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.

Who Am I?

(Trigger warning: this poem alludes to child abuse)

Who I am
if not a harbinger –
eyes turned to the sky
diligent?

And what defines me
beyond calm in a crisis
action-taking, firmly
responsible?

No bystander here
I will fight injustice
free the wrongfully accused
capable

Driven
driving
fearless
awake

No sleeping
when danger presents
turmoil relentless
nightmares persist

Visions of uprising
and natural disasters
filling my dreams –
I grow weary

I cry, but no one is listening
the bustle outside reflective
of lives being lived
while I cower

Worried that the sky will fall
and I will be too torn
too bruised
to rise to the occasion

That child I coddled
now questioning my motives
that woman I saved
scoffing at my delusion

I am neither saint nor saviour
I am just a woman/child running
from the drunk under the table
still trying to define herself
as anything but his prey.

(Drawing is my own)

Forest Walking

Wish I could converse –
one harmonic voice blended
in a symphony of birdsong –
but my tongue stumbles
reveals me as interloper

As much as I tread
softly over forest floor
my missteps crackle
alert the denizens
danger is about –
no imploring
can reverse the impression

Nature’s sensitivity is finely tuned
and I am urban-scented,
barely tolerated,
seldom trusted –
must bear my reverence
for this sacred space
more deliberately.

(Image my own)

Brute

The man is rhino
mere stench of him
inspires fear
clears the room

We cower, quietly
captivated little mice
terrified he’ll call us out
bullied into submission

But this status quo
bears no permanence
time and circumstance
will topple the power

And once writhing
on his backside, who
will venture to help, and
who will leave him be?

(Original was written in 2020. Seems it still applies. Image my own)

Finding Corners In Fitted Sheets

Intensity drops in,
early, before
I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.

She clings
encourages me to hold on
her sick creativity awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing
loyal
compelled to launder the linens

Desperately trying to find the corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.

She wants to talk about feelings
but I am still numbed from sleep
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism

She wants to embrace
hug me into submission
lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas
and I am too busy avoiding her
to be grateful.

(Originally written in 2018, and edited here. Image my own)

What Saved Me

Legs, once burdened by resignation, now dare
Arms, once contracted by pain, reach out

Lungs, constricted by limitation, breathe deep
Heart, damaged by futility, finds new rhythm

Muscles, cramped and bullying, flex anew
And this flesh, previously tormented, glows

My body, ravaged and bruised, believed in fatality
My mind, turning its back on self, chimed concurrence

Only non-compliance keeps me alive
a rebellious will, graciously allowing
God’s higher plan.

(This poem is in response to a poem written at the height of my illness in 2017. The original is entitled Body Talks. Image my own)

Rapture

Odd, this gift of solitude. Perched canal side, I affirm my connection to the earth, and offer thanks. Late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way, lighting up the mirror-still water. Vibrant reflections.

Two winters ago, I fought to breathe as temperatures fell below zero.  Impassible walkways trapped me indoors.  Depression fought for possession. Hope struggles in imposed isolation.

“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now –
how just when it feels as if one sentence has been handed down, sealed, an opening appears.  I am fortunate, savour the moment.

Heron’s watchful stride
invites reflection, respect –
Winter’s solitude.

(Image my own.)

Inside Out

We decry loss of innocence
whilst downplaying our sins

Not news.
Blame is a tricky game…

Better to practice accountability
than to capture the podium…

Changing the world
inside out.

(I’ve been thinking about all the noise going on in political forums and wondering if we the people hadn’t best organize in order to protect ourselves from any unforeseen fallout. Not sure what that would look like, but losing my trust in ‘leadership’.)

My image.

Moth To The Flame

Yearning, so unrestrained
passion’s flame willfully
failing accountability

 Urgency is infectious
vulnerability feeds the sickness
co-dependence overstays

Naïvité on repeat –
mother complex burns
obsessive obligations

Abandonment inevitable
wounds stagnating
threaded histories unravelling

Grief, oppression –
How does one breathe?
Sorrowful, unbalanced

Unmodulated caring
charred tendencies
destined to scorch anew.

(Image mine)

Unexpected Delight

The wind subsided
momentarily
and the river stood still
and I caught your reflection
memories flooding back

When days were warm
and innocence nurtured imagination
and you held me in your arms –
a creature no different than
the squirrels and birds
who shared a branch

I loved you like a mother –
your steadfastness
the drapery of your foliage –
hiding made sublime

Oh, how my heart swelled
recalling the simplicity  –
how easy it was to believe
that trees had spirits
and the wind could talk
and the stillness of the day

To climb, to ascend,
to know that sacred ladder
that lifted me high above

The moment passed
the water rippled
but the inspiration remains

Your roots hold the promise
dear Willow, I am sure –
thank you for the reflection

(Art my own)