Friday, 18 October 2019

the poetry of water


I have always found my way ...
to waters' poetry ... for I am drawn
by inspiration ... to brooks
and springs ... that I can step across with ease

I am drawn ...
to capricious creeks that vanish and return
to rivers-of-change ... as constant ...
as a mountain range ... though in winter ... shrouded ...
beneath ... ice and snow

I am drawn ...
to lakes and to lake ponds and to lagoons ...
to oceans ... to the deep abiding sea

I have always found my way ...
to waters' poetry ... and go there still ...
and often now
it comes to me

I close my eyes … remember … and it comes to me
in the purl and ripple of a phrase
in the crash and swirl that stirs expression 
in the ebb and flow of lapping waves

upon a jagged shore or sandy beach
along a stony bank or tall grass knoll
beside a crooked creek or vast blue sea
I close my eyes
and I am there ... in waters' poetry

Photo:  Twin Island Blue – M.S. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke 


Monday, 21 March 2016

Selected Tanka



I pressed his gift
of wildflowers
in the pages
of a heavy book . . .
that I could not get into

  
American Tanka: between cries, Issue 25, 2015 



winter rambling
I come upon snow angels
and bend
to give them halos –
she loved doing that
 

Ribbons Selected Tanka, Tanka Society of America, Fall 2015


  
in the big community garden
he stares at tiny seeds
in his little hand
and whispers...
so small
 

Tanka CafĂ©, Tanka Society of American, Fall 2015 



my father, the diviner –
strange title
I always thought
for a man who preferred
rum over water 

A Hundred Gourds, 5:2, March 2016 



I walk past
the street kid
holding out a dirty palm –
the gray day
begins spitting
  
Spent Blossoms Anthology, Tanka Society of America, Fall 2015 


photo:  Nitobe Japanese Garden, Vancouver - W. Bourke
  
© 2015/16 Wendy Bourke


Sunday, 21 February 2016

indelible



it was a nasty day to be outside . . .
the kind of day, you wish away:
 
a gray gossamer curtain
of misty billows and fog
rose on rain that drizzled
and spat in bursts and blasts

of wet, dank, clammy cold 
that oozed through bodies, to bones 
like just-thawed mud . . . and I thought:

if this day was set to music . . .
it would be a lament
 
if it was a painting,
people would be, barely there . . . in smudges 
ageless, sexless, distant smudges

which made me ache to snuggle 
cozily into a splendid poem, with you 
where we would be . . . 

an indelible line of lovely poetry  . . . oft-repeated
  

note:  posted for Poets United.

photos:  Bridges across the Fraser River in New Westminster, BC (Skytrain and Pattullo – Mount Baker, in the mist) – W. Bourke
 
painting:  Gare St. Lazare, 1877 (public domain) – Claude Monet
  
© 2016 Wendy Bourke