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

No beginning, no ending

There is no beginning, there is no ending, there is only existance.

that which is unknown
that which cannot be known
gathered up the ends of eternity
binding the path of spirituality
with the undulations of time
capturing its changing movement
gathered it all together
interweaving with serenity
into the endless knot of infinity
the knot had no beginning
nor did it have an ending
there laid it upon the divine
that which is infinite wisdom
became the matter of creation
in the emptiness of existence
began the endless cycle
suffering birth death re-birth
inseparable from its ritual of being
that became compassion
giving light and meaning to the void

© 2011, Donald Harbour

My boot upon her back

This poem is written in celebration of Earth Day, 2011 – with love ♥ for Gaia.

she lays before me
bare breasted
those lusty mountains
skirting the temptation
of a flat dimpled plain
with her loins
strong as coastal shores
she calls to me
her suffering body
suckling her children
taking their abuse
she persists in her love
gathering all of them
into the folded crooks
of her bridled arms
she blossoms in spring
wears a girdle in autumn
is a cold scornful woman in winter
frolicks in the summer sun
she possess all the seasons
holds unknown wisdom
this tempestuous creature
where the seeds of life
swim in the fluids
of her sheltering being
I too love her
though I have placed
my boot upon her back
she cries not
her lack of tears
shames me rips at my heart
I am a lesser man
as are all men for what
they have done to her
yet she accepts us back
Mother Earth always forgives

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne

Words, mumbled in fits of lucidity,
Words, poetic crumbs scattered,
The paper ash burnt, wine stained.
What was she, whore, free spirit,
Thighs brimming with creation?
Tattoos as multicolored flesh brands.
Did they make a statement or condemn?
A volcanic pleasure of congress,
That sexual upheaval of satisfaction.
The play was sweat and scent beneath,
Licked erotica sucked into nostrils.
Inhaled as life, tainting olfactories,
marking the soul with winters need,
clasped in warmth creating a summer gift.
In the light of a full August moon,
She cried with a wail that shook
those granite halls of manhood,
Broke the iron stones of desolation.
From her prostrate body in fluid
flowed a man child of wanton desire,
an innocent marked with the label.
She ignored the sire, his craven distance.
Ignored the condemnation of the ignorant.
The scepter she cradled in her arms
Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne.
Relief to the masses a chaste and pious king.
When they came for the man child,
Swords unsheathed, hearts of stone
Solicitors of death and evil,
She hid her babe in swaddling,
In a reed basket and cast his fate
Upon the soul of the ancient Nile.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour