faded pages

in the days of mostly easy time, 

there is the odd reminder of another place.

fragrant reminiscence in a flash; 

passed - but in its wake - a trace.

like a tired book of poetry

that tries and fails to resonant.

close, so very close, but in the end 

tenuous, vague, ethereal.

page after page careful to avoid 

warmth of feeling or familiarity ... and though 

subtle images, occasionally, kindle a pleasant reverie,

it is far less vivid than the recollection begs to be.

the nearness of memories made where they can be revisited,

in that sweet connectedness that time and place evoke. 

the chance encounter on the streets,

traversed by past and present home town folk. 

tinged forever with the young thrill of what could be.

the laughter, the closeness:  the comfort that home brings. 

the houses filled with family and friends.

the hopes - the heart stirred by simple things. 

in the days of mostly easy time,

in the final passages - bright symbols turn to gray ... 

the missing touch stones of those memories

of so much life - lived far away.

note:  posted for Poets United.

photo:  Another Place - W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke

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