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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 Oregon
ian 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."

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