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
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
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
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
This particular form of poetry was developed by Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. Mr. Bell explains it in his own words:
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!
************************************************************
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 January wind
Caught the old man
Clasping withered limbs
Breaking his bones
Exposing sockets
Glaring fresh scars
Over scattered remains.
©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.
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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
