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©2014, Donald Harbour

Feeling a little kinky today. Could  not find a muse except the spam box on my email.

Cows are plotting to end the world

When the world ended the atmosphere blazed,
From horizon to horizon in a blue methane haze.

Homo sapiens died, their extinction complete,
No longer lesser creatures with forks would they eat.

The conspiracy planned since the dawn of time,
When the first rumen, humans killed to dine.

People had ignored the United Nations report
Instead laughing and saying: “It’s a crude joke of sort!”

There in words, as plain as day, it could be read,
“Cattle eliminations caused global warming,” it said.

But the truth was hidden by burps, belches and farts,
As the world’s cattle diligently performed their parts.

Each had a job to eat as much food as they could,
Ruminating gas production by thoroughly chewing their cud.

All this, while humans fought over oil prices, religion, tax,
Miley Cyrus CD’s, political parties, plastic boobies and sex.

Cows lay in fields placid, non threatening and benign,
Methodically eating, chewing, flatulating, biding their time.

The earth grew warmer as their efforts rose in the air,
While scientist begged humans to eat less meat, in despair.

Cow pies covered the fields as the green grass grew abundant,
Environmentalists argued over positions inane and redundant.

Then an upheaval so massive it’s hard to understand,
Cows the world over organized to make the last gaseous stand.

With an earth shuddering roar cows let loose a trombone blast,
Humans held their noses, grimacing, gagged with a gasp.

The skies were finally saturated to the fullest extent,
There was no other contribution, not a single cow could vent.

All bovines moved as if a perceived signal had been given,
To rivers and lakes and hidden valleys they were driven.

One volunteer cow stood on a Rocky Mountain height,
Its suicide mission, the methane atmosphere to light.

It struck a match, a beacon that flared a bright red,
And thrust it into the green layer just above its horned head.

The rest is history, there is nothing more one can say,
Only cows populate the earth no humans lived past that day.

Note: Several years past a Wall Street Journal article proposed “Cow Tax” in an effort to underscores the Greenhouse-Gas Divide. I thought; “Could there really be a grain of truth here?” The poem is a response to ‘what if’!
*****************************************************

©2014, Donald Harbour

Prophecy

In the dust of desert sands,
Among the ruins of arrogant men,
The pages of time are still written,
Where waters flowed, the dry bed aches,
Buried beneath millenniums forgotten, lost,
Dreamers sleep, soul to soul, bone to bone,
You will not know me, nor I you,
I am because, I was and will ever so be,
Though the earth may split asunder,
The mud bricks may crumble and disappear,
The knowledge on plaster walls unknowable,
Know this: the calamity of this past,
Will become the work of your future,
To be buried by the ritual of your passing,
Joining all that were before,
Consumed by the creatures and the soil,
Sleeping the endless, godless sleep,
Of having been, and nothing more.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Helmsmanship

There are times when we are
enlightened with moments of
reflective thought, forgiveness
for our decisions, guilt
for our lack of correction.

A sailor should always know
where the North star is shining,
in which direction the
Southern Cross is pointing.

Navigation has never been
one of humanities finer points.

Bile is always waiting to rise,
hiding behind the next rolling
swell of events, and
the inevitable slide into the
trough trailing a foaming path.

You cannot stop the movement,
the ship is your journey,
it is a dumb tool of
your patience, experience,
a skill obtained through
feeling the wind, swells, currents,
anticipating the changing sea,
tracking the fall of the bow,
“Helmsman, mind your helm.”
“Aye, aye sir!”

 

©2014, Donald Harbour

This house

The house is speaking tonight,
commentary, with clicks and sighs.

Its mouthpiece a north wind,
moaning, as the zephyr whistles.

Then, gathering itself up
to move, with the darkness.

Somnolent solitary shifting,
as if, the night hides secrets.

Does it hide truths of the past,
a desolate sentinel of time.

Lives lived, lives lost, composted,
can its timbers remember, and speak.

A whispered reciting of life’s passage,
I do not understand its language.

