A wrapping paper remnant
glimmers beside sofa leg
Uneaten chocolates and
sugar cookie delights tempt
The chorus of voices
fades into mind’s recesses
The fullness of the day
tucked warmly within
The advantage of age
is the ability to imbibe
in the post-celebration pause.
(Wishing everyone the warmest of pauses this holiday season.)
We’ll be celebrating Christmas with the family today. No matter what your beliefs or tradition, let me take this moment to wish you all the best of the season. 
May your hearts be full, and may peace find you. 
VJ
Robin is absent
Winter’s silence
inviting retreat
Children embrace adventure
while I, behind panes,
watch fluctuations
await harbinger’s return.
(This poem was written for a challenge from my poetry circle: to write a poem without adjectives. Image my own).
Heron steps into my dream,
cachinnating…
paradigm shifts,
and I am awake
brooding over
the invasion
remembering days
we lived in tandem –
Great Blue and I –
that Texan winter
I brace for Northern cold,
and heron, on departure, laughs
(Image my own)
A soft-sided,
well worn,
briefcase
slouches
in a closet
One side agape,
a red lanyard
stuffed inside –
occupational identity
A row of black, brown, and gray pumps
line up beside it – a thin layer of dust
betraying idleness.
Silent, unblinking,
a television recedes
into the wall,
flanked on either side
by smiling images –
shadows of nostalgia.
Stacks of books
and journals
rumour
a scholarly mind.
The woman,
to whom all these trivialities
once had relevance
is no longer here.
She has been called to another purpose.
(Originally written in 2014, The Pilgrimage strives to help me understand the purpose behind losing all to illness. Image my own)
The certainty of yesterday
has slipped our grasp
light deflecting truth
tosses us into the abstract
I ponder process
and outcomes,
will my mind to carry me
gliding between thermals
dissolving into vapours
Some realities
too hard to bear –
dislodged
we tread the indeterminate.
(Poem originally appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, December ’19. Image my own)
Between festive preparations
and Mother’s dying wishes
I walk a surreal line – numbed
surface belying broiling depths
I will serve the bird, scrape
the carcass, sing praises
and slip into solitude to grieve –
Mother’s flesh languishing.
(Last year, when I penned this poem, my mom was contemplating assisted dying. I supported her wish, but not without accompanying grief. This year, her absence weighs heavily on the preparations for Christmas, and I know I am not alone. Many of us feel our losses even deeper at this time of year.)
Ice has blown in overnight
tree branches coated,
sparkling…
… I search for a word
evasive, my fogged brain
having released so many
to the void…
“Varnish?” I ask aloud
“What’s that?” comes an answer
my son-in-law always helpful
spies my hand on butcher block
“Do you mean the finish on the wood?
That’s varnish, yes.”
“No.” I bite my trembling lip.
Indicate the scene outside the window,
the tree with its new shiny coat
“Like varnish!” he exclaims
“That works.”
“Nature’s varnish!” I proclaim
Creativity –
a sometimes bi-product
of a faulty mind.
(Image my own)
Against Winter’s pull
pines stand strong; ice drums on roof –
rhythmic ovation
Leave the door open…
surely, this docile
abstraction will pass…
Sun is promising
a re-emergence,
stirs an inclination
I may find purpose yet,
harness these sultry thoughts
and venture out that open door.
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 