave over to desert
hues – chalky yellow hills with
dusty, low shrubs, burnt umbers
and muted violet prickly pears

Westward we drove, over wide
open spaces, followed rivers
into mountains, tracked birds,
wildlife, the mystery of saguaro

Encountered red rocks and black
mountains, the Colorado, and
further expanses of barren land
desolation betraying hard times

Continued on till highways widened
and the congestion of civilization
startled us out of our desert sedation
tossed us back into urban bustle

Then we turned north, headed back
to the mountains, now green, rolling,
promising milder temperatures and
the reassurance of flowing river beds

In time, we’ll turn eastward, set our
compass for home, knowing that
there will be disquiet, this lust for
wandering settling in old bones.

(The image is from my personal collection.  To read more about our adventures on the road, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)