Dreamin'

These days ... I rest ... with a fan gently stirring the air around me. With eyes shut ... it creates the allusion of lying on my heavenly chaise lounge ... in my backyard ... in the halcyon glow of a perfect late spring day.

When spring came earlier this year than it had come, in over a century, it seemed like a good omen. Alas, it was an omen to-be-sure ... but, sadly ... not a good one. The Corona Virus, has robbed most of us of many of the season's simple pleasures. Thus, we have had to create our own spring ... In my case ... trapped in a high rise .. sans heavenly chaise lounge ... to say nothing of the missing back yard.

I can ... however ... conjure up breezes. And conjure them up, I do. Sometimes they come to me scented in floral emanations from my oil infuser. Sometimes they waft round me in notes of birdsong from the Sounds-of-Nature Channel. As with many things, the Spring of 2020 has produced a corona-ized version of something we love, put can't ACTUALLY enjoy ... The Zoom heads-in-squares visit ... without ACTUALLY visiting ... The shared Easter meal ... without ACTUALLY eating at the same table ... The Mother's Day Trip-to-the-Spa gift ... without ACTUALLY leaving the bath tub ... The time spent on the phone and in emails, to children and grandchildren ... without ACTUALLY hugging ... without ACTUALLY making memories.

In an email to my grandson, I reflected back on some wonderful trips that people in the family had taken and remarked that most trips begin with people dreaming about going to a place that has captured their imagination ... and I asked him if there was a place that he dreamed about. He answered that his dream was to go to a lake with his family - but that dream can't happen.

The unhappy truth about life is that there is seldom a substitute for the 'real' thing That's why we dream while we wait for reality to land on 'our joy'.

In the words of Rogers and Hammerstein in the musical South Pacific:

"You gotta have a dream

if you don't have a dream

How you gonna have a dream come true?"

photo:  The Family at Lake Cowichan, Southern Vancouver Island - July 2016 - Wendy Bourke

© 2016 Wendy Bourke 

* * * * *

note: This is not part of the Prose ... but is rather, an update on the Poetry Project (for anyone interested) ... which moils on ... and is slowly being added to (and I do mean: slowly) ... rejigged ... and even, in places, flat-out done over from scratch. Like many new endeavours, it has required far more effort than imagined (and Pandemic Angst is not helping). It seems as if you just clear one hurdle and a brand new learning curve stretches out before you ... but we are learning a lot, as we ride those curves. 'A Walk in the Woods: A Tanka Celebration of Life Lived ... with a Dog' is now posted on the 'Whatnot' Website (www.whatnotpandp.com) Check it out, if you like the idea of exploring poetry rendered in alternative-mediums (in this case: video) ... or simply just feel like checking-it-out. ~ smiles ~ 

As well, I am continuing down the path to self publishing some of my pieces ... which I also have found to be fraught with dead ends and missteps ... but, hopefully I'm getting closer ... to achieving that dream. Regardless, I can't think of a more feel-good way to shelter-in-place than ... embracing creativity.   

Earth Day Anniversary

number of cases ... number of deaths ... jack-of-hearts-on-queen ... 50th Anniversary of Earth Day ... April 1970 ... Michael ... the banana split we shared the day he left ...ten-of-spades ... and the smell of hyacinths that filled the kitchen on Oliver Road ... number of cases ... number of deaths ... as we pledged weak promises – we doubted life would let us keep – that we'd find our way back to each other ... number of cases ... number of deaths ...

sometimes ... when the world is fast asleep ... solitaire is the last place open for a mind that will not settle ... I remember there were posters all over the University ... that 1st Earth Day ... the day the world would begin to heal itself ...the dizzying thrill of being lifted up by a movement for positive change ...the sense of personal empowerment and the synergetic zeal of joining together with like-minded human beings ... the palpable heartbeat of activism ... number of cases ... number of deaths. ... four of clubs – and there's that suit out ...

after midnight ... this city ... these days ... is as quiet as a tomb .... quiet as a tomb .... most hours of the day ... except for 7:00 in the evening when people – interned in prickly apartments – open their windows and cheer and bang pots and clap ... to thank the COVID front-liners who … with extraordinary valour … put themselves out there to save lives and stock grocery shelves and drive buses so that the rest of us can ... live ...

Michael goes to the window ... most nights ... and joins in for a bit ... he's always been one to try and do right by people ... “It's the 50^th Anniversary of Earth Day today,” I mentioned earlier, as he closed the window. “I heard,” he had replied ... pausing at the edge of my deep well of aching incredulity. “I know, how you feel,” he added with a ragged sigh ... as a voice from the TV chimed …

 "analysts say it is too early to know if coronavirus will push global CO2 emissions onto the downward path that is needed if the world is to have any hope of keeping global heating to a relatively safe level of 1.5C above pre-industrial levels.  That depends on how far the outbreak spreads, and whether the economic effects are prolonged?"

number of cases … number of deaths … three of diamonds … almost there …

note:  The excerpt (in italics) is not my writing.  It is from an April 2020 Guardian web article (that unfortunately, brings me slightly over the 369 word limit) … but editing was not an option.  It was not mine to edit.  And its message is one of the most cruel and haunting ironies, the human race has ever had laid before it.  

The 50th anniversary of Earth Day was Wednesday, April 22, 2020.

Photo:  from a rather small and blurry picture taken of Michael and I standing on the stone wall that edges the Bluffs of Thunder Bay (Port Arthur, back then) in 1970 (it really was taken in the early spring of 1970), edited in the free fun effects section of Pho.to - W. Bourke

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

Bear in the House

Linked to Weekly Scribblings #15 and Writers' Pantry #16 (with apologies to Magaly for not finishing (barely finishing) this piece in good time for her excellent COVID-19 history prompt … I'm currently filling the hours by sewing 18 COVID masks for my circle of nearest and dearest - several of whom are taking turns, grocery shopping for Mike and I)

How is the world dreaming these days? My dreams are often a reflection of my state of mind. Lately, of course, COVID-19 is on my mind.

A couple of nights ago – after what seemed like hours of angst – I finally, dozed off. And then ...

I was in the backyard of the home where Michael and I had raised the kids ... with Mike, the kids and one of my sisters ... everyone as young as they were ... back then. Suddenly, as five or six people – I did not know – arrived carrying birthday presents for my sister … I noticed a medium-size black bear. From that moment on, I was terrified. Yet everyone else – family and strangers – seemed fine with it. I insisted that we move the party into the house away from the bear – but, even then, I didn't feel safe.

And I said to the strangers: “I think, you people brought that bear to my house.” Immediately, I felt embarrassed, as if I was disrespecting the bear – to say nothing of the guests. And my sister said: “Relax, it's not as if we've never had a bear in the house before.” She was right ... well, sort of right.

And I clarified her remark : “That was just one of Grandma's stories. A bear got into her house when she was a girl and carried off one of her brothers.” And then I noticed ... Michael wasn't there.

Oh-my-gawd, where is Michael. Petrified ... I started to search for him ... going through every room in the house, until I concluded that I would have to look for him outside.

“Oh-my-gawd,” I gasped aloud: “This is a nightmare” ... and then ... I woke up ... and, instantly felt a balm of relief wash over me ... much like Goldilocks, must have felt, I'm sure, waking in Baby Bear's bed to discover Papa Bear glowering down at her – before making her hasty escape from that fairy tale.

A strange dream ... in a strange time ... tinged with disturbing headlines, family history and lore and the ever-present wish that all-will-be-well, when we awaken from our nightmare.

Note: (This is not part of the prose - just posted for those who might be interested in a bit of P.E.I. history.) My Grandmother grew up at the turn of the 20^th century on Prince Edward Island – and what a tough coming-of-age it was. Though, there never was an actual bear in her house, her stories of that time, were filled with – almost unimaginable tribulations – terrible diseases that ravaged communities (between barn dances and strawberry socials). She, herself, had her tonsils removed, while lying on her family's kitchen table, anesthetized with a few gulps of spirits that her parents kept at the back of the cupboard for 'emergencies'. When she was 10, her father was killed, before her eyes, when the blade of the axe he was using to chop wood, flew off and hit him. Interestingly, her family was near-neighbours of Lucy Maud Montgomery, writer of the Anne of Green Gables books ... idyllic stories of life on 'The Island' – back then – which, to hear my Grandmother tell it: had a bit of fairy tale pixie dust, added to the pages … because … in those days … for, almost all ordinary folk … life was very, very hard … almost all of the time. 

photo:  Vera May Campbell - circa 1915. 

©2020 Wendy Bourke. 

The Poetry Project

Greetings Poetry People:

I have taken a break from posting to my blog, as Mike and I self-quarantine. Finding oneself, firmly in the 'most vulnerable sector' in a densely populated metropolis, at this time, has been challenging. Suddenly a fire has been lit under my 'to-do' bucket list. I have been working on two books for what-seems-like forever, and am resolved to finish them – NOW – if I possibly can.

As well, one of my sons, Patrick and I fast-tracked a project that we have been tossing around for years: that of short webcasts of poetry. Websites are a better vehicle for this than blogs, and so, Whatnot Press and Productions was born. The seed for the website was planted years ago when a friend, who was convalescing, mentioned that my poetry was 'just right' in length and content, for a brief respite.  That got me thinking about all the wonderful qualities poetry has that are so restorative,  

The worldwide CO-VID 19 pandemic was the catalyst, that got this moving – an idea I would love to see 'catch on' with other writers. I would so appreciate it, if you could find the time to take a peek at our first video (a tanka sequence) – at:

                           dog walk at day break (www.whatnotpandp.com)

If you choose to leave a comment, I would ask that you leave it there (no email will appear). This project is totally a lovely act of generosity on Patrick's part.

Obviously, the name of the website comes from my blog name but the other reason we chose it, is because it is a 'Whatnot' work-in-progress. Poetry videos and books (if I ever get them finished) will be posted there, of course. I'm kicking around ideas that will inspire creativity and calm in others (possibly in people who would like to begin writing) such as 'Why is this a good time to explore writing tanka' (for example). As well, links to websites and blogs that promote creativity and calm, might be a possibility. As I mentioned, the site and video went up quickly and we are still fine-tuning and exploring directions to go in. - Thanks, Wendy

Photos: Dog Walk at Day Break and Jackson the Dog - P. Bourke

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

Friday the Thirteenth March of Twenty-Twenty

I have forgotten


all the conversations


I have had with myself


about courage ...


they too have passed

'



note:  a Tanka Piece

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

He Missed a Good Party

But for the discordant glare of a ridiculously oversized arrangement of white lilies blaring from the credenza, as I entered the room, it might have been just another family reunion ... except, of course, Bob wasn't there.  Bob never would have missed a party ... unless he was dead. The room was filled to bursting with an assortment of siblings, cousins, a couple of ancient aunts, the non-related who, nonetheless, were part of the clan ... and the, inevitable, strangers-to-me.

“Great party,” a voice at my side, remarked, as a greying distant cousin from somewhere-out-west materialized, for the second time that day. “He loved a party ... I remember that about him.”

“It's sad,” I commented lamely, and then instantly wondered if my interjection might be taken as a rebuke of the party comment and so, quickly followed with, “But ya, Bob was a guy who never let a good party pass him by.”

“If there was a party, he'd be there,” one of the ancients chimed in with a giggle.

“The man loved ... he really loved a good party, ya know.” This:  from an honorary kinswoman who had surreptitiously joined our little band.

“That's for sure,” declared one of the strangers – who chuckled in a manner that implied, he knew Bob best – before adding, “The guy knew how to work ... and he knew how to play.  Boy, he sure would've loved the great party today.”  And with that ... tears welled ... all of us ... awkwardly self-conscious – feeling silly, really – at having been brought to visible grief at the thought of Bob missing his own wake … at the thought of … never seeing him, again.

There was, what felt like, a sea of emotion in that shared sorrow ... but no words. And so ... as the silence began screaming ... we all wiped our eyes ... and walked away.

Note: This is a complete redo of a long-ago poem that I thought, managed to miss the mark by a whisker ... but miss it, nevertheless and so, I've had another go-at-it.  

Photo: Blue House – Wendy Bourke

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

the big truth - a tanka sequence piece

a dewdrop

dangling from a leaf –

mesmerizes me

as I await ...

the inevitable

there

in that pending small reveal

the certitude ... the big truth

– from minuscule to monumental –

all things change

nothing remains the same ...

the last hope

in the worst of times –

the shadow cast

upon the happiest of hours

photo:  Dewdrop on a Leaf - W. Bourke

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

lost in space

I sigh ... as I open up a blank page on my computer and begin the transition to 'writing-headspace' ... that indefinable level of consciousness ... far away from where one's body sits ... that must be gotten to, in order for fingers to land on the keyboard and words to appear on the screen.

I stare at the empty white rectangle perched before me ... and sigh again.

That is (primarily) because … (I confess) ... I'm a natural-born sigher ... I suspect I have sighed from the day I was born … Who knows ... perhaps I sighed before that ... sighing and sucking my thumb in utero. (Though, I have long since abandoned thumb sucking ... the sighing thing, has pretty much stuck.)

Sighing is a language onto itself ... a language that I speak, fluently ... I sigh when I switch paths … I sigh when I can't come up with an answer.  (I don't immediately sigh  ... but 20 to 30 seconds into a good ponder … if I'm still clueless ... I sigh.} ... Then I change direction and ... you've-got-it, I sigh, again … Having altered course, I wonder: where should I begin ... and yep ... another sigh ... And so it goes, fluttering like a befuddled butterfly flitting from pillar to post ... in sighs.

When I'm writing … I'm a sighing machine.   

Many people …  I have come to discover … believe that sighing is an indication that the sigher is experiencing some level of distress ... a bashful cry-for-help, if you will ... Thus, all my life, I have been asked:  'Is something wrong?'  (Always by new acquaintances … never by old friends … who – over time, it seems – become sigh-immune.)

Whenever I am asked that question, it catches me unaware ... and I think to myself: 'Dang, I just sighed' … Once, after, what I gather, had been a particularly epic sigh, a co-worker remarked: 'After a sigh like that, I gotta believe, you must be thinking – as God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again.' ... but no … as I explained ... the Liquid Paper was lumpy.

Sighing ... it is true ... is open to interpretation … but, at least, it is a fairly quiet quirk … Who among us doesn't know a natural-born throat ticker or tongue-clicker, or pen-fidgiter, or finger-tapper ... Then there are the natural-born blurters ... people who blurt out the oddest remarks ... completely out of context.

Like the sighers, the tickers and clickers, the fidgiters and tappers, et al. ... they too, are ... temporarily ... lost in space ... in a place ... far, far away ... The blurters, of course ... the farthest away, of all.

photo:  Same Place/Different View (Rocky Point Pier Benches in Port Moody) - W. Bourke

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

the commuters - a tanka prose piece.

on the busy city street ... in the quickening of night ... raindrops-on-asphalt, give the illusion ... of an ebony crackle glass path, lined with brilliant ruby strings (recast from blinking cherry-red brake lights) ...

against this dazzling backdrop ... abracadabra-ed in splashes of cinematographic sparkle and glow ... a sea of knackered out commuters ... caught in traffic ...in the rain ... head home ... slowly home ...

if a single moment ... from that daily grind .... could be captured in time ... the range of facial countenances would likely provide an infinite collage of human expression … from apprehension … to anger … to indifference … to delight … (each look revealing and chronicling the effects of the day … and the level of anticipation … that the destination held for each traveller) … 

the lucky ducks … among us … cheerfully … paddling our way to warmth … and love … and caring

~ ~ ~

wafts of supper

as I turn the doorknob

and hear the tinkle of soft music ...

all five senses firing

as I call out 'I'm home'

photo:  Downtown Vancouver in the evening rush to get home – W. Bourke 

© 2020 Wendy Bourke

chasin' rainbows ... and other diversions

Over the past few weeks, so many heart-rending developments are unfolding in many places around the world.  The concern and sadness is mentally exhausting (as one attempts to take it all in)  ... and I found myself totally in sync with Magaly's remarks in opening the Poets and Storytellers United, Writers' Pantry, today.  In particular, the line:  'let writing and reading poetry and prose be our break on this day' really hit a chord with me.  As you will see (as you read on) I could not have gone in a less serious direction with my post this week.  And it felt good … to go there. 

A bit of silliness, inspired by a true story … a 'sticky situation' … I found myself in … or, more to the point, personally set in motion (albeit accidentally).  The incident/accident caused me to be late, meeting M.  When we finally caught up with each other, I apoIogized, of course.  At first, he thought that the excuse that I offered was that:  I had been chasing rainbows.  Close … I corrected … but sadly, nothing quite so wonderful as that.

I have come to discover, that looking for humor … is a good course to try and steer towards, when crummy things happen.  Thus (with a dash of hyperbole) … my explanation: 

I was a teeny wee bit peckish

and passed that bakery, you know ...

the one on Main … oh the aroma ...

and that … delicious, sweet window

when I spied those oatmeal raison cookies ...

well … what's a mortal soul to do … when …

scrumptious oatmeal raison cookies … fall ...

to earth … out of the blue

of course … they're leaving with you …

yep … I bought the lot to go …

there was just a mere six dozen

and … what-the-heck … you-never-know

and then … I dropped ... the dang bag ...

and the next thing that I knew,

it was raining oatmeal raisin cookie crumbs ...

what a hull … of … a … baloo!

I said, that I was sorry ...

is there something I can do?
and  boom … before I knew it ...
someone handed me a broom!

believe me ... chasin' raisins
is not the snap that you might think ...
there were raisins on the counter ...
there were raisins in the sink

there were raisins in the hanging lights
and heading ant-like out the door ...
raisins scattered to the four winds ...
on raisin/oatmeal colored floors 

just when I’d think I’d done it,
and squashed their little raisin spree ...
I’d spot another raisin,
where a raisin shouldn’t be

and as the minutes ticked away,
gawd knows, I kept on trying ...
but I swear the little devils,
mark my words, were multiplying

in my defense: I’m sorry,

that I’m forty minutes late ...

but I’ve been chasin' raisins ...
and somethings … simply … cannot wait

photo:  'Bakery Window' (from a display window on Main - the window was actually in a paper supply store - and the cakes are all folded and rolled papers) – W. Bourke 

© 2020 Wendy Bourke