Flowers need a promise

Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.

As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.

Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.

The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.

Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.

Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.

Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.

Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.

I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.

Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Anticipation

A poem in the form of a Japanese Tanka.

Grey marbled clouds
rolling across the sky,
on the earth below
life awaits a moist kiss
from nature’s pursed lips.

©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

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

Lost in your moment

The blistering heat of summer
has been replaced by
the cool mint of your smile
the rush of day slowed
halted by your gentle breeze
you linger in my thoughts
the wisp of your memory
the manna that feeds me
where the sun is a keen knife
your touch dulls the blade
even in the sweat of a moment
you are a clear mountain pool
a reflection of winter’s beauty
now life sustaining, giving
why were you made perfect
and, why are you among mortals
writing words speaks not of you
only being in your presence
defines your immense treasure
summoning the glory of your love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Odoriferous

Bradford Pear blossoms

There it is, that peculiar odor. An announcement heralding an arrival. This slap to the olfactories is a smelling salt of sweet scent mingled with decaying flesh. It proclaims spring to be sprung, buds to have blossomed, inoculating, scintillating, resonating the seasonal change. Everywhere it has laid a bland canopy of white. And, that is the only, the one and only salvation for the annual foliage of the Bradford Pear tree.

When there is passing
buzzard winds clean the bone
flowers will grow.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Haibun is a composition that combines a paragraph of prose in tangential or oblique relationship with a haiku poem. For We Write Poems prompt.

A winter gift

The first snow has begun,
born in great white blossoms,
descending in ballet pirouettes,
a Swan Lake performance, ballerinas
balanced on delicate ice crystal toes,
spinning, soaring through the air,
their symphony a soft whisper,
singing the song of the season,
cadenced by twittering sparrows, and
the castanet of forlorn autumnal leaves,
the hills and valleys are awash,
a winter vesper lave blanket ,
tree branches lift up spindly fingers,
praises for the life-giving snow,
spring dwells in their heart wood,
their thirsty buds drink the promise,
they do not complain the caress,
beneath the soft touch there is life ,
sleeping in an earthen bed it waits,
snow, how your blessed gift is loved.

©2011, Donald Harbour

There was a brook

There was a brook that wended
Through a forest. Its ancient path
A trace of thousands of years.
Majestic noble rocks, rounded with time,
The instruments of the water’s song.
Moss and fern cling to their mottled surface,
Lovers performing a summer kiss.
The hours are without motion,
Hands on a clock refuse to move.
The brook performs its symphony,
Life flourishes in its coolness.
Spiders skate on placid pools
As leaf boats languidly voyage
Fairies on holiday past rippling reeds.
Magic stirs the woodland air,
The old trees join hands above,
A cathedral protecting precious life.
The stream banks are crowded with flowers,
Awakened by a breeze from drowsy slumber.
The harmony, an Audubon painting,
Dazzling with the wonder of life.
The ink of creation still wet
Waiting for nature to exhale.
There was a brook.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour

Where the Robins fly

One morning looking out my window,
A Robin perched looking in at me.
A rumpled feathered creature
In the boughs of a Tulip tree.

Its beak was old and weathered,
Chipped pecking at hardened seeds.
Its scaly legs and talons,
Dried and withered reeds.

I smiled remembering spring,
When it had come the year before.
To fly against my window pane,
Or sit chirping above my door.

To me it was an omen,
A gift from my distant past,
I wondered where it had been til now
And if this visit would be the last.

The Robin held still its feathered head,
Not a breath of life could I discern,
It continued to examine me with eyes,
As if from me an answer it would learn.

I think it knew its time was near,
That it would rest on the ground below.
To become part of the fertile earth,
Where wild flowers each spring would grow.

In an instant it flew out of sight,
A dart of color across the sky
Where the soul of man will ascend,
Carried away where the Robins fly.

©2010, Donald Harbour

It’s a jungle out there

The rain is falling in torrents,
Somewhere high above Spring’s pitcher
tips and the water cascades over
the rim of the mile high clouds.
Creatures are draped in soaked
giant Elephant Ear  leaves .
The plain is festooned with mushrooms,
umbrellas clutched against the wind.
All the hippopotamuses, rhinos, and
wildebeests mix with the sharks,
the lions and birds of paradise.
The herd is on the move, sloshing,
Snorting at the elephants waiting
on the other side of the crossing.
A monkey wearing white gloves
whistles at the multitude and waves.
Another trail fills with scrambling
leather and rubber clad hooves.
There is no sound from them,
they do not exchange glances or
touch, their space never shared.
But, there is fear in their eyes.
Fear that instead of eating,
they will be the ones eaten.
It’s a jungle out there, in the city.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour