xx by nwlox
Dreams, mockery, delusion,
a world of swirling impossibilities.
But there it is, that cauldron,
a morass of confused symbols.
The jumbled mind conscripts thought,
pulling together bits and pieces.
Sometimes believing them – the pieces,
for on the whole somewhere they exist.
Moments from the refuse of living,
rotting, deteriorating behind eyes.
And yet, it grows, evolves, expands,
encompassing the mental infinite space.
The jackass of playful creation,
has become a horror show puppeteer.
Sitting composed in elision fields,
disguised, it is not what it seems.
A parasol of tattered souls shouldered,
dressed in funeral casual raiment.
It is known, abhorred, but, not to be feared,
these phantasm fragments are loaned.
The hands of time reach the end hour,
a gentle nudge from a wakening alarm.
Swept by a solstice of curtain filtered light,
reality reigns with the gentle dawn.
That which temporally was given,
canceled, reclaimed, shelved.
The play is over receiving bad reviews,
with the echo of a cynical bray.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
There is something to be said,
I do not know how to tell you.
Words reach my mouth,
but they are not spoken.
The spark with in me,
a constant urging to speak.
You would not understand,
nor would you believe me.
Our universe is a constant,
a space void of comprehension.
I choose not to waste words,
when they will not be heard.
That is why I am silent,
watching, waiting, muted.
When my silence finally reaches you,
a question will form in your mind.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” and,
the echo of life will answer.
All the memories – the volume of us,
desire’s hearth left untended.
The flame has turned to cold ashes,
for I have forgotten how to love.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
For MM. Thank you God!
The italicized words in this piece are quotations attributed to Marilyn Monroe.
I have begun to wonder if it was
only a dream or did it really happen?
My date with Marilyn Monroe!
When I met her at the door
she took my breath away.
I said: “You look fantastic tonight!”
Responding with a pout:
“The body is meant to be seen,
not all covered up.”
I certainly liked the way she
composed her thinking.
I told her I enjoy her talent!
She said:
“A career is wonderful, but
you can’t curl up with it on a cold night.”
It was definitely cold outside.
“You act so well, I love your pictures.”
She snuggled up on my couch:
“Being a sex symbol is a heavy load to carry,
especially when one is tired,
hurt and bewildered.”
“My gosh,” I thought to myself, “here I am to help!”
She traced a finger around my ear saying:
“I’m very definitely a woman,
and I enjoy it.”
There are those moments
when the nexus of love and passion
converge to a single point,
expanding in a supernova
to flame away all reason.
Reason took a long vacation.
She blew me a kiss:
“Sex is part of nature,
I go along with nature.”
This is where the dream gets tricky,
as in reality, some things are best left
to imagination.
Just before the date ended,
she turned to me and said:
“It’s all make believe, isn’t it?”
I pondered the question for a moment saying:
“I suppose, but dreams can come true.”
Marilyn smiled that famous
drowsy smile, walking out of my dream
into wakefulness I heard her say:
“I wanna be loved by you,
just you, nobody else but you.
I wanna be loved by you alo-o-one.
Boop boop e doo.”
I’m spending a lot more time
perfecting sleeping and dreaming.
Copywrite: 2009, Donald Harbour
Lazy days become yesterdays,
Time spent in contemplation.
Memories replaced with
the unknown of tomorrow.
The cool contentment breeze
Dulls the anticipation.
There is a waiting,
A joy for that to come.
Breathe in, breathe out,
Day becomes night,
Night becomes day.
All the nuances of life
Flutter by, a dying moth
Seeking light, attracted
To the heights of stars
That cannot be reached.
Lazy days, reposed
In the lap of mortality.
Observing in a half sleep,
Dreaming in the shell of now,
What could have been.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Eating at the table is a family affair,
The noises of consumption, fork to plate.
An occasional pea dropped in the gravy.
The crunch of fresh celery or a carrot.
A good meal defined by the scraps,
Those bits and pieces that are dropped,
Or purposefully place under the table.
Not necessarily on purpose but with purpose.
In between the bites, the hand to mouth movement,
There is the sparring of conversation,
Crumbs and snippets rolling off the tongue or
The fork of intended half consumption.
Every family does it with tacit agreement,
Scraps shoved under the table, dropped there.
If one were to glimpse beneath the table cloth,
That skirted vale hides the dogs of mendacity.
“Margret, how is Aunt Jane lately?”
(You mean the one with the fifth a day habit?)
“Fine, she’s off to a new adventure this year.”
(She’s going to try to dry out again before her liver dies.)
“I saw that new girl in town is dating Frank.”
(Frank is bagging that new girl, only one left to bag.)
“Yes he is and I really think she is a match for him.”
(Everyone else has had them, they might as well have each other.)
“Mom these mashed potatoes are really the greatest.”
(Damn things are lumpy again, after sixty years get it right!)
Pop, your garden is going to be the best you ever planted.”
(If you would weed it once in awhile we could find the ripe veggies.)
Table scraps….you never know who dropped them,
You never know which hound is going to snap them up,
You never know how long they will stay beneath the table.
Maybe only until someone slips and drops a chunk of meat.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Lately a trend is emerging,
groups of writers and poets huddle
together in sacrosanct cliques.
An immersion of fraternal bathing,
escaping the scrubbing glare of
critique.
The same names fall
as tin soldiers in line with
double entandre only understood
by them. Their faces betray
the herd instinct of their kind.
You see them at book signings,
art showings, or any grouped
literary display of self gratification,
gulping cheap wine, because it’s free.
Chiropractors love them….profiting.
All those contortionist movements
patting each other, as well as
themselves on poetic posteriors.
Their backs strengthened with soft,
indistinguishable, mole pocked
narcissistic verses.
They are always elated with their
efforts, never a blue note in
the tremor of meaning.
They have forgotten, that is, if
they ever knew, how to reach
into the deepest, darkest despairing corner,
of the human soul to reveal truth.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
I often get platitude and platypus
confused…you know mentally
transposed, intercourse,
right side, left side, flip flopped.
It comes with age….
a view of things differently,
through the lens of experiences,
mental molding, mind melding with life.
Someone offers a platitude,
an outright complement,
a nudge toward believing in ones self.
Accept it graciously, smile, nod the noggin.
But then there is the platypus,
a backhanded complement,
a comment resembling a marsupial,
a cute, furry web footed
aquatic creature with a duck beak,
and…a poisonous spur in its hind foot.
What a preposterous abomination!
Do not pick it up,
look at it,
walk around it,
watch it swim off into the oblivion
of ill intentioned banter.
Move on from the stagnate water
in which it swims, procreates, burrows.
After all, it is from down under!
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Can one bear the glare
of unrequited criticism?
Of being naked, knowing
that clothes do not hide you?
Each awake second, each word
spoken, written on life’s chalkboard.
Finger nails drug across
the hardened shell of a heart.
The screeching a wail, a torment,
the sound of spinal collapse.
It is accompanied by colors,
glowing, swirling, magenta.
And still it echos even though
the nails are cracked and bloodied.
Skin worn to the flesh beneath
the scaring grit of condemnation.
The visit comes when there is
that subtle whisper, murmured words.
One can feel the penetrating
questioning eyes focus, boring in.
A quick turn and the clutch of crows
flurry nonchalantly into repose.
Cawing unintelligible squawks,
pecking at the void of their minds.
Night brings the warm cocoon,
that dark assurance of invisibility.
Release from the intensity of day
until dawn marches out the treadmill.
Then begins the twittering fork tongue
conspiracy of gossips ignorance.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour,
