frabjous

yesterday .... truly ... was frabjous ...

in that fabulous, frabjous fine way ...

it was joyous and stirring and mellow ...

A Great ... Great ... Great ... Great Frabjous Day

it was frabjous ... it was wonderfully frabjous ...

on a trek through the evergreen trees ...

the weather was fair … everywhere

... everywhere ...

simply rippled ... with wafts of pine breeze

there was kind-clever-sharp conversation ...

there was hot, steamy citrus-spiced-tea ...

and then there was dinner ... and candlelight

... 'FRABJOUS' ...

wine ... music ... and good company

it was thoughtful, sublime and engaging ...

it was brilliant ,,, and fun and ... happy ...

it was out-and-outstandingly frabjous ...

just as frabjous ... as frabjous can be

WISHING YOU ALL – at least one - GREAT FRABJOUS DAY -

at the height of these November Doldrums

note: a bit of fun today ... I haven't done a rhyming verse in quite a while, and was feeling the need of it on this November Doldrums Day.

frabjous:  (pronounced FRAB-JUS) - I came across this little word gem - and love it!  Originally it was a nonce (coined word) that first appeared in Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky in 1872 (probably, as a blend of fair, fabulous and joyous) and has come to be listed in dictionaries such as Merriam-Webster.  It goggles as a synonym for:  wonderful, marvelous, magnificent, superb, sublime, spectacular, lovely, excellent, fine, delightful, enjoyable, pleasurable, super, great, amazing, etc., etc., etc.  (All these many years spent amongst words … and I - almost - missed 'frabjous' … which has, totally, got me thinkin':  'I gotta read Jabberwocky ~ smiles ~ )

photo:  Frabjous – W. Bourke 

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

Strange Beauty

There is often a strange beauty to this hour ... and once again, it comes to me as such. Earlier, the day was clear and sunny ... brilliant coloured leaves hung from the knotted branches of giant sentinel trees splashing scarlet-ochre-amber patches across a cornflower-bluest-blue sky ... And then ...

in the time it took to nosh down a good-sized apple ... contemplatively ... the painting transformed before my eyes ... from strokes on linen ... to the vespertine velvet shades that enhance the mood of evening with a wisp of the mysterious. The leaves – now – ­look much older ... the grand trees – more wizened in the dusk. I feel sporadic drops of rain as twilight falls. It is time for me to go ... to give the place back to itself as it glides from the carefree youth of day to the quiet still of night ... in the strange beauty of this hour.  Perhaps ...

it is a acquirement of age ... discerning a strange beauty, where once ... it was not recognized. Strange beauty ... in the subtlies that mark the passages of time ... or those small acts of survival we encounter every day ... a blade of grass, poking from a sidewalk crack ... a rainbow, at the cessation of a storm.  Perhaps …

we grow to find a gentle pleasure ... to find beauty ... in the ebbs and flows and sounds and sights that have accompanied us, through our life ... a capacity, that waits to unfold – with time – in the young. Would it surprise them to know – now – that one day, many of the books and movies and music they enjoy, will come to occupy an even more impassioned place in their hearts, as those 'old' things take on the patina of their 'glory days' ... imbued with a strange beauty that nothing else can duplicate. Will they come to discover, as I have, that even worn out party shoes can cast their own enchantment ... or find the strange beauty that shines from ancient faces ... especially when they smile. I have no doubt that they will ... for that, I believe ... is the rare gift that comes with age.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,

that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

- John Keats (1820)

photo:  Strange Beauty – W. Bourke 

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

Faking It

A couple of weeks ago M. and I were offered tickets to a pro football game and I suggested that my daughter-in-law go in my place. “You might as well go,” I prompted. “For the life of me, I still don't understand that game.”

Noticeably gobsmacked, she managed to eek out a dumbfounded, “You don't understand it?  What about all the Grey Cup and Super Bowl Games you and M. have hosted ... You looked so happy ... like you were really into it.  And the boy's high school games ... You went to games.”  At this point she began to laugh. “And cheered your little heart out, too.”  

“I know, eh ... sometimes, even I forget I haven't got a clue what's going on. It's just that I've never had any real affinity for the game ... well, let's face ... sports in general. But I didn't want to come across like Killjoy-Cranky-Pants and ruin everybody's fun, so I just kinda, ya know ... faked it.  Looking back, I think the sham began, in earnest, in high school when – while working for the school newspaper – I was assigned to cover 'The Big Game'.  I told the faculty advisor that I didn't understand football, and I truly believed in my heart-of-hearts, I never could ... it simply wasn't in me.  He advised me to: surprise myself and insisted I cover it in spite of my misgivings: a good reporter finds an angle and works it.

