sweet woods

deep in the forest

where I wander blithely free

each crooked path or lopsided tree

I light upon

reminds me 

there is joyous color

in perfectly less-than-perfect

sweet 

as the woods can be

photo:  Red Balloon in Burnaby Central Park – W. Bourke 

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

The Kids had a Good Day

the sky morphed -
ominously -
to storm cloud black;

and the beach was left
in abandoned sand castles -

and transistor radio doo-wops,
doo-wopping from the cabin porch.

the sun had run off with the kids . . . 
the canoe, it appeared, went along for the ride - 

out onto the dark lake.

I heard booms of thunder -
loud kettle drum bangs -
and my heart began to pound,
in revving flip-flops

as my eyes scanned round and round:
scary pleading darts, of stops and starts.

I was about to sound the alarm
when I saw them - paddling towards shore -
their faces, serious; their strokes, strong and sure.

the canoe brought them back to me,

just as the rain poured down
in plopping splattering giant drops -
glops - flopping and bouncing onto the lake.

they ran through the screen door -
soaked and laughing -
puddled footprints across the floor.

slowly, I ratcheted myself down:
inhaling the comforting, good smells
of rain, and children and camp logs
and bacon and coffee.

the cabin snuggled like a turtle
in the splashing water.

later the sun came out
and lit up the lake.

The kids had a good day.

note:  A redo of an idea from a long ago poem.

photo:  In the Cabin at the Lake - W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

Slapstick

The late afternoon
had run amok

even the tussling breezes
had given up

and the stillness hung
in periwinkle blue

as it, inevitably, does
when I am feeling wistful
and listless
in beady droplets of feelings:

vague smatterings
that stubbornly
refuse to rain down
in torrents

and be done with it.

And then – it DID
begin to rain

splish-splashing me
in slapstick buckets.

The irony –
to say nothing of
the pathetic fallacy –
was not lost, in the downpour

and I laughed out loud 

in cathartic chuckles.

note:  Slapstick is a type of comedy based - not on words, but - on humorously embarrassing events.

photo:  Port Moody Pier – W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

Calendar Sheets

As June approached

I thought of her more often -

as has become the way of it -

though each year,
the reflection dims somewhat.

Do other people, I wonder,

swirl through sad anniversaries
 

in gusts of memories,

that slowly quell, 

with the softening of time

like calendar sheets

blowing in the wind,

in an old monochrome movie:

The million dreams and plans
hatched on front steps

(flutter of calendar sheets)

The endless summers 
of swims and bike rides

(flutter of calendar sheets)

The pizza sleepovers . . .
and dances . . . and dates

(more calendar sheets).

When I last spoke with her -

on that June blue sky day -

shortly before she passed,

she told me that she felt,

more and more,

like a tree standing by the water:

fighting to stay - struggling to stay -

and yet, drawn to the perfect peace

of letting go and surrendering

to blessed rest . . . . .

And so she rests -
her ashes cast upon water -
as was her wish

as the calendar sheets fall, 
in sleepy sputtered zig-zags,

and mark the days

that pass without her . . . . .

photo:  Tree Standing by the Water - W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke