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.

Idle Mind and All That

What I wouldn’t resort to –
just to get away – meals
prepared by others,
cleaned up, too…

but really, is there
any coming back once
it’s all handed over –
I’d be afraid I’d lose

my identity, come up empty
embarrassed by how little
of value I have to give –
and the guilt would taunt

slap my silly ego, criticize
me for laziness,  acting all
privileged; worth is directly
linked to service…isn’t it?

And my shadow self would
appear – just break in uninvited –
and threaten complicity, beat me
down further, hope doomed

no way to justify my absence,
to keep the critics at bay,
I need to work, need to lose
myself in the routine of endless

chatter, a blanket of small talk
to keep me safe – busy noise
to drown out the thieving voices
and help me find myself again.

Can We Talk About It?

As mothers, who are concerned,
as sons, who are seeking guidance,
as daughters, for whom our fears mount?

I don’t have the answers, maybe
not even the beginning of a response,
but I’m trying to get through to some level

of sensibility, need to know what it takes
to instill respect, to restore reverence for
all that in is feminine; seems we are numbed

lulled into complacency, brainwashed by
a consumer-driven machine that pumps
out sexuality as entertainment, infiltrates

our collective psyche, equates exploitation
with attainment, debasement with reward;
are we so desensitized as to not recognize

that merely turning off the television, or
ignoring the images in the check out line
still amounts to complicity; what amount

of surgical intervention is required to
eradicate this societal disease; restore
compassion and caring to our culture?
(This poem, inspired by a series of dreams, responds to the The Daily Post prompt: conversation.)

 

 

Face It

Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.

Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would

pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing

as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing

I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.

(Image: www.viral.us)

I am Listening, Child

Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?

What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?

Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.

If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.

Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;  linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.

Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.

(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)

 

To Old Friends

There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.

(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)

Protocols for Leadership

Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion

remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take

that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others

beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens

never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator

all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.

The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well worn, briefcase
sits slouched in a closet corner,
one side agape, a red lanyard
hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.

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
by images of smiling faces –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books and journals
rumour a once scholarly mind.

The woman, once defined
by these trivialities,
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(The Pilgrimage was first written in December of 2014, as I came to terms with the loss of my career due to ME/CFS.  Now, as we embark on a new path, I find the poem has new relevance.  This version is edited from the original.)

 

 

A Torn Christmas

The wind blows,
a steady beat,
disperses Texas heat
palms succumb
to the rhythm
seduce the cerulean sky,
my heart a bird in flight

Back home winds cut
squalls threaten, snow
swirls nipping children’s
cheeks, while inside
hearths glow, eyes sparkle,
an anticipation my heart
aches to behold

This year, we’ve balked
tradition, chosen sunnier
vistas, the selfishness of two
will limit our Christmas
to FaceTime chats, snapshots
of excitement; my heart torn
between bliss and guilt.

(The Daily Post prompt:  torn.  Image and baking by my daughter.  Missing limb courtesy of a granddaughter.)

Fight

Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination

guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort

disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing

offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection

fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate

denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent

peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude

(Image: Pinterest)