Judy Ginn Walchuk & Jim Walchuk
Canadian Brother and Sister
Music Duo
Judy's Poetry
A friend once told me that my friendship should come with a warning label, "YOUR LIFE'S EVENTS MAY BE INSPIRATION FOR A POEM OR SONG."
So I beg forgiveness from the people I love if I seem upset by somewhere you are in your life, it's because I've been in the same position or sometimes still am. ~ Judy Ginn Walchuk
I'd Rather Be Alone
I'd rather be alone
Than with a man who tries to control me
I'd rather set my hair on fire
Than have him tell me how to wear it.
I'd rather leave my home
Than live with a man who needs constant consoling
I'd rather give my money to some rabid Oregonian cult
Than have him tell me how to spend it.
In Full Bloom
Looking at a fresh bouquet of perfect long stem roses
you confided
you liked roses only when they held themselves in tight buds
Nervously I concurred
the bud was beautiful
but a rose gently opening to risk a critical glance
at it's deepest region...
sloppy, you were quick to respond
desperately I defended the flowers
surely you appreciate the blossoms relaxed
Unselfconsciously in full bloom
faces towards the light
freely releasing some of the petals back to the earth
proudly parted, naked
walking ahead you disappointingly noted...messy
Thoughts
bubbling up to the surface like foam on a boiling cauldron of chicken soup
ready to be skimmed off
examined
discarded.
Visa wants money!
Cut the cable!
No more television sedation.
​
In the absence of the weapon of mass distraction, the opiate of the masses,
my mind is questioning, answering, sorting.
|The clutter held hostage, demands to be examined.
​
Pay Hydro or disconnect, disconnect, disconnect.
Truths about relationships
not nourishing, stimulating or entertaining.
Revelations of the manufactured interest in the business of buying and selling, profit and loss, I did not profit
lost
much of myself.
​
The dog reads my unrest
chews his toes, bites his backside.
I psychically communicate
my socially disappointed self.
I chew at myself in less visible ways.
​
The government wants money.
They suggest I beg from friends, bank, family
PAY, PAY, PAY!
They may settle for my personal possessions, my privacy, my hopes for the future.
The heaviness of my body is cumbersome, weary, stiff.
Most days I long to sit in water.
Weightless.
Release all my muscles,
and once again
rise to the top.
24 Hours
It has been 24 hours
since I first glanced at my friend's flaccid penis
which appeared so comfortable with my inquisitive gaze
that it almost imperceptibly puffed up
with a resigned sigh
Nonchalant about it's own charismatic beauty
I'm still not sure what i expected to see when I handed him the rough, white towel in the hospital shower.
Perhaps
the reports of his conquests and sexual prowess had created a vision of a sword exultantly protruding from between his thighs
Ready to conquer - to do battle.
Surely the reliable warrior would be swinging, throbbing and proudly commanding its surroundings.
​
To my amazement, I was compelled to sense his manhood.
Rather than linger on the visual
and as my eyes swept over his skin,
I was moved by his uniqueness and his tenderness
exuding from a ripe, succulent blossom
springing up and out of his groin.
A body part so luscious that it radiated and breathed the promise of gentle pleasure
I was painfully confused.
​
Instead of the sexual rush, I was fearful would overtake me
my heart was overwhelmed with love by the vulnerability standing before me
And I became protective of his entire body and soul.
It was a brief but illuminating moment
during which I wished
he would no longer cut himself up into little pieces and randomly give his energy and goodness away to those who were only searching for a throbbing penis.
The words would not leave my throat but I wanted to whisper,
"Careful with that towel, be gentle with yourself."
We suckle on romantic love
like nursing newborns,
believing the potion will immunize us against
wounds in our souls,
Drowning in senseless drunkenness of our senses,
we are too distracted to be grateful
for this overwhelming bounty of belonging, to be thankful for this miracle of abundant affection.
Rapt by glimpses of passionate possibilities, we greedily hoard impossible promises and audaciously ask
"Forever."
The Change
Pendulous breasts
Marking time.
Wicken Eyes
Unwillingly devouring what can't be seen.
Facial spores
Sprouting hairs frantically tunneling towards the light.
Loose uncensored mouth
Flippant, relentless, persuading, judging
The Change?
An enemic generality.
Somedays
The Changeling
Marvelle
There was always a temptation towards alliteration and the phrase marvelous Marvelle
But we breathed his name with awe abundant, rendering the marvelous redundant
And for a while the women of Venice beach slipped under his spell.
​
It was lightweight as far as sin goes,
Hiring Marvelle to wash our windows.
We agreed that each washing we should all attend.
Just an excuse for a gathering, no harm in Marvell's lathering
His smile made us feel alive again.
​
Enjoying his skin like choclate mousse, We'd nibble our charlotte ruisse,
And pass the teapot round the table.
The room steamed like a terrarium, as we viewed our sensual aquarium
And dreamed we were fillies in Marvelles stable.
​
He's soap the window lavishly and press his body savagely,
slowly sliding muscles o'er the glass.
Wearing only a tiny suit for swimming, with definition his cup was brimming,
We'd discuss serving pastries on his ass.
​
It was a year of living dangerously
keeping our view clean painlessly,
Being amazed how he could make our bosoms swell
And even now when tyhe task daunts ,e. memory of that summer still haunts me and I think of randy, sly, mmmmmmMarvelle.
​
Thoughts
Romantic Love
Happy Easter from the Russian Community Centre
An open door.
The aroma of borsht pulling me in from the street
of upscale shops offering baubles and yet
another scented candle.
I peek inside.
Music stirs memories from my distant childhood.
Friendly faces beckon.
Clusters of yellow and white balloons like giant Easter eggs, float between stretching yellow crepe paper bows.
Dominating the hall, a stage.
Behind the curtain, awaits an energy, a promise of young voices, loose limbs and innocence.
Waiting in line for my borsht and buttered bread,
reveling in a culture close to my own, listening ro a Russian gypsy reading fortune-telling cards, marveling at the display of hand-painted eggs, I am surrounded by community, protected by generations.
An announcement.
The curtain is pulled open. The children's choir at the front of the stage, shining in bright colours, glittering headdresses and lovingly handmade aprons and petticoats, offer their voices.
Arms folded over bulging tummies, eyes wandering, searching for familiar faces, the next generation challenges me.
I lose.
Tears well up in my eyes.
The dancers bend and stomp to the old records.
Families applaud.
leaving the hall, clutching the poppy seed loaf for my dad, I smile at everyone.
Thank you.
Trust
My West Highland Terrier has been a terror with the vacuum for most of his life, defending himself with teeth gnashing, vicious growling, and chewing at the rubber guard.
This past year, age has dimmed his sight and left him in a quieter world.
Today as I turned on the vacuum, I saw the dog raise his head from his blanket, in acknowledgment of his life-long enemy, and then sit very still, staring straight ahead.
I rolled the powerhead closer to his blanket, knowing he could feel the suction and smell the brushes, I nudged his toes.
Still, he did not move.
​
After sixteen years of building a trusting relationship, the terrier, no longer able to attack or defend, put his safety in my hands and lay down on his blanket.
Trust.
I see now that it is not given, but earned. It is not something that happens but something that grows.
The next time some near stranger comes flying at me, sucking up my energy, rolling over my toes, screaming "trust me," I might just have to reply,
"give me sixteen years...we'll see."
​