“As I recall, I got the starting line-up correct.  At which point my coverage moved on to an in depth description of the uniforms ... of both teams (let it never be said I demonstrated any journalistic bias) … where upon, I zoomed to the final score ... ending with a hearty tribute to the sportsmanship demonstrated by the two legendary adversaries ... Yep, that was definitely my baptism by fire, alright.  After that – there was no stopping me – I was ready to fake my way through football for the rest of my life, if need be.”

“Does M. know?” my daughter-in-law inquired conspiratorially?

“We never speak of it ... but yes, he's known for years.  When we watch a game together, he hollers out plays, and chastises players.  I suspect he's long since given up all hope that one-fine-day, I will learn to love his favourite game, as he does ...  though, I'm not sure he knows the degree to which I-know-nothing and care-even-less about it.  As I mentioned:  we don't go there.  Anyway, these days, I think it's become more of an atmospheric thing ... He enjoys the game more when he's yelling at the TV ... and seems to be less inhibited when I join in ... so we just leave it at that.”

“But how do you know what to say and when to cheer and when to holler at the refs?”

“Piece-of-cake.  You will observe, I never lead the charge.”

“Does everyone in the family know?”

“Well yes, by now, I think everyone's figured it out ... But you know, we all do it ... with a myriad of different things.  There's almost always someone who is lukewarm-at-best about something the rest of us are up for ... though you'd be hard pressed to spot who it is. That's because nobody wants to do anything that might rachet down the enjoyment level of everyone else. When there is a good time to be had ... all of us want it to be the very best it can be ... because ...

even if you aren't

exactly on the same page

if you are happy

spending time with family ...

it's all good”

Photo:  Patrick (our uber football kid) after a Game (30 years or so ago) – W.K. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke 

another life

at the edge of the park ... there is a little

copse of trees ... which ... over the years …

has taken on the personalities of dead relatives

the ones that had gone to graves are buried

far far away ... some of them were cast to the winds ...

and some of them moved ... or passed ... when I was but a child

and I know not what became of them ... before

they found their way ... to the copse at the edge of the park

all who have gathered there ... are from another life ...

from a time that was louder and softer … 

richer and frugaller ... kinder and harsher … 

and climate change was not yet invented

I must like that they are there ... for it is I

who summoned them close to me ... perhaps

I sought comfort in their continuation ... as trees

and though I never actually speak to them ... sometimes ...

I think with them ... could they ever have imagined ... 

I often wonder ... that I would grow old ... to worry so ... 

about our precious planet ... and how my heart would break

for those I will leave behind ... what would they have done

with that ... if they had known ... what do I do with it?

Photo:  Tree Talk – W.K. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke 

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 

view from a rock and a hard place

I had gone looking for the whimsical in nature ...

 for the week had been a slog

and had found a bit of comic relief

in the crooked smile of an ancient oak tree knot

from somewhere in the distance ... I heard the laughter

of young children ... as if it tumbled from another time ...
and then

I sat down atop a whopping big rock ... which took a choreography

of contortions to climb aboard ... and although ...
an inelegant ascent … nothing else close by

seemed remotely suitable … and so …

 I persevered and, at length, succeeded ... smiling,

after-the-fact, at the peculiar sight I must have made ... but ...

for all that ... I felt ... as I looked out from my agreeable slate perch ...

far more ... a forest being ... than I had previously felt, when I walked

the path ... for now ... I had a home ... albeit a briefly borrowed one

the sanctum played its own notes ... which were periodically interspersed

with the sounds of children ... the children I couldn't see ... and I thought

… since, by then, we were all in the story together ... 

maybe ... they were magical ... like me … because 

with only the forest creatures for company,

I was invisible ... weightless in the enchanted woods ...

and I floated in the lightness I had come to that place ... seeking

photo:  End of Summer Foliage (framing the City of Vancouver with the Pacific Coast Mountains in the background) – W. Bourke 

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

first kiss

HEAD DOODLING BACK

the kiss came  

none too soon

under the stars and gypsy moon  

waiting, in orchard breezes,

for the other to proceed:

a preemptive peck to signal 

they were set to do the deed. 

both wanting to appear sincere and not  

improper – or imply – 

that they were the kind person

to kiss any girl – or guy.

murmurs amongst the quivers  

til, she heaved a breathy sigh.

then fell –

a bashful velvet kiss

upon

her cherry lip-balmed lips . . . 

like magic . . . floating by.

flitter-flutters  flitter-flutters

'neath the WHAMMO, WHAMMO SKY !!!

notes:  Winner - First Prize: The Ontario Poetry Society. Sparkle and Shine Poetry Contest, 2014.

Sherry and I had a wonderful conversation this past week at Poets United about 'What to do with all that Poetry'.  Our fellow poets joined in and, together, we touched on subjects such as:  publishing, self-publishing, archiving, audio poetry and social media.  If you missed it, and have been wondering about ' What to do with all that Poetry' check  it out at 'What to do with all that Poetry'.  A lot of awesome info was exchanged and, personally, I learned a lot.

photo:  Cherry Red – W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

Seasons

“Bye now ... I envy you, treated to all that beautiful white.”

“And I envy you,” my cousin answers back, with a chortle of laughter “not having to shovel it.”

I hang up the phone and stare out my window at the explosion of coloured leaves on-and-under tree limb, that is nature's gift to me, this day ... while my prairie kinfolk, a mere thousand kilometres away, are the lucky spectators to a marvelicious light show ... an hours-and-hours-long, thirty centimetre deep ... cascade of glorious sparkling snow.

'Seasons', I whisper aloud ... yet again, struck by the epically sweeping profundity of change that is connatural to all life ... though no where, quite so conspicuously ... than in the change of seasons.

Seasons paint and repaint and repaint ... the scenes upon which the days of our existence play out. They impart visuals, sounds, scents, weather ... and even, at times, touch and taste to our world ... At the awesome, and perfect, convergence of time and sun and orbit and the tilt of this planet ... a grand new plethora of wonders is laid before us ... nature ... in all its magnificence.

Thus, the seasonal changes are deeply rooted in all living things ... how we receive them ... how we relate to them ... how we enjoy ... and rejoice in them. For me ... and for many others, I have known ... the depth of response to the changing seasons is, at times, transcendent. The metaphor, intrinsic in seasons, is repeated over and over throughout our lifetime ... spring ... summer ... autumn ... winter ... rebirth ... growth ... aging ... ending. It is beautiful ... it is moving ... and it is spiritual. Perhaps, that is why so many of us keenly relate ... and feel an abiding concord with nature ... with the natural flow of life as we witness it ... again and again ... in the coming and going of seasons … and in embracing it ... find peace. 

To every thing there is a season,

and a time to every purpose under the heaven

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

photos:  Whistler in the Winter Season – H. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke  

magic carpet

dawn awoke weeping

as muddy gray formations began to

materialize into smog enfolded silhouettes

but-by-noon ... the rain had ceased

and brisk whisks of sunshine had swept the fog away

leaving me feeling mildly gladdened

as one is apt to feel when a gloomy day

exceeds low expectations … though ...

it is a fairly recurrent pleasant surprise

in this ever-changing season

just now … I notice that the space

beyond our yard is covered with

an autumnal rug of kaleidoscopic leaves

… remarkable ...

where ... earlier this week the land was bare

there … is a vibrant tapestry 

woven in threads

of russet and golden orange and ochre

and reds … that ruffles in wind ripples

as if raring to take  off … and sail into the sky

… I picture that in my mind's eye ...

and smile at the magic of recall and evocation

and how a spark of memory

can lift us up and colour in

the pages of our story

… gloriously ...

photos:  Scenes from Stanley Park, Vancouver BC – W. Bourke 

© 2019 Wendy Bourke  

on the road that rings around round lake

rambling downhill

on the road that

rings around round lake

on an enchanted, mystic stretch

rollicked by the rolling wind

in early morning verdant scent

I was dazzled

by a stirring in the forest

by a shard of glint that winked

by the sunlight drips and gleams

that blinked ... as eyes ... of fauna blink

when a great gust caught

and tossed me

like a tire tube at sea

so that I bobbed amongst the billows

there ... between the lines of trees

and bobbed and bounced

and bounced and bobbed

guffawing rip-roaringly

and stumble-flew
in a medley of blue

and sparkling blings of green

and lifted up and plopped back down

and flapped my arms-to-wings

euphoric and elated

as if dreaming … yet awake

I danced on down ... feet off the ground ...

the road around round lake

photos:  The Road that Rings Round Retta Lake – W. Bourke 

© 2019 Wendy Bourke