the letter box

I rested from the runaway rhapsody
of hours sorting through
notes and letters and drawings
from the dusty letter box

where kind missives
presented to me . . . had ended up.

little blurts of my life passages,
put to paper, by my dearly beloveds –

quirky, hand spun, treasures,
that had lasted
much longer than spoken words
or the real moments that they pictured

a retrospective:  that left me floating, 
as the years of accolades
cascaded round me . . .
on a lumpy cloud

not, at all, comfortable
with the chorus of adoration that
fell, in selectively deceptive kudos,
from the doting chest.

though, it came to me that I had
. . . mostly . . . tried to do my best.

I glugged down a swallow of ice tea
and whispered, the enduring question:    
what more?

note:  the prompt from Poetry Jam this week is "homegrown, homemade, home baked, homespun, home brewed or home cooked".

photos:  Retrospective - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

The Swans in Beacon Hill Park

HEAD DOODLING BACK

I spent the whole day rambling - and more sleepy than awake - 

I stopped atop the arched Stone Bridge that spans Goodacre Lake.

A stirring so exquisite - there from out of misted veils -

two regal swans appeared like ghosts:  white orbs on silver trails.

They raised their graceful thin long necks - and on wings like downy spreads,

they glided straight towards me and they cocked their snowy heads. 

For several perfect moments, what transpired - beyond words: 

a palpable connection to that scene and the two birds. 

And then as if on some mute cue, the two swans moved as one 

and softly sailed together to the depths from where they'd come. 

Four decades now have passed since then, yet I still recall the sight: 

of that eerie gentle specter, on that supernatural night.

And then today I mentioned (when I chanced to meet someone) 

that I'd seen a haunting vision, in the town that they were from.

And they told me that the swans were gone, because of many things.

But mainly - they believed - it was the  pinioning of their wings.

Swans living in captivity are clipped so they can't fly.

That makes them very vulnerable to pets and passersby.

But when their wings were not pinioned the swans would fly away.

They were birds and born to fly.

Why would a free bird stay?

Such is the story of all life; some truths are meant to be. 

Real beauty cannot be captured -  

and wild things must live free.

Photo:  The Swans in Beacon Hill Park, Victoria, British Columbia – W. Bourke

© 2011 Wendy Bourke

Hot World

It's so hot today, and 

with no sign of stopping: 

the corn in the fields 

has taken to popping. 

The buttercup’s butter 

has melted away. 

Sunflowers are shaking 

their heads in dismay. 

The birds and the bees 

have abandoned the place. 

Cats and dogs –

can’t be bothered,

to take up the chase. 

The chickens have started 

to lay boiled eggs. 

Even tables and chairs 

teeter, 
on their last legs. 

The traffic policeman 

is stuck to the road. 

The trickle of sands through

the hour-glass: slowed.

The forecast predictions,

are lies upon lies

. . . as heat seeking missiles – take to the skies.

note:  Headlines on Heat Seeking Missiles:

  

July 24, 2014:  Israeli planes vulnerable to missiles that downed MH17: Hezbollah, Syria have missiles like those that hit Malaysian plane; Israeli expert warns any aircraft can be hit. 

July 17, 2014:   Malaysian Plane Destroyed By Heat-Seeking Missile With All 295 Passengers Dead. 

June 26, 2012:  Turkish Jet Was Downed By Heat-Seeking Missile.

September 7, 2011:  Heat-Seeking Missiles Are Missing From Libyan Arms Stockpile:  20,000 Missiles have Disappeared in Libya 

photo:  Hot Today - W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

keepsakes

those precious moments

are now passed

–  but left behind –

a trace: a glowing ember,

much like, the way that frosted
sea glass imitates a gem, when

it has no monetary worth . . .

for really, it is just,

a fragment of the thing

that it once was

way back then –

and yet . . .

those touchstones

of another time

– the clutter of our happy days –

slowly turn to “keepsakes” . . .

in secret, mystifying ways

The best things in life aren’t things. –

Art Buchwald, American humorist and Washington Post Columnist. 

notes:  the prompt from Poetry Jam this week is "Trash or Treasure". 

"Sea glass" is physically and chemically weathered glass (often from bottles, thrown from boats, that have shattered) found on beaches along bodies of salt water.  These weathering processes produce natural frosted glass which is collected and  used to make jewelry. 

photos:  Keepsakes:  Sewing Room in the Roedde House Museum, Vancouver, and a 1921 Calendar in McLeod’s Books, Vancouver - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke