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
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
A task from the poetry prompt site We Write Poems, was to write a poem with the idea beginning of “Twelve words to keep“. With the Twelve days of Christmas in mind consider this list poem the “Twelve Words for Christmas”. Reflect on them and what they mean in your life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love knows no season, no gender, no race, no form, or countenance. It is a universal feeling that permeates the soul transcending time and place. It is the one word no one can truly live without.
Humanity is the essence of the Christmas spirit expressed in kindness, goodwill and benevolence, no matter what religion practiced or language spoken, it transcends the evil in life.
Perseverance guides us all in our chosen path, though fraught with difficulties, it gives the traveler a steady persistence in a course of action and purpose in spite of obstacles and discouragement.
Respect is often forgotten in relations, not only in esteem for the worth of others, but also as a manifestation of personal quality and ability; respect others as you would wish others to respect you.
Character is the building blocks of a person forming the aggregate of traits that define the nature of an individual, it is a compilation of all the good things and stalwartness of who you are.
Peace resurrects the passion for living among persons existing as a state of mutual harmony, its satisfaction allows the security of being and the joy of all things good in this world.
Fraternity does not relate to a group of men but rather the brotherhood and sisterhood shared by all human beings without regard to station in life or purpose, it is the quality that binds us all to one another.
Family is why we are here whether dwelling together or separated by generations, it is what identifies each one of us in the vast sea of existence calling to us across miles and ages to be a part of something greater.
Spirituality has value, not necessarily for religion, but for the contentment found in our acceptance of the unseen that is felt, rather than seen, in the universality of all creation.
Bravery is in all of us giving us the strength of conviction with courage to face the unknown, the mettle to place ourselves between on rushing events or things and the weak and helpless, it is the conduct that some call heroism but in truth is being human.
Honesty will help you find freedom from deceit dealing you fairness through sincerity and truthfulness, qualities that cause trust in a person and of others whose paths we cross.
Happiness is the biggest gift of all and is the culmination of everything, a magical word providing good fortune, pleasure, contentment and joy, for without it we have not succeeded in being what we were meant to be.
Be happy, be grateful, and allow yourself to love and be loved. Merry Christmas.
©2012, 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
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
There is a word we all have spoken,
a word as eternal as time,
a word not easily uttered,
although, it is whispered and shouted,
while it contains the parable of existence,
poets, cannot explained this word, yet
it is comprehended, and, misunderstood,
cleaved, it becomes a dichotomy,
a pronouncement of hate and desire,
such a word is at creations center,
a single word that begins a journey,
a step into insanity, jealousy,
a voyage of commitment, peace, tranquility,
it describes the deepest ocean,
circumscribes the limits of the cosmos,
has the power to drive nations to war,
or, cause giants to tremble as a babe,
it can bring souls together, as well as
force them apart into despair,
such a word is a magical source,
it should never be used foolishly,
for it has made fools of us all,
having conquered its tremendous power,
accepting it for its eternal beginning,
vowing ones heart to its burden,
is to become free, soaring lighter than air,
basking in its warm consuming light,
it is that word, which gives joy,
spoken in the brilliance of dawn,
murmured under the coverlet of twilight,
it is a reason for living and for life,
all languages contain this word,
sadly, few have the wisdom to say it.
©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
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
I have been wandering
through the mote guarded
castle of my thoughts
there is not a scent of you
nor a dusty footprint
nor a breathless shadow
not even a moment in time
when did you escape this defilade
leaving behind dark clouded stone
how did you flee the precipice
never opening the heart’s draw bridge
these ramparts held off armies
assaults from obtuse conflict
arrows of bland critical intellect
yet they could not keep you safe
did you run a narrow footpath
climbing down desolation’s rocky escalade
plunging into the past’s churning waters
you have been swept away
flying as lint before a broom
borne aloft by a changing season wind
truly something has gone amiss
the hands on the clock have stopped
each second has become an hour
each hour an eternity, the castle
is become a purgatory of pain
a prison surrounded by yesterday’s memories
and tomorrow’s lonely abyss
light cannot penetrate these walls
this world has plunged into darkness
its soul eaten by the mottled creature of regret.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.
As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.
Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.
The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.
Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.
Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.
Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.
Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.
I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.
Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.
©2012, Donald Harbour
