What do you know

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

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

Storm

In the west skies have darkened,
roiling morning clouds advance.
The sun lies hidden in the east,
a grey cloak over its face.
Pregnant mares thunder overhead,
their hooves beating a drum roll.
There is a scent on the wind,
Mother Nature’s elemental perfume.
Earthy, calming, full of promise,
Gaea toils to bring forth life,
her sweet sweat seminal.
All existence pauses in anticipation,
Obedience to the wonder of creation.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Someone made a mistake

there must have been a mistake
a quirk of an evolutionary misstep
somewhere between the beginning
and tomorrow there is only its existence
a creature on a bumbling journey
foolishly looking for its holy grail
searching for reason to why it has life
it is the futility of the species
a diagnosis of disastrous history
its guidance the contradiction of self
indecisive in its differences
hostile to its grand possibilities.
its character an abomination of nature
blinded by the wickedness of religion
it assaults the walls of diversity
clamors for the destruction of intellect
it has a myopic understanding of reality
it is a moral oxymoron conundrum
this pestilence of nature humankind.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Bounded by boarders

“My God,” cried the supplicant,
expressing belief in extremity,
that token labium of the metaphysical.
We are all the hoarders of borders,
living on imagined deckle-edged paper,
there writing our circumscribed lives.
Each defining the selvage of our fears,
consternation of woven limitations, we are
fettered by a bête noire tenant of the soul.
At times, others handcuff us to a purlieus bed,
accepting, seeking release from dragging our yokes,
then, refusing to master the pale of our requiem.
Lives lived in containment, shackled by convergence,
never venturing into the freedom of self, never
bounding past our own hobbling erosive manacles.
They are meant to contain, they are control,
the pestilence of living that defines what we become.
When the lights go out we are each confined,
bound by dirt, plastic, wood, or brass jar,
that is the environ of our material existence,
rest, peace within a packaged repository.
We do not realize there is no caracole,
only in life ending release of the energy within,
will we understand its limitlessness, and the
boundless freedom of being one with creation.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Nothing ever ends

In all endings there is renewal,
The flesh devoured nourishes life,
A flower wilts to feed the soil,
Clouds form then shed into rain,
Stars coalesce in dense black holes,
Bursting forth expelling new worlds,
Just as everything is star dust,
As once it was so again it will be,
The immortality of Ouroboros is creation,
Devoured by the mechanics of the cosmos,
To become the Phoenix eternal return,
Death is the alchemist’s opus,
The crucible’s natural cycle of life,
The chrysalis metamorphose into rebirth,
Nothing ever ends, there is only change.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The promise of Gaia

I have always seen morning
as the promise of life.
A contemplative soulful moment
announcing the journey of day.
I find solace in each awakening
each subtle change it brings.
Now the chill air whispers
announcing a march of seasons.
Dew has bejeweled thirsty grass,
birds begin to arouse,
softly chirping a greeting,
a gentle breeze caresses the trees.
The dawn speaks the name of Sol
it is the given  blessing of Gaia.
This magical moment her promise,
binding of all creatures,
the earth, the air, the oceans.
With the light she strides creation,
a soft footfall upon the earth,
we become one with the cosmos,
and, the glorious spirit of existence.

©2011, 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

A gift of knowledge

I hear your whisper in my heart and it is filled with joy.

There is turbidity swirling in the mind,
If One could but shine a light upon it, all would clear.
This cloud cast between thinking and knowing,
A closet door to beyond, to understanding.
There is prayer and meditation, seeking, never finding,
Never able to really see past this occlusion,
Just out of reach the finger outstretched,
Never meeting the seekers grasp, never fulfilling.
It is a veil so diaphanous and yet so vast that,
Time and the stars do not pierce the curtain.
We have but one instance to know the truth, this
Eternal wisdom that balances all creation.
One instance to know, to see, hear, become,
A gift of knowledge from which we shall never return.

Yet there it is everywhere

We never give thought to grass.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
A green cushion, a chlorophyll carpet.
A protective cover between Earth,
And the things that would harm her.
Grass, we sow it, grow it, mow it,
We pluck it from the dirt,
Scrape it, dig it, poison it, burn it,
Yet there it is, everywhere.
It struggles to exist.
It is eaten and beaten,
Cursed and railed against.
We lay with our backs pressed to it,
Grass gently pushes us,
So that we can fall into the sky.
When it is allowed to grow very tall,
We hide in it to escape.
Some have even listened to it grow,
Though I have never heard it.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
Grass gives life,
Sustains creatures large and small.
It does not judge or enslave.
We play our games on it.
Nations have spilled their blood,
Soaking its roots,
Turning it from Creation’s green,
To the red of pain and death,
Then we are buried beneath it.
It forgives us, all ways there waiting.
Covered in the cool of the morning dew.
It is trod upon, pressed down.
One moment the jackboot crushes it,
The next moment it is back,
Leaving not a trace of passage.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
From the heartland of a country,
Making verdant emerald hills,
Grass has defined the landscape of cultures.
As we do with people, grass is walked upon,
Bruised by the passage of our soles,
Burdened with the contamination of our living.
Yet there it is, everywhere.
Maybe if each of us,
The mighty and lowly,
If we were reincarnated
As a blade of grass,
And maybe if we could but remember
That experience, just maybe,
We would be allowed to comeback,
A better human.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour