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.

Tenuous

It’s not like I didn’t know
that life is tenuous
and death a given

I chose to ignore the signs –
seems that which we avoid
has a way of catching up

I pin-balled my way
searching for something
undefinable

A break from responsibility?
a Saviour?
Condemned myself as failure

Sentenced to a lifetime
of love lacking
How does one traverse such margins?
Re-engage in the face of rejection?

I have pen,
and thoughts,
and maybe
if I bleed enough,
the path will be revealed.

(Image my own)

Pestilence of Words

Words, like crickets, leap inside my head –
chirping pests whose trajectory eludes
my dulled reflexes, scuttles about
the periphery of awareness.

Harmless in the singular,
a cacophony of multitudes
threaten any semblance
of sanity.

I strive to intuit their rhythm
define the notes in workable phrases
capture the message before
it all disappears again.

(Art my own)

That’s What I Fear

A woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing. She goes where she will without pretence and arrives at her destination prepared to be herself and only herself.”
– Maya Angelo

I fear living.

No, that’s not it.

I love living…
…but I fear engagement…
…drowning in engagement

Except, I love engagement…
… but only when I dip my toe in the waters
and feel the thrill…
and can still maintain control.

I fear losing control. I fear no longer being able to call the shots, life demanding more of me than I’m willing (or able) to give.

I’m willing to give…
… to a certain point…
…can no longer afford to be sapped dry, wrung out
and discarded… so much hurt
so much betrayal…
such lack of appreciation

I have given.
I have loved and sacrificed and cherished and
given…
…up…
…self

It’s self I’m afraid of losing
and why not?
I am only just able to touch her

She and I, still hesitant
building a certainty
a mutual admiration
respect…

And should I be called upon
to give…too much…well…

I could lose her again.

This is what I fear.

(Art my own)

Father, Daughter

Is a child meant
to carry her father’s legacy?
The discomfort of his skin
rubbing against her dreams
till she is fallen, raw,
paralyzed and unable to flourish?

Is a daughter meant
to carry the burden
of her father’s grief?
His powerlessness hers?
His fate hers to shatter?

I wear my father’s hurt
like a personal affront
am armed to go to battle

searching for the words
that will set us both free

He lying in his grave
me, awake and able.

(Photo collage my own)