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
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
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
Autumn woods
Strolling down a pebble strewn path
each footstep a Rice Crispy morning,
diamond dew is fresh on the grass,
trident tips of oak tree leaves
are decorated with shining pearls,
sunlight caresses each watery crystal
gently nudging them to the ground,
the autumn air carries a heavy scent,
primal, cool, humid, earthy,
it is the aphrodisiac of nature,
exciting Gaea to birth the season
slithering creatures move slower,
pest of the air hide, finally satisfied,
the forest is yawning, desiring rest,
it’s stained glass pristine cathedral
a montage of red, yellow, purple and brown,
giving life to this wondrous symphony
it is time to reflect on the past,
a time to cloak in this quilted moment,
a time to look forward to renewing,
a time to curl up in the crib of creation.
@2012, Donald Harbour
What is black?
Is it the confusion
in a starless night?
What is black?
Is it the envelope
surrounding a corpse?
What is black?
Maybe it is the color
of complete destruction.
What is black?
Does it reside in
the heart of greedy humans?
What is black?
Could it be the
complacency of commission?
What is black?
I will tell you,
open your eyes and see.
What is black?
It is the tar stain
upon Mother Natures breasts.
What is black?
It is the choking slick
upon the surface of creation.
What is black?
It is the oil that
gives reason to mendacious men.
What is black?
It is the killing field
in the marshes and bayous.
What is black?
It is the tragedy
contaminating our ocean’s life.
What is black?
It is the face of consumption,
it is the face of us.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Every morning, looking out the window,
clad in a thread bare chenille house coat,
she watches.
She is an unseen companion to memory.
A diminutive figure stooped from ninety
years of life, of waiting. Yet she
stands there with a slight tremor
in her hands and watches.
Her thin legs coursed with purple veins
end in feet planted in terry cloth slippers,
they are the best she has.
From somewhere in her head shrouded
by a silver-grey cloud of hair,
visions of the past play in her mind.
A kaleidoscope of good times, youth, and love.
Feelings of joy and sadness.
A pantheon of life treasures.
Today she forgot her teeth but a smile is there,
on her lips and in her eyes.
Some might think her a fool smiling, never speaking.
Occasionally blinking or with her tongue
wetting thin cracked lips.
She leans closer to the window,
her slight breath leaves a fog of moisture on the pane.
She does not know that she has out lived
her man and her children. She was the one
that gave their home a heart. The truth for
her is that they are out there somewhere
playing or working.
And so, remembering, she watches,
waiting for their return home to her
and to the comfort of her love.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Who knew we could fly?
Personal hygiene disregarded
a trans Atlantic flight ballistic
canard of contemporary constipation.
Bowels squeezed into corseted
over priced buckets of insanity.
There are no complaints,
the man is in cahoots with airlines,
you have paid to become a victim,
Undressed by over paid nematodes,
parasites of society dignified.
The jihadist have won and you do not
know it, their torture, confinement.
Searing the skies in aluminum tubes,
rebreathing your neighbors exhalent,
gimbiled by the rules, land of the free,
home of the brave, bullshit.
You are cattle giving in to the
Gestapo of democracy’s bureaucratizes,
it’s their job, you damn dim wits.
You have been sold a patriotic
bill of goods, and we are less for it.
©2012, Donald Harbour
It is its name
There is a thing in my life,
a thing I do not call by a true name.
Giving it recognition is undo cause
for it to raise its ugly head.
Admonition of its feral existence
removes the curtain of denial.
Coping with it requires refusal
a non acceptance of incisive struggle.
It has chosen the battle ground
my corpus its Flanders Fields.
I do not taste the poison of cordite
nor is the flesh torn by razor wire.
Yet it assaults me from within
a bellicose consuming conflagration.
We have this circumspect relationship
though it has definitive shape and place.
It does know its mindless meaning
but, I know what it is and – It is its name.
©2012, Donald Harbour
In the west skies have darkened,
roiling morning clouds advance.
The sun lies hidden in the east,
a grey cloak over its face.
Pregnant mares thunder overhead,
their hooves beating a drum roll.
There is a scent on the wind,
Mother Nature’s elemental perfume.
Earthy, calming, full of promise,
Gaea toils to bring forth life,
her sweet sweat seminal.
All existence pauses in anticipation,
Obedience to the wonder of creation.
©2012, Donald Harbour
