West Coast January Weather

Finally the rain-snow-sleet has stopped –

though, I remain in recovery, still,

from a particularly, virulent bout

of epically belligerent

West Coast January weather.

It began benignly enough, in irksome

stop-starts of blubbering sniffles

 – sadly, a fairly chronic condition  –

at this time of the year

but, by day three, it appeared

to be in the throes of some sort of

convulsive demonic possession

raining down upon the earth,

a blast of meteorological phenomena:

so multifarious and alien in the sheer

conglomeration of forms, that precipitation,

can materialize in:  that

humankind has yet to coin the noun

befitting such a histrionic deluge.

But, at last, it has stopped –

leaving myself, and the rest of

the doused population of the land

to fill our lungs, jubilantly,

with gentle lachrymose air, infused with

the distinctive aroma of moldy cheese . . .

on a wet dog.

note:  the prompt at Poetry Jam this week is "Tis the Season".

photo:  West Coast January Weather – W. Bourke 

© 2015 Wendy Bourke  

Metaphorically Speaking

I was all ears, that morning when,

Beneath the smirking sky,

He let the cat out of the bag –

(Good Grief!)  Heaven knows why.

Prudently, I bit my tongue.

He had an axe to grind.

He beat around the bush and then . . .

Commenced to blow my mind.

It seemed to me he’d come unglued,

(And gone completely mad.)

Though, he liked to put me on

And was a joker, I might add.

He wore rose colored glasses.

And, would bark up the wrong tree.

And when he talked finances:

He was talking Greek to me.

So, I went back to the drawing board,

And weighed each thing he’d said.

I counted, and I knocked on wood:

Then hit the nail, right on the head.

For suddenly, I smelled a rat

(Though, he thought he had me pegged) 

. . . I'm not buying:  his new truck
(He claims) cost him . . . an arm and leg.

note:  a very hectic week and, thus, a very late (and unlinked) response to Poetry Jam’s Prompt of “Writing” (which got me pondering metaphors, imagery and idioms ).

photo:  Through Rose Colored Glasses  (photo is of the Irving House in New Westminster:  the oldest remaining home on the Lower Mainland of British Columbia) – W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke  

ramble in the blue realm

at first, the snowflakes fell – so light –

such random silver specks, in the blue realm,

we really couldn’t be entirely sure, that it was snowing at all

. . . or . . . if it was our breath:  hung, in the air, in frosty spittle commas,

that hooked upon brisk, flicks of breezes . . . and punctuated

the long winded road ramble.

but then, as the approaching dusk began to nail down

the spaces between the sentinel trees,

that guarded the dark forest, beyond the path . . .

the gossamer faint fall of flecks suddenly

escalated in an impassioned fervor of windblown bluster and fuss,

so that, we both were wildly impressed, and exhilarated,

by the histrionic billow and manic swirl

of white powder and sparkle dust,

that came – almost – out of nowhere.

until . . . the same thought flashed between us, that:

we had, in fact, dawdled since midday, aimlessly

traipsing the twisting trail . . . and so . . .

shrewdly, and with less than laid-back haste:  took off,

like two shots, through the squall in the direction of the cabin

– laughing with giddy gusto – when, at last, we came within sight of the door

. . . for, peril is invigorating . . . . . . . . . . . . when sanctuary is near. 

photo:  Winding Road – W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke