Life’s roads

Roads always go somewhere,
Like a many branched tree
Leading to tributaries of life,
Until there is only a trickle.

Faced with dark rolling clouds,
Or rays of a sun tinted sky,
Roads point in all directions,
Exist in every imaginable climate.

No matter which choice is made,
The journey of a short stroll,
A trip of a thousand days, always,
Choices lead us back to our beginning.

The value of the moment is decision,
Courage the teacher of the effort,
Living and learning from the choice,
Is the path to find our true self.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Kingdom come

can one contemplate forever
forever is the eternal plain
a distance without punctuation
unending since creation began
a horizon so unimaginable
constant as the wearing of time
to tread upon it finds no end
a soul decays on the journey
relief in acceptance of the trial
the testing of a human shell
watched weighted and valued
the worth only in forgiveness
there is so much that is lost
so many drop into the abyss
that purgatory of damnation
souls used and used and used
learning until they are ready
until they know the meaning
of life and its immutable cycle

©2012, Donald Harbour

I know the meaning

I dreamed that one held the scepter
of life. Not a god, not a beast, not
a government, not the whole of the universe.
I dreamed a child and I knew the meaning.

©2012, Donald Harbour

The Archangel cometh

We own you and we will take your soul. Bet on it, buy stock.

Poets are a dime a dozen, I
cost only a penny on the cheap.
Bilbo Baggins and Robert Frost
each a copper of time pasted
upon the digital landscape of
the Internet. No written pages,
only ones and zeros defining,
recording genius, talent, moronic
diatribes, the succubus of intellect.
The decay of society in the cloud
of tomorrow. Is that your ultimate
destination, bucolic acceptance?
At what point will the reason
of the word be given over to
the Machiavellian manipulators
You sheep, you followers, naysayers,
you destroyers, you that sleep
with Eden’s snake of technology,
will kill your children, welcoming
the Archangel of Destruction,
without ever knowing you are
no longer members of humanity?

©2012, Donald Harbour

Alone at sea

With a guttural cough the sails clear
their throats billowing the exhaled
salty spray of the sea. She leans like
a full thigh maiden lusty and ripe
begging for the thrust of the wind.
The helm is tight heeled over
whispering through the azure sea.
Freedom calls to the shrouds,
whistling past the lanyard.
There is magic in the air, sparkling
with the diamonds of dreams cast upon
the winds of tomorrow a bet against
the far salty horizon. I am alone
with the rolling waves and we are one.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Avariciousness

there is Every Man who walks the long mile
plodding upon the graveled road of judgement
his feet bearing the casualty of avariciousness
a non-complaining man of simple means
he is compelled to perform a supplication
those that hold his means and manner
those that demand his dominion
craze upon his meagerness and humility
no thought given to plight or pain
their demand the holy gospel of exchange
they are fore bearers of blood sucking lice
infecting insects of societal woes and want
these modern day temple money changers
the constant corporate foot upon the neck
they are the intentional squanders
the desiccation of a nation’s soul
yet they persist by manipulated taking
everything that is evil persists in them
their noose that delivers the pound of flesh
is the corpus of monetary foundation
the man is Every Man Every Woman Every Child
his burden the harlots of finance
yet the man is blind to the casualty of lies
his feet bloodied from the long walk
he struggles as the distance grows greater
and the lie becomes a truth denying his dream.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Embracing nothing

did you ever know desolation
knowing that there is nothing
but a mind trapped in a loop
the scene playing over and over
no way to turn off its totality
a feeling of vast aching emptiness
a wilderness scream no one hears
no one cares no one ever will

the streets are  full of catatonic people
moving objects in cloistered shells
avoiding each others eye contact
no smile no hint of human recognition
they are a wasteland of flesh and bone
bodies clothed in a death shroud
plaintive expressions of indifference
no one cares no one ever will

the thought occurs you are alone
you are the only thinking human left
you feel the species quickened demise
fear has replaced rational reason
in a moment breath is gone collapsing
there is a panic of emotional suffocation
you now know the burden of loneliness
no one cares no one ever will

©2012, Donald Harbour

The song still plays

there is a violin playing
like a desolate dove cooing
feather ruffled beckoning
it is the quivering voice
of an inner emotion
the wrist held too tight
choking the flow of melody
a long lonely echo filtered
through the song of spring
the scent of the chord
plucks at the mind causing
remembrance of smiling lips
pursed to blow a gentle breath
upon my flushed cheeks
a sweet orchid moment of love
the days gone to our youth
while the symphony still plays
it is no longer our libretto
change is the rhythm of time
we have become its constants
metered ticks of life’s metronome

©2012, Donald Harbour

Someone made a mistake

there must have been a mistake
a quirk of an evolutionary misstep
somewhere between the beginning
and tomorrow there is only its existence
a creature on a bumbling journey
foolishly looking for its holy grail
searching for reason to why it has life
it is the futility of the species
a diagnosis of disastrous history
its guidance the contradiction of self
indecisive in its differences
hostile to its grand possibilities.
its character an abomination of nature
blinded by the wickedness of religion
it assaults the walls of diversity
clamors for the destruction of intellect
it has a myopic understanding of reality
it is a moral oxymoron conundrum
this pestilence of nature humankind.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Flowers remember

I lay among the thorns of life but do not feel the pain, for the sweetness of it's beauty is the salve that blunts each stabbing prick.

The garden knows the direction!
Each morning the flowers face the east,
brandishing blossoms like out stretched arms,
praising the arrival of the sun below the trees.
The flowers know God and he, she, it,
knows them. Their fragrance the scent
of sweet creation, perfume from their souls.
Heady splashes of color shout the joy of
rootedness and purpose. While they sleep
in winter they plan and write their
canticles to silently chant them in spring.
Now I stand with them and feel the warmth
of my creator’s blessing, painting my face
with golden light, drawing me to the earth’s bosom.
How did the flowers come to remember that
which humans have so long ago forgotten?

©2012, Donald Harbour

It’s Earth Day, remember our mother, Gaea.