That word

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

Something is amiss

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

Thy prickly canes

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

A constant flame

There is a candle in my heart
ever burning steady and brightly.
It knows not a tempest swell
nor does it harken to breezes.
The flame paints each shadow
illuminating with golden hues.
Those darkest recessed corners
brightened by its flickering warmth.
This unblemished eternal taper
stands against the snuffer of time.
How can it be that a mere man
could come to know such wonderful love?

©2012, Donald Harbour

Lost in your moment

The blistering heat of summer
has been replaced by
the cool mint of your smile
the rush of day slowed
halted by your gentle breeze
you linger in my thoughts
the wisp of your memory
the manna that feeds me
where the sun is a keen knife
your touch dulls the blade
even in the sweat of a moment
you are a clear mountain pool
a reflection of winter’s beauty
now life sustaining, giving
why were you made perfect
and, why are you among mortals
writing words speaks not of you
only being in your presence
defines your immense treasure
summoning the glory of your love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Morning dreams

in a sequence of sensations,
so short-lived, so fleeting,
there is a transient moment,
a haunting reluctance of reality,
an evanescent tug at reason,
a brief, joyous, vision of insanity,
lifting one into an unimaginable scape,
there in a fleeting dream, I saw you,
and knew, that I floated above,
as a clouded ceiling fills the sky,
I felt, omnipotent, limitless,
your outstretched form, below,
stirred, as a butterfly released,
you fluttered into this reverie,
and, captured by the magic
of a shared dream, sparkling,
warm with desire’s hunger,
rising, from the tangled sheets,
on tip toes, reaching toward me ,
then, placing your moist red lips,
on my skin, pressing them gently,
searing my flesh with a biting caress,
the ephemeral became, morning love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Passions potion

This eve there is a pristine magic,
It floats softly on the still air of night,
A potion vapor by desire’s sorceress,
Reflected in the moon’s golden light.

Held not by man or woman or beast,
As dandelion seeds drift on parasols,
The whimsical spirit wavers to want,
Shunning all but love’s whispered calls.

There wanders it through heart and soul,
Caught in a dream catchers spider thread,
To flame the passion tangled there,
Of entwined bodies on a silken bed.

©2011, Donald Harbour

And, when

For the one I love.

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My Mother Earth Goddess

And, when we come together
holding forth our orbs of light
And, when those lights combine
as if two suns met and burn
And, when I see the heavens
twinkle as stars set in your eyes
And, when I feel your warmth
caressing as the morning dawn
And, then I know that we are one
for all time molded by love
And, I am become soaring everlasting
on eagle wings through burnished blue.

©2011, Donald Harbour

What would you give

what would you give
for that one last kiss,
before you turned away?

what would you give
for true love calling,
comeback to me, stay?

what would you give
for one more chance,
for just one more day?

what would you give
for that lost moment,
the one you tossed away?

©2011, Donald Harbour

Love’s language

Face half shadowed,
A tilt of the head,
There a smile crinkles,
(Is this for me or a memory?)

A slight sweet scent,
Still air gently moved,
The rustle of your gown,
(How you fill my life and senses.)

The clock is counting,
Between dark and dawn,
There is no sleep,
(Paradise does not pick its time.)

Finger tips touched,
Soft warm hair caressing,
Skin burns with desire,
(Love’s language has been spoken.)

©2011, Donald Harbour