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

About the dead man and poetry

I previously posted this poem in 2010. I was asked yesterday if I knew about Dead Man Poetry. So here is my effort to emulate the originator.

This particular form of poetry was developed by Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. Mr. Bell explains it in his own words:

The Dead Man poem is a form I created a few years ago and then couldn’t shake. Dead man poems come out of an old Zen admonition that says, “Live as if you were already dead.” But you needn’t feel remorse. The dead man is alive and dead at the same time. He lives it up, he has opinions, he makes bad jokes, he has sex. Is he me? No, but he knows a lot about me. Dead Man poems come in two parts. Each line of poetry in a dead man poem is a compete sentence, long or short.

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!

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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 gift: Twelve Words for Christmas

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

What makes you think you are right?

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

A time to curl up

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

The colors of being

I do not know when it began or when
breath gave me the French kiss of life
but, I do remember its naked entrance
awash in birthing color, red, red as blood.

Life begins with a crimson passion,
a spontaneous ignition of the soul,
a firing of the spirit’s, spirituality, an
exploding kaleidoscope of pigments.

The nurturing soil of being dusky brown,
the rich fertile nutrient of beginning, rooting
flesh to bone, skin to flesh, mind to body,
a garden of composted existence.

Knowing is a universe of eternal blue,
a velvet dark blue of limitless forever,
pulling, inviting, a challenge to humankind
to comprehend the what and why.

Opening the mind’s eye stirs awakening,
surrounded by the green of our mother,
her trees, flowers, a teeming growing bounty,
a blinding awe of her sustaining abundance.

The firmament bares burnished golden hue
the purse of eternity gathering coin,
all the things we do or do not do, the gleaming
repository of the soul’s resurrection.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Becoming one

peace has descended
settling in spring’s green grass
soft as a breeze
playful as a fat puppy
the sun casts the evening
day sizzles on the horizon
lost in a golden purple madness
night birds have awakened
aroused by settling chirps
Martins dart across the sky
late diners on mosquitoes
I cannot find another time
cannot remember a past memory
that ever cut so deeply
laying bare the souls sinew
marveling at the surrounding life
this great beauty of creation
the harmony possesses me
I become lost in its magic
bubbling over with child like wonder
bare feet rooted in the moist sod
I have become one with Nature
absorbed by its great mystery
returning at last to the soil of being
I am home in Mother Earth’s bosom.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Kingdom come

can one contemplate forever
forever is the eternal plain
a distance without punctuation
unending since creation began
a horizon so unimaginable
constant as the wearing of time
to tread upon it finds no end
a soul decays on the journey
relief in acceptance of the trial
the testing of a human shell
watched weighted and valued
the worth only in forgiveness
there is so much that is lost
so many drop into the abyss
that purgatory of damnation
souls used and used and used
learning until they are ready
until they know the meaning
of life and its immutable cycle

©2012, Donald Harbour

I know the meaning

I dreamed that one held the scepter
of life. Not a god, not a beast, not
a government, not the whole of the universe.
I dreamed a child and I knew the meaning.

©2012, Donald Harbour

The Archangel cometh

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