Pluperfect

From the corner of my eye
I could see black birds feasting,
No flesh wasted that is consumed.
The world turned on its axis,
The sun racing the seasons,
No day wasted that has not dawned.
Somewhere it is raining,
Falling upon mother’s breast,
No plant wasted that is suckled.
Two lovers entwine their souls,
A kiss to seal their vow,
No commitment is wasted by passion.
Time arrives in each beggars hand,
It is the taker of immortality,
No moment is wasted by eternity.
Staring in the eyes of a baby,
Feeling the grasp of a tiny hand,
No one is wasted by redemption.
Around each of us there is reason,
Cause to inhale the miracle of life,
No choice is wasted that is given.

©2011, 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

This storm without reason

When the waters of my troubled being
clash with the shores of my unresolvable doubt,
you are my rock, the granite that withstands,
the assault of this tantrum tossed sea.

There is a calming in your weathering stone,
stoic and glistening, reflecting your starlight,
sparkling with all manner of life’s crystals buried
in the depths of your perfectly smooth surface.

I cannot claim such strength, nor uphold
the soil that washes from beneath my soles,
scattering as muddied water returning from wince
it came never returning to where it began.

When the tempest subsides to placid swells
your sweet breath is that breeze of cool salted air,
refreshing, holding aloft hope on flying fish wings,
resting in the ebb tide of foam drenched quietude.

©2011, Donald Harbour

That moment

There it is, that moment,
That gut felt knot, a pause,
Neither person speaks, then,
You think: “I feel so wooden”,
Dancing violates private space,
You both strain to be held,
But, there it is, uncomfortable,
A suppressed panic attack rises,
The dance floor a grassy plain,
Tugging at your feet, entangling,
No more gliding steps, stumbling,
Arms, legs, every joint, hinged,
A tenuous relationship, splintered,
Your emotionless faces, blank,
Carved representations of dance,
Still, there is something in touch,
A gentle palm resting on the back,
A brush of breast to chest,
A skirted thigh caressing thigh,
Cheeks that show a slight blush,
Quickened breathing, parted lips,
Body heat mixing aftershave, perfume,
In an instant its just you two,
Wrapped in a glowing amber mist,
You both know, together, you feel,
Neither person speaks, then,
That gut burning sensation, attraction,
There it is, that moment.

©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

Flirty Bird

Flirty Bird was a fire wino
she danced through flames
trod burning cinders under foot
mocked the heat and hot gases
Flirty Bird did not care
drunk with the crackling song
urged by a fanciful desire
the inferno rushed round her
ever changing, ever consuming
pushing back the night
baking the soil and rocks
clawing at her flesh
searing her excited breath
Flirty Bird held a blackened match
a sensuous smile parting her lips
she was in love with its presence
Flirty Bird fell into the sparks
wrapped in their glowing passion
the moment was her fanatic choice
Flirty Bird alone had started it
with that one look and now
she would burn and so would he
forever besotted  in a crimson bed.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Push back the night

The first line of this poem inspired by the last line of a previous sonnet “Thou Art a Strumpet Fair”.

*************************************

Thy kiss to seal heart’s dalliance there,
Oh maiden with locks of golden hair.
Where first your want, thus did I espy,
Within the depths of thine violet eyes,
Canst thou not be charmed nor pleased
As flowers kissed by a summer breeze;
Where heady nectar drips from crimson lips
That only a honey bee of love dares to sip?
Thus stung as a dagger pierce’th mine heart
With an enchanted poison pointed Cupid dart.
Lay down I now in death’s shallow musty grave,
A broken ragged beggarly tarnished knave.
Mine blood gone cold didst cease to flow
While thy cheeks burned with a passion glow.
Bring back my soul from this bottomless abyss
Push back the night with  thy lover’s kiss.

© 2010, Donald Harbour

This wine is sour

There is loneliness in this room,
a sinking feeling of drowning
in a bottomless pool of ice water.
Still, I speak to you
in a voice filled with a
shiver of doubt.
I know you hear me, though
you are not really there,
just your shell, an aging
skin encasing your flesh.
“How did we ever arrive here?“
A sigh ripples the morbidity
of the moment,
a whispered breath moving
the useless lint filled air.
“Did life pass us by or did we leave it behind?“
Your lips do not speak and
I do not know the answer.
Our time is locked in the
chains of indifference,
the tireless agitation
of night and day,
our shadows falling
behind us, flat, lifeless.
“Tell me how you feel, please!“
It is a moot question,
where there was light,
the spark has been extinguished.
The passion now soot,
the ashes of love’s fire
doused with complacency.
“This wine is sour, don’t you think?”
I hear no response, for your tongue
is clothed in the darkness
of your guarded thoughts.
It is folly, no grape fills our glass,
only the bitter root
of our futures, hemlock
to all that we were or could have been.

Copyright: 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

Dancing and chasing dust devils

One day the dust devils came,
Whirling dervishes of dirt,
Silently scraping the parched earth.
They came in a magic ballet,
Creating an entity of motion.
Their passing refreshing,
The hot searing touch of a lover,
A sudden sweaty midday passion,
Twisting in the sheets of desire.
When the dust devils spoke
Their voices were whispers,
The raspy hissing of sand.
Each towering funnel of chaos
A spiritual connections from earth,
To the gods in the sky.
I felt that there must be ancients
Buried beneath the parched land,
As the dust devils passed them
Their spirits were sucked up
Sent into the clear blue above.
They did not thirst for water,
Only dried withered souls,
Dessicated corpses of rock and clay.
With a gritty realization,
That I too was made of them,
I knew they would be back one day
Searching for my life’s emptied bowl.
Dancing, shimmering in the heat,
Reaching out to carry me home,
Back to where I began.
For as I was I will once again be.
So I danced under the summer sun,
Danced and chased the dust devils,
Like so many dreams running away,
Until exhausted we lay down to sleep
Where the day met the night,
On the slope of my mother’s
Cactus covered rocky shoulders.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour