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.

Mother Bee

She sprinkles her commentary
with spikes of criticism
like a bee intent on finding honey
but stinging instead
strikes hard at the heart of the matter
manages to counter my aspirations
all attempts to swat away her words
are weak – she is my mother
and my sentiments are clouded
her jabs bite, inflame
and despite my apparent maturity
reduce me to childish panic.

Inner Turmoil

Outlets, I have plenty,
for the excrement that accumulates
within these challenged walls

I soak and scrub, and
paint my cabinets yellow
hoping the optimism will sink in

will match the green of my smile
the expansiveness of my exterior
but the in-dwellers are provoked

question ego’s motivation
in selling off the residence
shaking their sedentary slumber

there was respite in disability
an imposed seclusion that calmed
the worries, invited complacency

who can rest in this motorized
uprooted reality, and what purpose
will evolve from the overflow

of emotions that flood, flashes
of insecurity, defying wisdom
threatening to cloud our sunshine?

Warning

We dream of knights
to lift us from our woes

men of steel, whose arms
hold us tight, protect us

for we are weak…wait,
what?  We’re not weak

lift ourselves up, thank you!
It is softness and encouragement

we seek, not dominant males
to oppress our spirits and wrestle

our hearts into submission –
we are not prey to be hunted,

trophies to be won – fend off
those who would swoop in

carry us away, for their intention
is to slay, then devour our essence.

(The Daily Post prompt is dominant.
Photo from personal collection)

 

 

 

Unsettling

Have opted for a minimalist existence –
efficiency dependent on accessibility –
still suffering the effects of disease, age.

Used to dwell in the sarcasm of fixed roots,
keep-up-with-the-status-quo, thought that
swapping furniture equated with renewal

Now the only fitting-in we do relates to
rig size and whether or not the next stop
on the road can accommodate our home

Have sold off the real estate, motivated
by simplicity; seek vistas that restore
our souls, preferably with a water view.

We are comfortable marrieds, adapting
new perspectives, easing out of the shell –
shock of former agendas, rat-race lives.

 

 

Marry Well

Can we talk? said he
chest burdened,
bursting to confess

It’s about our living
situation, you see…
well, maybe you don’t

It’s just that, I have
noticed things are
getting out of hand

and I know you try
hard, and all, but
I’m having trouble

seeing, and I thought,
well, wondered if,
maybe we could…

Whatever are you
rambling on about?
she snapped, clearly

disgruntled; get to
the point – she wasn’t
listening, mind fixed on

task at hand – needed
to find a solution to
growing dissatisfaction

could not longer tolerate
the hellish conditions
of their cesspool lives

to be perfectly candid
she said, we are swimming
around in our own shit

it’s time we moved on!
I couldn’t agree more,
he sighed with relief

content again that he’d
made the right choice
wedding a frank woman.

(The Daily Post prompt is candid.  Photo from personal collection)

Off-Track

Met him on the way to tomorrow,
pitched a tent on his front lawn,
both ignoring impermanence.

How is it the heart’s drumming
blots out the soundness of mind,
negates former promises to self?

The weather changed and with it
sentiments cooled, tempers heated,
a tempest ensued, she packed up

hitched a ride on a passing train
headed in the wrong direction,
her heart still a discordant drum.