rose wind

sometimes,

in the playground of the gods,

in the days of avocado sandwiches

and kalamata olives

the scent of roses

fluttered like a magic spell

as we strolled

round and round the garden paths

in floral breezes and bird chirps

and airy whispers

and slowly, wound our way

to the edge of the wild precipice

that looked down upon

the roving sea

where time rested,

suspended, soft and serene,

transcendent –

on wafts of gentle rose wind

more lovely,

than anyone could ever dream:

clasped, together,

in such a supernatural place,

nibbling avocado sandwiches

and kalamata olives, happy . . .

as happy, as we could ever hope to be

by the ocean, encircled in blossoms 

and green, under the azure sky, 

in the playground of the gods . . .

adrift in rose wind.

note:  a picnic area in Burnaby Mountain Park that features Totem Poles and a beyond beautiful rose garden and looks out over the Burrard Inlet on the Pacific Ocean is known as the "Playground of the Gods". 

photo:  Rose Wind - W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

gods and roses

HEAD DOODLING BACK

sometimes
he would pick me up, 
at the strike of noon,
and carry me away
 
from the office jumbled
politics and jungle of machines

and we'd drive
to the mountain park
and eat avocado sandwiches

happily
 
amongst the totems 
and the green
in the playground of the gods

we'd talk 
and munch on kalamata olives
and walk 
and smell the blooms
in the rose garden
 
then - as the minutes fell away
we'd pack up
and say good-bye 
to the gods and the flowers and the feast

and drive, silently, back and sit - 
quietly in the car,
with my head on his shoulder

until just before the hour was up - 
and then, I'd tell him that I loved him
and walk back into the concrete box:
 
feeling as lonely as a wet stare.

note:  the Totems At Burnaby Mountain Park were carved by Japanese artists and were a gift to the City Of Burnaby from a sister city in Japan. The area where these totems are on Burnaby Mountain is called "Playground of the Gods".

photo:  Playground of the Gods - W. Bourke

© 2012 Wendy Bourke

in the still

the day began:

under yellow sun drops 

that drove 

the black night’s imaginings away . . .

enfolded, fairly good-naturedly:

in azure blue and green,  

and earth brown,  

and splashes of water and hope . . .

and then:

my footsteps fell 

on snaps of twigs

– lovely – in the ruddy still . . . 

the sound:

the crack, crack, crackle,

crisp, canyon echo in the air –  

I was there, I was there . . .

that I passed that way:

a small thing, I suppose,

and yet – in that pure white –  

so powerful . . .

I grinned – like a kid.

photo:  in the still – W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

away from the garish disconnect

 

the manic day,

began to slow

and, at last,

drifted

to a gentle lullaby rock – 

like a carousel . . .
winding down.

and I felt the way

I used to feel

when, as a child,

I was led away

from the carnival grounds –

to be tucked into bed

with Mother’s kiss:

snug and safe,

from the garish disconnect

and the discomforting

orphan void. 

For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love. –

Carl Sagan

note:  the prompt from Poetry Jam this week is Festivals (fairs, carnivals or fests) and/or (this Sunday being Mother’s Day) Mothers.

photo:  Montmartre Carousel - W. Bourke 

© 2014 Wendy Bourke