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
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
A flash against the azure hue,
I watch and marvel at the sight,
I watch and thrill at the arc
of each arrow perfect flight.
Spiraling to challenge clouds,
a skilled agile shining corsair,
an aerial performing acrobat,
cartwheeling through the air.
I wish that I were born different,
I wish that I could take flight too,
then I could have the fanciful fun,
as my feathered friend Grackles do.
©2013, Donald Harbour
As a non-hibernating human being there is a time when in my existence I lay dormant in a shadowy malaise, as it were, a condition that transcends my true nature causing me to be a grumpy misfit among sun worshipers and barbecue bimbos as I have never seen the value in frying ones epidermis to a pork rind in the infra red blast furnace of ole Sol’s rays.
My arousal arrives with each day’s sunset beginning a little earlier and with the tree leaves shuddering to fall from their perch in a frosty apoplectic form anticipating re-birthing in the coming spring with a rather unwelcome death that coats the yard by their cast off carcasses leaving spindly shadows on a rather well manicured carpet of green.
However, autumn and winter herald scrumptious tables of Thanksgiving dining with friends and family, bright multicolor lights reflected in the eyes of joyful children, and glittering Christmas trees surrounded by gayly wrapped presents which are those things that energize me from somnolence into a jolly jig dancing Fantasia footed fool, ain’t it grand.
©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
Thy prickly canes!
Rose,
you have stems of beauty,
a fragrant blossom of love,
red garnished and velvet lipped.
Thou art a wonder of life,
and yet a thorny conundrum,
guarded by thy prickly canes,
all the while beckoning.
Your magic perfume consumes me,
thus its musky allure invites.
You have but to present yourself,
and so, to your occasion I respond,
for you, patulous pretty, my erotic heart,
rose.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Ahh, what grace. A Taiwan Blue Magpie.
Blue birds fly
through azure skies,
but, I prefer,
Taiwan Blue Magpies.
©2012, Donald Harbour
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
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
Sharks and Barracudas always take the bait
she opened and closed
her mouth, a fish
out of water, gasping
for the air of life….
the angler deftly
chummed the moment:
“I did not do what
you wanted, because,
I did not want to do it!”
a ripple on the placid surface
of mental juxtaposition,
chanced dead reckoning
into an attitudinal tidal wave,
a fornication of latitude,
the belaying pin clubbing of
a constipated personal dilemma,
hooked, gutted, cleaned, and,
oh so… delicious to devour,
verbal sake soaked sashimi,
commented and parsed
on a sinker leaded line….
a dysfunctional relationship
cast into the depths, it is
a soon to be swallowed
dangling morsel of raw fleshy
articulated…..bait.
©2012, Donald Harbour
