it was the kind of place

     it was the kind of place that:

     if I  could compile a picture book to thumb through (in my mind’s eye) as I lie waiting to die, I surely, would have included it.  for it had, the most lyrical of mountains to soar above, the happiest ever blue sky and twinkling water that lapped in hushing waves.  there was even a bench (with room for two) to sit and rest a bit, while I lingered.

     and so, I breathed it in – trying my best to commit it to memory.

     sitting on that bench, I imagined all the people that I had enjoyed in my life, sauntering down the path that trailed along the edge of the lake where I perched (the sun breeze tickling my face).  they waved farewell, fondly, as they ambled by.  (for some reason, all the creeps, clowns and downers that had insinuated themselves into my days and provided so many vexations to my spirit, opted not to put in an appearance.  then again, at that point – why would they.)

     my restless mind, rested then … the plethora of questions that buzzed round me, like angry bees – had bumbled off, leaving me to simply, be amazed.  I left it to someone else … to take their turn:  worrying about this world.

       when, at last, I rose to leave, I felt restored.  perhaps, it was an illusion … perhaps, all life is.  but – for me, anyway – it was the kind of place that makes you want to believe … once more.

note:  posted for Poets United.

photo:  Another shot of Harrison Lake – W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke

the whiner

she whined like a gramophone –

perpetually winding down,

but never stopping, for long:

complaining and blaming,

pausing only, it seemed,

for nourishment, rest and air,

as, all around her held their

collective breath and sent up

a silent prayer that her days

of wretched luck and spectacularly

unfair treatment had, finally,

given way to the ordinary ebb and flow

of most everybody else’s fortunes and fates …

if only community "willing" could make it so

but no – alas, it was not to be and as the years

drifted passed, it became clear to those
whose ears she bent, repeatedly,

with her litany of woe – she was doomed,

to be endlessly misunderstood

and victimized all-the-days-of-her-life:

the gossamer threads of words

she wove continually unravelling

– like unfolding tabloid headlines –

to be entwined anew, catching the light

for a moment and then trailing off

to nothingness again and again so that,

she never owned a moment …

she was personally responsible for

photo:  Small Town Newspaper – office of the local newspaper in the charming town on Agassiz, BC – W. Bourke 

© 2015 Wendy Bourke

que sera sera

     the fresh crisp morning, in smoky autumn burnt leaf wisps, 

transported me, as I stood awed-still looking out on the lake 

and majestic far off mountain ranges . . .

     fellow weekend-get-awayers passed by, and it seemed to me 

I could discern their spirits, by their gait and, for a moment, 

contemplated singing: ♪ que sera sera ♫ as musical accompaniment  

to a rollicking stroll . . . but then, thought better of it:

     demonstrations of overt individuality – while, tolerated in the young – 

tend to give off mad-as-a-hatter emanations from, just about, everyone else …
though, a bit of discreet lip-syncing, I reckoned, would likely fly

under the “bats-in-the-belfry” radar . . .

     and so … off I set , rambling against the wind: a song in my heart and a lilt in my stride . . . heel-toe-three-beat-shuffle-paddle-steps ERUPTING from my feet, from time to time.

notes:  posted for “Poets United”.

"Que Sera, Sera” (What Will Be, Will Be) was first sung by Doris Day in 1956.

photo:  Harrison Lake, BC – W. Bourke (taken from the beach in front of Harrison Hot Springs Resort & Spa, where we holidayed earlier this week  – a gift to us from our awesome kids.  As you can see, it is breathtakingly beautiful … the weather was fantastic; the fall air was lovely – and yes, it did make me feel like singing and dancing. )

© 2015 Wendy Bourke