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
Ahh, what grace. A Taiwan Blue Magpie.
Blue birds fly
through azure skies,
but, I prefer,
Taiwan Blue Magpies.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Watch out for pigeon poop!there are pigeons perched upon
a rusted metal cornice of a building,
they are making sport of selections,
far below trudging humans the goal,
receivers of pigeon commented anointment
most birds have a sense of humor, although
they do not know it, it is in their DNA,
placed there as an after thought by
evolution, survival of the most fetished,
a creator’s comical adaptation for humankind,
with ruffled feathers cooing at the cold air,
fat friars coated in grey frocks, observant
their incantations magical mouthing of beaks,
casting watchful beady eyes at a stray cat.
pigeons do not enjoy simple gathering,
they want humans to participate, to feed,
bobbing heads puffed chested, strutting about,
bread crumb pecking white unguent factories,
don’t feed them you idiots, they’ll shit on you.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Dawn rises behind beech trees in November.
In the fall crispness of early morning,
As the frost grew on the wilted grass,
One could hear daylight’s gentle whisper,
The song of the night as it passed.
Below a tree line of leaf bare branches,
Through the meadow and foggy glen,
The sun’s first rays touched tall beeches,
Warming forest creatures and blood of men.
The cock had spoken in a plaintive cry,
Calling the day from its foundling burrow,
Casting its suspicious rooster red-eye,
The beginning of yesterday’s tomorrow.
Birds fluffed feathers against the chill,
Their chirps a greeting to one another,
As on the top of a distant silhouetted hill,
Flowers peeped from beneath earth’s cover.
The heart is filled with an ancient desire,
To join in this wondrous jubilant chorus,
To stoke life’s primitive cooking fire,
From a time once remembered as glorious.
Buried there with in my quaking soul,
Where memory waits in a secret place,
I find an outward drift toward the light,
Absorbing its gracious gift upon my face.
This cherished experience of the ages,
A thanksgiving for those past and gone,
Yet there before me it is held in wonder,
As was the earth’s first blessed golden dawn.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Dancin' the Booby Stomp
Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d strut my stuff and sing a song,
I’d stretch my neck and stomp the deck,
I’d whistle all day long.
Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d live all my life at sea,
I’d fly away to an island cay,
I’d find one Blue Footed Booby for me.
Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby
I’d dive into the blue ocean foam,
I’d catch fish served as a Booby dish,
I’d regurgitate for the chicks at home.
Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d stay away from the ships of man,
I’d do my best to avoid that pest,
I’d stay out of the cook’s frying pan.
©2010, Donald Harbour
It seems like a dream,
but then that’s only how
it seems. Truth is more
than a dream could ever be,
for there were others there,
the truth, they too could see.
Still, disbelief is a malady
that haunts the mind when,
one does not believe what
eyes and mind truly see.
My eyes saw tree tops
far below, and mountain tops
covered with winter fresh snow.
There were street lights,
aglow orange and yellow.
All were there beneath me,
so very, very, far below.
The frightening thing is,
how to stop when you soar past
those majestic mountain tops.
One must concentrate on lightness,
concentrate on air and feathers,
the space where ducks and birds
gather. Know with all your
might, you are one of them
flying through the starlit night.
Kindred aviators drawn together
by a dream like state.
Some would say it is a lie,
it cannot be done, it’s not human fate.
I know it’s true! I’m the one
that lived it, the night
I learned to levitate.
Ah! You are a nonbeliever.
But here is proof if this you’ll do.
On a full moon night,
in the amber lunar light,
when a shadow casts an inky blue,
think about me, then look-up,
you may find me high above, smiling,
and waving, looking down at you!
Honest, trust me! It’s true.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Oh, to be a bird,
To stretch my wings on high,
To search the everlasting blue
And soar through tranquil sky.
What must a bird think
When looking far below?
To see this human race
And all the strife we sow.
To watch us hurt our fellow men
With word and thought and deed.
To hear us damn the God above
And live is lust and greed.
What must it chirp and sing about
When perched upon a branch?
Do you think he observes creature man,
And laughs at us perchance?
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour
