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

Becoming one

peace has descended
settling in spring’s green grass
soft as a breeze
playful as a fat puppy
the sun casts the evening
day sizzles on the horizon
lost in a golden purple madness
night birds have awakened
aroused by settling chirps
Martins dart across the sky
late diners on mosquitoes
I cannot find another time
cannot remember a past memory
that ever cut so deeply
laying bare the souls sinew
marveling at the surrounding life
this great beauty of creation
the harmony possesses me
I become lost in its magic
bubbling over with child like wonder
bare feet rooted in the moist sod
I have become one with Nature
absorbed by its great mystery
returning at last to the soil of being
I am home in Mother Earth’s bosom.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Plowing the clouds

in a time when I was young,
once I plowed the skies,
two mighty star steeds,
pulled my ephemeral blade,
gouging the cirrus and cumulus,
the furrow from dawn to night,
the rich smell of their scent
an aphrodisiac of moisture,
an open cleft in the sparkling sky,
inviting, castigating my youth,
there were so many of them,
had I known that those clouds
would not last, would disappear,
I would have lingered in their vapors,
savoring  them with my heart,
thus remembering their delicate passing.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A gift from a passing

a grey shadow has passed this house,
silent as the dawns first whispering,
the dogs lifted their heads, but
they did not speak, just observed,
as if in observing they could absorb,
what, I do not know, maybe its knowledge,
or maybe the essence of its tranquility,
can a shadow hold such benefits,
was wisdom carried in its passage,
ancient and secretive it is a part of me,
just as it a part of all mankind,
and I too know it with respect and wonder,
I cannot help but love its pace of movement,
a burnished streak without a furtive glance,
I feel somehow it took a particle from me,
a wonder of this life transiting nexus,
tomorrow I will stand in the still darkness,
hoping, wishing that it will return,
halt in its work and look in my direction,
eyes connecting to its piercing golden orbs,
there must be magic in its slightest gaze,
will I become a better child of nature for it,
is strength gained from its untamed soul,
it has touched a buried primitive part of me,
feeling a spiritual bond with this brother,
does it desire the same or abhor my smell,
repulsed by the savagery of my ancestors,
so then, it has every right to distrust me,
I watch yearning for a moment’s pause,
a gift of purpose in recognition, from
this enigmatic solitary wandering coyote.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Votary of Mother Nature

The bog at Two Rivers Park

an old acquaintance is waiting
offering an unspoken friendship
some say he has counted a century
though he never seems to age
a silent friend with offerings
a gentle cradle for creatures
food for the less fortunate
a place to stop and rest
refuge for any so inclined
never demanding always giving
many pass by him never noticing
never seeing how marvelous he is
I visit with him at every chance
luxuriate in his unwritten wisdom
he meets seasons without complaint
changing his attire to suit need
his face a placid reflection
his past an uncomplicated story
everything in his space grows
protecting him watching over him
finding nurturing in his being
moments in his presence peaceful
tearing away the anxiety of life
there are those who wish him gone
finding no excuse or place for him
yet he is a nonplussed constant
surviving flood, fire, and wind
a protected votary of Mother Nature
this ancient aged bog of Two Rivers.

©2011, Donald Harbour

I am amazed with life

discovery is a marvelous adventure
finding something new in each beginning
a step upon an oft travel trail
touching the bark of an old friend
whispering words with unrealized meaning
looking over your shoulder the first time
a glance framed with a clear eyed smile
the prize of your child’s first “aha” moment
realizing the the earth will love you back
knowing who you are and what you have been

©2011, Donald Harbour

This single kiss

He tenderly kissed her lips,
Then moved along his way.
A vagabond of the moment
His habit was not to stay.

She quivered ever so slightly,
Responding to the passing bliss.
His seed planted deep with in her,
Given gently in a single kiss.

Other lips awaited anxiously,
Beckoning from each lady fair.
On to the next budding beauty,
The Bumblebee coursed the air.

Ungainly little insect,
How the flowers love you near.
Hanging from your stubby wings,
Impossible flight you dare.

No honey is placed in your nest,
As your smaller cousins do.
But life you spread equally,
Each spring as the world renews.

Is it possible that you alone,
Are there to show us how?
With bands of black and yellow,
And pollen upon your brow.

It is not so much the beauty
Of your skill or grace or charm.
But that you know your one lone task,
Each year you tirelessly perform.

In watching you about your work,
It comes to this human mind,
That a lesson can be learned from you,
Which would benefit all mankind.

Like you each of us must work at life,
Some earn, some steal, some pay.
What if we all put back as much,
As that for which we took away?

By sweat of hand or thoughtful deed,
We all were pleasured to give,
So that the great and little lives,
In all nature might be helped to live.

From ant to flower – sea to earth,
From one creature to mighty herd.
Mankind and beast could live,
In peaceful harmony by but a word.

As you kiss the upturned lips,
Suspend in wondrous flight above,
Your kiss an expression of the word,
It is known as Mother Nature’s love.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Leave me as I found me

when I go I will
leave me as I found me
scattered shards along
the boundary of eternity
a mythological has been
trapped in the cusp of nature
mounded dust and dirt
placed to trip the unwary
words fluttering across
machine made cyber pages
the bitter bile of life
turned to sweet love
hold your heart in your hand
now repeat after me
when I go I will
leave me as I found me

© 2010, Donald Harbour

Plucked feathers of heated passion

Have you ever wondered,
if you were a bird,
what would you be?
Hawk, eagle, raptor,
singer of songs, layer
of eggs, learner of speech!
Perhaps a parasol toter,
a feathered clown perched.
A pigeon flitting across
barren war waste land with
carnage and death in
your nostrils, in your message.
Somewhere between the tweets,
the twitters feathers fall,
a taloned challenge to rain,
to pillows, down filled
comforters, a gathering of the
eaters of pullets, Cornish hens,
turkeys, ducks, doves, quail.
The persistence, the barbaric
plucking of feathers, the
incessant mutilation of fowl.
A Loon is calling across
the lake, it is doomed.
That mournful beautiful song
a whisper of humankind’s inattention.
Thus, praising the shimmer of natures
glow upon the distant thunder
of these sins, this consequential
disregard for the haphazard ritual
of getting it on at the first meeting
of seed and soil, spiritual Armageddon.
My lovers and friends, we are passed
beseeching. I ponder when did our minds
become so numbed, inane participants
in this thoughtless copulation, surrogate
to the creation of children in winter.
Who among the sexually restless,
would cast off cooped up passion,
forgoing a lusty climatic romp between
the silk coverlets of ruffled calamus.
A rise to the extravagant plumage
of desire’s red ripe bird, and then,
the slow heated act of pairing up,
bedding down upon the feathers of
comfort, fleshy casual satisfaction.
Movement, graceless sweaty clothes
gathered into a cold cotton bundle.
A spasmodic burst of heated breath frosting
the occluded windshield of our life.
These feathers are lifeless and without flight.
Pulled from this body, now useless as
the leftover carcass of a Thanksgiving feast.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour

A humble pomegranate

My apology to those of you who view the pomegranate with religious significance, to me it is a lime in sheep skin. So here is a brief, albeit translucent, historical homily to this distasteful little Middle Eastern shrub.

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There are over 700 varieties of pomegranate. The one I prefer is Cosmoplitan Martini.

There is loathing or liking
toward the humble pomegranate,
plum of the east,
globe from the desert sands.
Its refreshing juices
a tart invasion of the mouth,
muhamara slathered on pita,
aradana for the bowl of rice.
Chew and suck upon the arils
nested in the pulp creation,
adorning the crown and capital,
of Jachin and Boaz.
The righteousness Mitzvot fruit
carried in the robe of the Ephod,
rider on the rimmonim,
here the forbidden of the Garden.
The fatal fruit of Persephone
captive to Hades bidding,
you Sah the soul of Osiris,
the calyx of mighty Hera.
Let it be you in my kollyva
nurturing, succulent, life giving,
broken and bursting,
the symbol of the resurrection.
Growing in the gardens of Paradise
your blossoms bejewel the air,
the image of prosperity and fertility,
Loved by Bhoomidevi and Bijapuraphalasakta.
For thousands of years worshiped
as a treasure of beginnings and endings,
a leather skinned malum punicum,
behold, you are but a humble pomegranate.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour