Bird Sanctuary

I am always surprised 

when I come upon

the bird sanctuary,

for it seems to rise

from the trail

– out of the blue –

as, all at once,

the sounds of the city 

are replaced in a birdsong,

of twitters and chirps 

and occasional quacks.

And so, I try not to disturb,

their little haven, 

and wend lightly

along the meandering path, 

as all cares fall away.

From time to time,

as I float, on my invisible wings 

in mystic spirit breezes

I chance, momentarily,

to hear the sound of children 

whispering to the birds.

That is the most tender, gentle sound . . .

I think . . . that I have ever heard.

note:  the prompt for Poetry Jam this week is “The Unexpected”.

photo:  The Bird Sanctuary at Burnaby Lake:  Canada Goose and Goslings – W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

Wonder in the Hours

HEAD DOODLING BACK

There is  nothing

that can make

one's heart sing

more  tenderly  than

the wonder in the hours

spent nurturing a garden

where a child watches

his  planted  seeds,

slowly – turn  to  flowers.

photo:  Nathan's Sunflower - H. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

like a freshwater lake in the desert

it was so hot:
  
all attempts to wring

some lightness-of-heart

out of the lifeless, still day 

had mostly been abandoned –

as if, the hours were stuck,

by the blasting heat, 

to the middle of an asphalt road.

I had taken a break,

from after-lunch camping chores, 

to sit down on the edge of our

wooden picnic table bench

and – kicking off my flip-flops

and wiggling my toes –

I was soon joined,  

in that diversion,

by a little boy

of about two or three,

hotly pursued

by a red faced older fellow:

the child’s grandfather,

as it turned out – 
the lad:  “a runner”, he explained.

the boy laughed,

as we continued 

wiggling our toes together.

grandpa laughed,

and I laughed, too.

“little ones” – he chuckled, 

with the acuity of an ancient sage:

“are like a freshwater lake . . . in the desert”.

notes:  The prompt this week for Poetry Jam is “Impossible Place”.

Pictured is Osoyoos Lake.  Osoyoos, British Columbia is located in the only desert in Canada with the lowest rainfall, the highest temperatures, and the warmest fresh water lake in the country.  The town is located on the lakeshore of Osoyoos Lake – as is the town of Oroville, Washington, on the US side.  Captured in these photographs of Osoyoos Lake are the desert hills of the region.  The bottom photograph shows a vineyard and the orchard trees prevalent in the area, pinned between the Lake and the desert.
 
photos:  Osoyoos Lake, British Columbia – M.T. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

Stay

HEAD DOODLING BACK

I had pricked my finger
and a drop of blood fell
onto the steps, where I sat.

It was late in the day,
and so I decided
to abandon my needlework
altogether

and bundled it back into the basket
where it would wait for stitches.

He had been working -
for some time -
tidying up dead branches
on the backyard trees

and came, to sit down -
on the step below me.

He placed his head
upon my knees, and joked:
I'm looking for a soft place to land.

My hand brushed his cheek and -
inadvertently - left
a red smudge across it.

I moved, to fetch something
to wash the stain away.

He stilled me, gently.
Then, shut his eyes and whispered . . .

Stay.

photos:  Stay - W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

enchanted garden

adrift in the city 

I came upon a garden

it must have been enchanted 

for the fragrant breezes 

washed over my tired body 

and I was restored

my old soul sighed 

to shushing leafy branches

that hushed the rattle of the street

and I felt a wisp of a smile 

curl round the hard corners of my mouth

my heart soared as I 

cast my eyes from the joyful patchwork

of soft, pretty petals and nodding blossoms 

to the heavenly white-cloud-blue-sky

and then:  like magic, 

my loneliness vanished – 

and a lovely solitude fell upon me

note:  The prompt from Poetry Jam this week is "Alone".

photos:  Flower Garden:  on the grounds of the Irving House Museum in New Westminster (the oldest remaining home on the Lower Mainland of British Columbia) – W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

carefully chosen words – a puente

he had wandered with his repartee,

to the edge of a prickly thicket:

a secret, he was about to give away

~ when he gleaned a bridge to the other side ~

he chose his words with care,

through the conversational sticky wicket: 

and talked his way out of there

note:  The prompt at Poetry Jam this week is Bridge or writing a Puente  (bridge in Spanish) which is a poetry form that uses a word bridge.  The Puente, created by James Rasmussen, is a poem consisting of three stanzas with the first and third being equal in number of lines and the second serving as a bridge (Puente) between the two. The first and third stanzas should be related but different (though they should share a common ground).  This poetic form can be written in free verse or rhyme. The bridge line should serve as the ending for the first stanza and the beginning for the third. It is often delineated by a tilde (~). 

photo:  Bridge in Queen Elizabeth Park, Vancouver – W. Bourke

  

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

untitled villanelle

One of the wonderful things about posting poems in the blogosphere, is that I get to read, enjoy and be educated by other blog poets and become enlightened and charmed by their love of various poetic forms:  sonnets, haikus, tankas, rondeaus, villanelles and so on and so on. . .  It has been a joy of discovery for me, and so, here I go – humbly – offering up my first attempt at a villanelle.
  
transcendent, as a leaf upon a breeze

surrendering to breath on which it sails

in grips of wind gusts, free - but yet, not free

far flung from stands of great cathedral trees

rustling sighs, resplendent in green veils

transcendent, as a leaf upon a breeze

abiding, as the earth and skies and seas

through raging blows and blasts of storms and gales

in grips of wind gusts, free - but yet, not free

the certainty, that what will be: will be

and in that truth the universe prevails

transcendent, as a leaf upon a breeze

and in that truth there is serenity

in heaven clouds, or earthly spirit trails

in grips of wind gusts, free - but yet, not free

peace – in the perfect calm simplicity,

the letting go of useless, vain travails –

transcendent, as a leaf upon a breeze

in grips of wind gusts, free – but yet, not free

note: posted on the Society of Classical Poets website, 2017 and published in Encompass V (Beret Day Press), 2016.

The prompt from Poetry Jam this week is Lost and Found.  I believe, many things that often seem lost, come back to us on a metaphysical or spiritual level and I have attempted to capture that here.

   

photo:  Tall Tree - Still Growing – W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

The View from Salt Spring Island

From the weathered wooden dock,

the lake lapped, serene in dreamy sparkles,
and intoxicating breezes – spirited and free:

conferring young-as-sixties peace

upon the glorious day

– and I am carried away –

back, to the beginning of time,

when bliss was bestowed in the fervent lyrics

and deep, highly anticipated kisses

of exuberant youth.

The bitter-sweet moment, as mystifying as:

 

looking down upon my long lost

macramé headband and puka shell beads

plucked from the bottom of a drawer,

to be held in old hands,

or, the sound of Cat Stevens

coming from the battered transistor radio

through the misty mesh of the squeaky screen door.

photo:  St. Mary Lake on Salt Spring Island – H. Bourke

note:  Salt Spring Island (one of the Gulf Islands in the Strait of Georgia between mainland BC and Vancouver Island) has a colorful history.  The island was initially inhabited by various Native Salishan peoples before being settled by pioneers in 1859.  (While there are land settlement issues still being addressed in Canadian courts, relations between First Nations people and settlers were not entirely unfriendly:  they married and shared their knowledge of living off the land and sea.)  About half of the first settlers were black.  They had come from San Francisco in search of equal rights.  Salt Spring’s settlement is unique in that it allowed newcomers to farm land before purchasing it, using money from their harvested crops to do so.  In the sixties it became a haven for those avoiding the draft during the Vietnam War and, as such, attracted a population from across North America seeking an alternative life-style, personal freedom and acceptance. 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

SAME OLD, SAME OLD MOON

Beacon to man - and lunar gods - Companion to the night.
(Man left the Rover tire tracks - hope that was quite all right.)
Muse to the artist - song and poem and painting to inspire;
A wish, a dream reflected:  blue moon's moody blue desire.
The peaceful glow:  a magic spell to touch upon each heart -
In this cold world's conspiracy, to drive us all apart.
In truth, we may be FAR APART under dark sky, star stewn -
But all together:  ALL BENEATH . . . THE SAME OLD, SAME OLD MOON. 

note: The Prompt from Poetry Jam this week is:  The Moon.

photo:  City Moon from my Balcony - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke