The princely frog, a nursery rhyme

Dark folded upon folded
thus the room was molded,
as a fire flickered and danced.

The midnight hour struck
as each minute was plucked,
screaming mortal time advanced.

There a foul long-nosed witch
scowling with teeth black as pitch
to a fire added peat from a stinking bog.

Then from out of the gloom
with a hop into the retched room
came a princely magical speckled frog.

The frog loudly belched, then spoke
in a commanding princely croak,
“for a kiss I’ll grant you one wish.”

“You frog leave me alone”
said the scraggly old crone,
“or you’ll be my dinners’ main dish.”

The frog was undeterred
and once again it gently demurred,
“a wish for a single kiss.”

There was an evil cackle,
the cry of a strangled Grackle
that ended in a venomous hiss.

“Alright, grant me a desire,
lest on a spit you roast ‘or this fire,”
so she puckered up and gave him a peck.

“My wish is without my broom
I want to soar around this room
now grant it you ugly warted speck.”

“Done,” said he with a wink
and quicker than a gnat eye blink
the witch disappeared with a sigh.

An incessant buzzing in the air
announced an insect coursing there,
the sound of a common house fly.

The frog opened its mouth
a long tongue suddenly sprang out
and swallowed the bug without a word.

Now the only sounds in the firelight
were the crickets chirping  in the night
and  joyously singing of a single black bird.

The frog sat before the fire
peacefully in his princely frog attire,
a most satisfied look on his froggy face.

The witch received her wished boon,
un-broomed she flew around the room
and, instead of frog for dinner, she took his place.

“Ribit!”

©2013, Donald Harbour

The end reward

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

Bye bye babies

Bye, bye babies.

A spindly creature occupies the yard,
filled with notations of red, perched
as pompous breasted birds wanting to fly,
she cannot let them for it is not time,
this pregnant apparition clings to them,
her holy crown of forest green shimmering,
soon she will move giving elemental birth,
such as has been done for as long as memory,
youth will not know her season long courage,
nor appreciate this fruitful fulfillment,
once there is release from her womb,
there will come a time of rest for her,
waiting for the returning honey maker,
there to impregnate her blossoms of love,
giving her a reason to live and produce again.

©2012, Donald Harbour

What you don’t eat can kill you

Darn, I got it on my hand
And I flung it on the floor,
Reached out to steady myself
And smeared it on the door.
Slipping on a piece of it
I fell and hit my head,
Had to go to the doc
And spent a day in bed.
Then, an odor so distinct
Came wafting down the hall.
Someone was surely cooking
The stuff the made me fall.
I put on my house shoes
Dressed up in a woolen robe,
Stormed out of the bed sheets
Stumbling through my dark abode.
There in the kitchen
Staring up from a frying pan,
Was the same little critter
That had stuck to my hand.
It bubbled in its juices
Among onions and garlic too,
Sliced and diced little pieces
Of white and grayish blue.
Then it occurred to me
This was an appropriate fate,
So I gathered up a knife and fork
Scooping a portion on my plate,
I sat down with a jug of wine, and
Every bite of that damn squid I ate.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The aftermath of ripe flesh

The season has turned, ripening fruit in the trees.
That old persimmon in the far corner of the field
is now orange with pregnancy. The Waxwings
have found it, attacking the succulent gift. Loud
cries scream through the air, seeds and ripe flesh
rain down, as the aftermath of a mad bomber’s blasphemy.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Life of a Blue Footed Booby

Dancin' the Booby Stomp

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d strut my stuff and sing a song,
I’d stretch my neck and stomp the deck,
I’d whistle all day long.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d live all my life at sea,
I’d fly away to an island cay,
I’d find one Blue Footed Booby for me.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby
I’d dive into the blue ocean foam,
I’d catch fish served as a Booby dish,
I’d regurgitate for the chicks at home.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d stay away from the ships of man,
I’d do my best to avoid that pest,
I’d stay out of the cook’s frying pan.

©2010, Donald Harbour

A humble pomegranate

My apology to those of you who view the pomegranate with religious significance, to me it is a lime in sheep skin. So here is a brief, albeit translucent, historical homily to this distasteful little Middle Eastern shrub.

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There are over 700 varieties of pomegranate. The one I prefer is Cosmoplitan Martini.

There is loathing or liking
toward the humble pomegranate,
plum of the east,
globe from the desert sands.
Its refreshing juices
a tart invasion of the mouth,
muhamara slathered on pita,
aradana for the bowl of rice.
Chew and suck upon the arils
nested in the pulp creation,
adorning the crown and capital,
of Jachin and Boaz.
The righteousness Mitzvot fruit
carried in the robe of the Ephod,
rider on the rimmonim,
here the forbidden of the Garden.
The fatal fruit of Persephone
captive to Hades bidding,
you Sah the soul of Osiris,
the calyx of mighty Hera.
Let it be you in my kollyva
nurturing, succulent, life giving,
broken and bursting,
the symbol of the resurrection.
Growing in the gardens of Paradise
your blossoms bejewel the air,
the image of prosperity and fertility,
Loved by Bhoomidevi and Bijapuraphalasakta.
For thousands of years worshiped
as a treasure of beginnings and endings,
a leather skinned malum punicum,
behold, you are but a humble pomegranate.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Yet there it is everywhere

We never give thought to grass.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
A green cushion, a chlorophyll carpet.
A protective cover between Earth,
And the things that would harm her.
Grass, we sow it, grow it, mow it,
We pluck it from the dirt,
Scrape it, dig it, poison it, burn it,
Yet there it is, everywhere.
It struggles to exist.
It is eaten and beaten,
Cursed and railed against.
We lay with our backs pressed to it,
Grass gently pushes us,
So that we can fall into the sky.
When it is allowed to grow very tall,
We hide in it to escape.
Some have even listened to it grow,
Though I have never heard it.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
Grass gives life,
Sustains creatures large and small.
It does not judge or enslave.
We play our games on it.
Nations have spilled their blood,
Soaking its roots,
Turning it from Creation’s green,
To the red of pain and death,
Then we are buried beneath it.
It forgives us, all ways there waiting.
Covered in the cool of the morning dew.
It is trod upon, pressed down.
One moment the jackboot crushes it,
The next moment it is back,
Leaving not a trace of passage.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
From the heartland of a country,
Making verdant emerald hills,
Grass has defined the landscape of cultures.
As we do with people, grass is walked upon,
Bruised by the passage of our soles,
Burdened with the contamination of our living.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
Maybe if each of us,
The mighty and lowly,
If we were reincarnated
As a blade of grass,
And maybe if we could but remember
That experience, just maybe,
We would be allowed to comeback,
A better human.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Sweet peach

Pick me, I cling free,
Clasp me in your hand,
A ripe peach sweet fleshed,
Taste my blushed skin,
Bite into me as juices flow,
Lick the tang of my nectar,
Rejoice, renew, close your eyes,
Vision the nourishment you hold,
At my core is a bitter seed,
Do not cast it aside, plant it,
For tomorrow it will grow,
Becoming fruit laden branches.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Cows are plotting to end the world

It’s in the Wall Street Journal news: “Cow Tax” Underscores Greenhouse-Gas Divide. Could there really be a grain of truth here?
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When the world ended the atmosphere blazed,
From horizon to horizon in a blue methane haze.

Homo sapiens died, their extinction complete,
No longer lesser creatures with forks would they eat.

The conspiracy planned since the dawn of time,
When humans, the first rumen, killed to dine.

People had ignored the United Nations report
Instead laughing and saying: ‘it’s a crude joke of sort’.

There in words, as plain as day, it could be read,
“Cattle eliminations caused global warming,” it said.

But the truth was hidden by burps, belches and farts,
As the world’s cattle diligently performed their parts.

Each had a job to eat as much food as they could,
Ruminating gas production by thoroughly chewing their cud.

That, while humans fought over oil prices, religion, and tax,
Miley Cyrus CDs, political parties, plastic boobies and sex.

Cows lay in fields placid, non threatening and benign,
Methodically eating, chewing, farting and biding their time.

The earth grew warmer as their efforts rose in the air,
While scientist begged humans to eat less meat, in despair.

Cow pies covered the fields as the green grass grew abundant.
Environmentalists argued over positions inane and redundant.

Then an upheaval so massive it’s hard to understand,
Cows the world over organized to make the last gaseous stand.

With an earth shuddering roar cows let loose a trombone blast,
While humans held their noses, grimaced, and gagged with a gasp.

When the skies were finally saturated to the fullest extent,
There was no other contribution not a single cow could vent.

All bovines moved as if a perceived signal had been given,
To rivers and lakes and hidden valleys they were driven.

One volunteer cow stood on a Rocky Mountain height,
Its suicide mission, the methane atmosphere to light.

It struck a match, a beacon that flared a bright red,
And thrust it into the green layer just above its horned head.

The rest is history, there is nothing more one can say,
Only cows populate the earth no humans lived past that day.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour