I am cursed with observation,
seeing one’s slightest imperfections,
knowing the powerful beauty in fault,
digesting humanity’s inhumanity,
cataloging the pathos of each freckle,
thus thrust on life’s horns of dilemma,
finding that between the points,
there is only bullshit.
©2013, Donald Harbour
I saw an old man today
winding an old watch
twisting the stem back and forth
tightening its spring
so fragile a moment time
hanging on a thin wisp
of coiled steel giving
the mechanism its life
each second’s tick counting
to the inevitable moment when
there are no fingers to wind when
its need has ended and life
for its creation ceases
Isn’t that our story too?
©2013, Donald Harbour
Far from sky and earth
passing galaxies of neurons
through a vast pallium void
there is a tranquil place
shimmering with rainbow colors
feeding creations’ furnace
a place that beckons
flirting with natures’ meaning,
a place that knows no master
nor is itself a master,
it lies so distant, yet
complete a circle of being
and it is there, barely awake,
incomprehensible, tolerant,
holding within all that can be,
cerebrum volute dreams of forever,
what it knows is unknown,
there to be freely taken, if only
we would open its door.
©2013, Donald Harbour
Listen, I need to speak to you,
I need to tell you about now,
To pull you into the next moment,
As every raindrop, seconds matter,
Each breath taken, one of life’s gifts,
You must know that as moments begin,
So, surely will every moment end,
Here, open the cup of your heart,
Catch a bit of time’s cleansing moisture,
Feel its gentle nourishing,
Time can take away and time can heal,
You once called my name and I came,
But, you did not know I was there,
You are tomorrow’s hour
I am the day already past.
©2013, Donald Harbour
This particular form of poetry was developed by Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. Mr. Bell explains it in his own words:
The form is comprised of two sections. One is titled “The Dead Man and …” and the second “More About the Dead Man and … .” All lines are written as sentence lines and enjambment matters quite a bit. The first two lines generally turn back on each other. The two versions seem to discover or expose different things about the Dead Man, one more internal in nature, the other external.
With apologies to Marvin Bell!
************************************************************
Live as if you were already dead.
- Zen admonition
1. About the dead man and poetry
The dead man is not a poet for he does not comprehend
the shades and nuances of meaning.
Even though he cannot understand, the dead man utters
words with weight.
Arcane in life, the dead man is the papyrus upon which
is written the prose of time.
For him time has no meaning other than dividing day from night.
He has always been and will always be the digger of incantatory
graves, the filler of assonance holes.
The mere existence of him does not create meaning for his
translation into thought lacks content.
In thought the dead man is described by lyrical cantata and
linen shrouded psalms.
There is never music in his rhyme for his speech is not
connected to the song of the universe.
Whenever there is hope, love, vision, purpose: he consumes
them from a burial ash urn.
Lacking the eyes to see other than his self, he has shunned the
visceral meat of satisfaction.
Living is not a choice or an occurrence for in living there can
be supreme gratification without desire.
Yet, for him the skill to convey profound emotional insight is
a death march through a literary nightmare.
He cannot perform his work since he has no ability to create
the most indistinct utterance of sound.
He has become a scapular shell of dried skin hanging in an
ancient stony chapel, weighted down by the chant of hooded
vicars who would utter those poetic verses he could not scribe.
The dead man has become the succulent pupa of belief that shares
no today, no tomorrow, only the injustice of the past where
there is no poetry of life.
2. More about the dead man and poetry
The dead man never could be a part of a slam.
The dead man could not produce a readable chapbook.
His only concern is the stillness and breathlessness of cold marble.
For him the dank earth is a Ginsberg elegy.
The Dead man could not withstand the withering wind of criticism
without disintegrating.
Never having acuity has given him no useful verse.
It could not be said of him that he had a poetic wisdom tooth for
dead man had lost his teeth.
When dead man is want to reason, he fails not understanding
the why.
© 2010, Donald Harbour
A January wind
Caught the old man
Clasping withered limbs
Breaking his bones
Exposing sockets
Glaring fresh scars
Over scattered remains.
©2013, Donald Harbour
there is a stream
silent running over rocks
where moss grows
wading its icy waters
slipping on green slime
is a dilettante adventure
on the other side
lies an ancient orchard
with gnarled giants
arduous is the journey
as all of life’s journeys
the only end is hope
before I reach to pick
the fruit of my desire
the grove’s scent assails me
I can tell the pears
are rotten this year
©2012, Donald Harbour
Campbeltown, Argyll, Scotland, home of my Grandmother Elsie “Ferguson” Harbour’s family.
Awakening this morning
I am blushed with the dawn,
Standing at a frosty window
inhaling with an icy yawn,
Dogs are greeting the day
whining at the frozen grass,
You snug under the covers
my blonde blue-eyed lass,
I leave off my bathrobe
the cold good against my skin,
Feeling the call of forefathers
those Celtic Highlander men,
From deep in my sired soul
voices reach an open mental ear,
Guiding my footsteps in life
each day, week, month, and year,
There are others there to speak,
all from a far distant time,
Crafted by their ancient wisdom
knowledge carried in my mind,
I am grateful for their presence
for the things they let me know,
I am that which they have made me
a mosaic of cultures past tableau.
©2012, Donald Harbour
how does anyone know
they are truly awake
is it physical awareness
the sensation of being
is life a reality or
a temporal construct
a cloning of vision
thrust into the open mouth
of a screaming newborn
are we part of a cosmic grid
life forces harvested
sucked from our bodies
existing as food for Death
giving indifferent satisfaction
somewhere between awakening
and sleep lies the truth
that one infinitesimal moment
when dreaming a breath or
actually taking one
pulls us into this world
yanking us from oblivion
some never wake-up to life
in that deep forever sleep
will we dream we are awake
or be satisfied to sleep
nestled in the arms of eternity
sleep is a necessary inconvenience
my slumbering self yells
pounding on the door of dawn
I thrive for morning wakefulness
treasuring the early hours
thankful that I have survived
to enjoy one more day in this
marvelous fantastic dreamland life.
©2012, Donald Harbour
I dreamed of a night with stars above,
millions of other dreamers about me,
shod with life’s tired and worn shoes,
toeing the edge of a decaying precipice,
the next step a door between worlds,
darkness, light – damnation, salvation,
is there a choice, is destiny mapped,
when do we leave this path, to face
the calamity of our ultimate fate,
when that time comes, as it will,
how are we scribed in the book of life,
some say it is not for us to know,
still I ask, can one accept only chance,
the wrong place at the wrong time,
when is the dark angel ever right,
life snuffed by the world’s insanity,
religious fervor screaming “God is great,”
there, now you have the arbiter,
it is emblazoned on every particle,
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,”
the wafer is stale, the wine; vinegar,
the priest has dirty finger nails,
rivers of blood ooze from the Bible,
from the Koran, from every word,
from every holy book ever written,
from the lifeless lips of children,
from the souls of mothers, fathers,
from the heart of self-righteous nations,
from the bowels of despots and bigots,
from the pious pitiless, and pompous,
the void leads to a bottomless pit,
from which there is no salvation, no light.
dogma’s beast has opened its maw to eat,
all are consumed by their beliefs,
silenced, their psychopathic shrill becomes,
a mountain of cast off, tired worn shoes.
@2012, Donald Harbour