An ancient part of me hears, feels, and
knows, this house dwells in all of us.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Humanities legacy

For a moment I felt panic,
reaching in mankind’s pocket I found,
not a spiritual coin there,
not a cent to our name,
thus it occurred to me,
how will humankind be valued ,
what decides its weight in gold,
a child collecting for the hungry,
a minister begging for his church
a greedy banker holding forth for more,
a politician sending youth to die in war,
corporations queuing up for contracts of death,
what stain decides our existence value,
how does life weigh the human soul
is the evil of mankind more weighted,
than the purity of love and kindness,
has humanity so lost its way, that
it has become a pox upon life.
and what will give worth to it,
what will weigh its soul against destiny,
will nature turn her back on us,
lack forgiveness for our transgressions,
humanities castigation of lesser creatures,
defiling creation the essence of the eternal,
how can we find the worth of humanities name,
how will we be defined by the Celestial,
will our name become parasite, pariah,
carnivore of the cosmos, succubus,
vandal of the weak, the less fortunate, poor,
I fear our name is Dante’s king,
I fear we have grown cloven hooves,
the defilers of all that is good,
perverting spiritual beliefs,
and yet, there is a dime left,
it shimmers in the pool of tomorrow,
waiting to be grasped and spent,
a dime for our salvation, redemption,
will we spend it wisely, give it worth,
will it decide how mankind will be remembered,
finding value on the scales of the universe,
or will we be come curious fossils,
studied by our world’s next experiment.

©2014, Donald Harbour

 

An episodic moment

I saw a girl with rosy red cheeks,
her delight was in her innocents,
indeed a rare quality in women,
seeing her was a dun upon my soul,
a demand seeking my inner pillars,
sounding the depths of my passion,
she was white light, pure as linen,
the sun paled in her presence,
birds hushed at the sound of her voice,
fallow ground blossomed where she walked,
I know that time separates us forever,
my mind reeks with the desire of her smile,
how can I compare her to life’s reality,
she is only a vision, a dream in my head,
an episodic moment in life’s pattern,
that is what haunts me, pulls at me,
evades my days, nights, my search,
unfulfilled, unsatisfied, lost.

©2014, Donald Harbour

What will you give

I am not ready, not ready,
I do not want to grow up,
I do not want to become a lemming,
in this playful existence I ask,
why do we rush to that cliff,
the abyss of no return,
living in the shadow of life,
only a ghost of what we could be,
fearing the dark beyond life’s walls,
making excuses for mortality,
seeking immortality in myth,
life is how the sun feels on skin,
life how the snow feels on your tongue,
a gentle breeze in loves hair,
the caress of a baby’s touch,
the sweet smell of a puppy,
the small things that touch you,
what will give you eyes,
where will you find it, where
will life rear its head and kiss you,
will life hear your final thought
into whose arms will your spirit return,
life is so precious, so unappreciated,
what lives will life merge with yours,
and, what will you give back, what?

2014, Donald Harbour

Wood envy

Before me an ancient table,
a lustrous finished piece of wood,
the surface slightly marred,
dull in spots, yet having
a depth that seems translucent
encasing waves of flowing hair.

There is love and character
in each twist of its grain,
years of stories written
in multicolored age rings,
what volumes are there, if
only one could read them.

A master gifted by time,
handled and buffed this wood
until, its surface was mirrored
to a sheen that reflects back
each transfixed soul gazing upon it,
marveling at its golden warmth.

With all my heart I do adore
and envy you for you will be lost,
I weathered and twisted by age,
will loose grasp of your touch
and, you will seek to be treasured,
capturing another admiring lover.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Aware

I am aware of my own fleshy mortality,
that flying sparrows fall from the sky,
and old dogs finally lay down to die.

I am aware this prismatic life is finite,
that all iron must turn to rust,
and mountains are worn down to dust.

I am aware material hypocrisy is vain,
that gathering objects is all in jest,
and forgotten when we are laid to rest.

I am aware of the cusp of creation,
that a spirit’s fire can never dim,
and we are not forged to this life again.

I am aware that being is what I am,
that we are a momentary flicker of light,
and cosmic voyagers in the infinite night.

©2013, Donald Harbour