the way of spring

though it was the way of spring ...

the townsfolk never, quite, got used to it

never quite got used

to the proclivity

the season had

of teasing one and all into believing

it had arrived ... to stay

like a fickle friend that can't decide

whether to hang about or head back out

spring came and went …

over and over ...

spitting on the lot of them

as it departed … in a huff of chilly bluster

leaving everyone in town ...

to grumble back into

their knackered out jackets ...

and cranky pants frowns

.

and then –  just when –

it seemed the place would – never again – turn green

the world began to smell

of mud and sunshine

and freshly wrung breezes ...

that fluttered across meadows

and tousled down half-awake streets ...

somersaulting – with winged glee –

through open windows ...

and they all knew

SPRING-HAD-COME-TO-STAY

as they poured into-the-out-of-doors ...

grinning ... and bouncing for joy …

singing songs and writing poems

in praise of new beginnings …

and rebirth … and spring

photo: A Field of Daffodils in Spring - W. Bourke
© 2019 Wendy Bourke

olden library

in this place, where I am now, there are no olden libraries –

only new ones meccanoed in chrome and laminate and glass ...

cold edifices filled with hard edges and data ...

so dissimilar from the warm sublimity that I fondly recall

in the olden libraries of my long ago  – they even smell differently

that was the first thing that you noticed

when you entered through the doors of an olden library ...

the smell of a venerable forest  – redolent in wood fragrance

the heavenly stacks, of course, were splendiferous ...

bountifully bedecked, with magnificent books, brightly swathed

in every manner of cover and bind and colour and texture ...

a treasure trove for the eye – arrayed with just enough rumple

to entice a roving quest by the bibliophiles who roamed the aisles: 

the young and the not-so-young and the ancients with kind faces

and then there was the matter of sounds ... for, all living places

play their own notes – and so it was with olden libraries ...

they whispered and chuckled and cleared their throats ...

chairs bleated like lost lambs back-and-forthing across

scraped and pitted oak boards ... and books plopped like pebbles

sploshing into a brook, or whizzed – gaseously – as they were

thumbed and leafed through – and thumbed, anew

and oh – the dusty light that was just so – just right – shining golden

through lead glass windows to fall in prisms across the desks,

as the supper hour beckoned, on a late spring evening

best of all, if you could walk to and from them – strolling down

hopscotched sidewalks, inhaling lilacs-and-the-green, while words

rolled round you like far off thunderclaps – that was the full awesome –

that was the whole shebang – the whole kit and kaboodle –

the what-a-feeling ... spell ... that only an olden library could cast

graphic:  photo/graphic art piece of McLeod’s Bookstore on Pender in Vancouver - a Harry Potter-esque trove of beautiful old books where you can, literally lose yourself, gleefully, for hours - W. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

at the border of dreams

in the spaces between wake-and-sleep

and sleep-and-wake, the dots connect

. . . in the most astonishing ways . . .

a rambling scramble of image, inkling and reality,

story-booked into an unfolding labyrinthine tale

of the familiar and the strange

and so it was, in the last of the winter gales,

as the windows rattled like chattering teeth,

I came, once more, to the border of dreams,

in the ebb and flow, of a late afternoon repose

and found myself at the end of the snow forest path,

staring at the long ago home of my childhood,

as shingles began ripping from the rooftop –

transforming into feathers – transforming

into crows-in-black-satin, that swirled and soared . . .

into the crystal white of that imagined place

until, at length, I thought to myself

. . . what a sight . . . what an unbelievable sight . . .

and with that, I bounced out of my doze

back to wakefulness – wide-eyed in the real

though – I rose, nevertheless, to look for crows –

the childhood inclination for an ember of extraordinary

in an ordinary day – never having quite, been extinguished

graphic: Crows at the Border of Dreams - W. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

the wander of a song

this is the wander of a song ...

that wends … wordless … down spirit trails …

down forest paths … on whiffle breeze ...

passed trees of bough and verdant veils ...

and in the notes ... a rustling sigh …

a faint recall ... of sweet birdsong …

rain drops in music on the green ...
piano purl of pebbled stream ...

I sense an eagle soars nearby ...

beyond and yonder to the shores …

where sky meets sea in blue on blue …

in billowed surf and mountain view ... 

I float … legato … in the clouds …
and in the clouds … and in white blooms

a choir of oaks in fluttering cloaks …
whisper wind wept whispered tunes ...

a lone birch beckons at lake's edge ...

to hush of waves and call of loon ...

and starry night … and lantern moon …

such is the wander of a song ...


“Where words fail, music speaks.” - Hans Christian Andersen 

photo:  Whistler, BC (another incredible shot taken by my daughter-in-law on a recent ski trip there) - H. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

is this the dream

... is this the dream …

that I cannot recall when I awaken

inexplicably elated

is this the scape that plays

across the sweep

of my mind's eye

when I float upon the notes

of silver music

in the glow

of the sublime …

is this the dream

... is this the dream …

is this the comfort …

is this the energy and guide …

is this the bestower of well-being

... the profundity

... the awesome majesty

... the celestial and divine

this heaven ... this peace ... this starry night

... is this the dream … 

painting:  The Starry Night (1889) by Vincent van Gogh - public domain.

© 2019 Wendy Bourke 

old souls and ancient trees

though its look

and its dimensions

are unremarkable, as trees go,

the maple tree, just inside

the portal to the park

has about it, an aspect

of mystic authenticity

– a spirit, I suppose –

that puts me in mind

of an old soul

and so, I sit at the picnic table

below its arms-wide-open

branches and share a sandwich

or a piece of fruit when I chance

to visit that reflective place, for

I have an affinity for old souls

– be they bark-or-bone –

the spaces they occupy

are calm and conducive

to contemplation and occasion

one to read, as I often do when

I am with them, for I know

that old souls are very wise

in the ways of truth and harmony

and nurturing and flourishing, and live

to confer their beneficence upon friends, 

to whom, old souls reveal

– by a myriad of means –

what is . . . and what will be

photo: Old Souls and Ancient Trees - W. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

heaven ... come to earth

in the city we, mostly, imagine stars …

for the city lights diminish

their resplendence

thus, in those moments when

magic is afoot and a twinkling

celestial canopy would further

gladden hearts with

a show of enchantment

… we dream up stars ...

and hang them round us

… sometimes we even wish upon them …

ethereal ... though they may be …

we know that they are there,

and so ... it must suffice, until …

we ... phantasmagorically ... are graced

with, an almost-never, precious-and-rare

wonderstruck night ... when,

glittering snowflakes tumble down to earth

in round gobbets as big as star dust

bunnies … and then

we are spellbound in the sparkles and the white …

as stars fall from the heavens …

floating to us ... so that, we can

reach out and hold them in our hands

… with joy …

for it is as if 

this world could not be more

... thrillingly ... perfect than it is,

in that hour of heaven ... come to earth

photo: Heaven Come to Earth  – W. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

some kind of wonderful

it has been

many years, now,

since I have revelled – joyful –

in the white magic of snow

and yet …

I still recall …

those halcyon childhood days

when snowfall abracadabra'd

to this earth and suffused the world

in an enchanted sparkle

I still recall …

the sound of laughter

in the breathy mist

of children playing

 – angels – in the wintry idyll

I still recall …

how I marveled at it all

– brown woods cloaked in white –

spell bound in the midst …

I still recall the fragrance of those hours

it has been

many years, now,

since I have revelled – joyful –

in the white magic of snow

and yet …

 it was some kind of wonderful … a kid …would never forget

note:  a theme I have chased after a few times - I find that, that which is closest to one's heart is the most allusive, to put to paper.  

photo: some kind of wonderful – W. Bourke

© 2019 Wendy Bourke

A Holiday Puente

HEAD DOODLING BACK

✫ 

in that gentle place of light

between the peace of solitude 

and the joyful companionship of good souls

~ glad spirits bask in the warmth of contentment ~

when we find our way back to that sanctuary … 

we are comforted  …  we are renewed  …  it is the gift … 

that we seek  –  again and again  –  all the days of our lives

Best Wishes ... Peace and Joy throughout the Holidays and the New Year …

I am taking the rest of the year off from blogging, and will return in 2019.

photo:  This is the tree in the lobby of the Hotel Vancouver that I snapped two years ago, when my children took me for Christmas High Tea, there, as a treat … a lovely afternoon with family - W. Bourke

© 2017 Wendy Bourke

Did you notice

Did you notice that you – just now –
looked me straight into the eye –

and with twisted words, you forked your tongue

and stooped to tell a lie.

Did you notice that my breath exhaled

upon a ragged sigh –

that my fists were clenched in anguish,

as you deigned to tell a lie.

Did you notice that you, smiled
as my silent tears ran dry –
as you flashed those pearly whites of yours
and chose to tell a lie.

Did you notice that your child stood
within earshot – so close by –
did you notice their expression
when they heard you ... tell a lie.

note:  Sherry Blue Sky and I, have been putting together a piece on repetition in poetry (which will be popping up in her column at Poet's United - I believe - some time this month).  Delving into the splendiferous effects that poets (through the ages and continuing into contemporary work) have achieved with this awesome literary device, has been fascinating ... at least, for this poetry lover ... and has rekindled my enthusiasm for wonderful repetition.  Though, I feel like I am just scratching the surface, this is the first of two poems (I'll be posting the other, next week) that have come out of my newly rekindled enthusiasm for this, truly multidimensional, poetic vehicle. 

graphic:  from October 1902 issue of The Delineator magazine (an American women's magazine of the late 19th and early 20th century).

© 2018 Wendy Bourke