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.

Black and White

If thoughts could colour our world
then each breath would express
a new hue, discovery a game
of wonder…

But, I sit here, muted
afraid of words too black or white,
afraid I’ll only encounter
sharp edges…

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)

Self Portrait in Colours

Found an old diary –
days when I prayed to the angels
painted myself white, believed
in a God that cared about personal
agendas – painted myself pathetic

Took me back to days of heartbreak,
when I pined after a man, unavailable,
painted myself pink – an altruistic heart
yearning after the unrequitable,
willing to sacrifice, change –
painted myself foolish

Read between the lines about a woman
so desperately co-dependent she’d risk it all,
painted herself yellow, projected sunshine,
believed in fairy tale endings, threw away
dignity, sanity – painted herself delusional

Wondered how she’d ever survive,
knew that life intervened in the end,
painted her broken –
and somehow she found strength,
moved on, made better choices,
learned to love herself,
painted herself indigo.

(Self Portrait in Colours first appeared here Aug/2016. Image my own)

Washed Ashore

Was willing to settle
even before casting off –
anchor-less, with no compass
to guide me, nor oar to steer

Left fate to the currents –
a vessel adrift, naïve –
trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware…

of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks
circle wayward boats,
certain of a catch

No wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked,
I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism

Had failed to register
the dangers of sailing
into uncharted waters,
without a life preserver

Ignorant of the skills
I needed to stay afloat
and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves lives.

(Washed Ashore first appeared here in July of 2018. Edited. Image my own)

Wasps

I didn’t know about the wasps
before I had carried my toddler
across the darkened room
laid her in a bed, crawling

Clutched her sleeping body
close to my chest, turned
to retreat, but the swarm
gathered there at the door

My cousin punched a hole
in a wall, unable to discern
the exit in a smoke-filled room.
The hole remains; she doesn’t

Strangers came to her funeral
drawn by the mystery of the girl
(name unknown) who died
such a tragic death, just 18.

How did this invasion happen
how was I remiss in noticing
that this house of potential
was being consumed by threat?

Unlike my ill-fated kin,
I knew where the door was
braved it to save my child
ignored the prophetic warning

Look back at the ruins now –
hers and mine – the patterns
of abandonment, familial
neglect, disinterest a plague

How we women try to please
carry our children through
the flames, choking on
disappointment… hope

A man lit the flame that killed her,
just as a man suffocated my spirit
threads of sanity carrying me
till my mind escaped the wasps

(Ink and watercolour mine)

Does Peace Have a Sound

Does peace have a sound,
and if it does, is it soft like a whisper,
or chime-like – a resonance
reverberating from tip to crown?

I have known exaltation,
felt my heart thrill at the dance
of dolphins just beyond my reach

I have known elation, awe,
honour and humility,
but would I recognize peace?

Joy is a child’s laughter
bliss, indescribable pleasure,
so why am I forgetting peace?

Does peace have a sound
and if it does, will I recognize it
attuned as I am to discord?

(Image my own)