Thy prickly canes!
Rose,
you have stems of beauty,
a fragrant blossom of love,
red garnished and velvet lipped.
Thou art a wonder of life,
and yet a thorny conundrum,
guarded by thy prickly canes,
all the while beckoning.
Your magic perfume consumes me,
thus its musky allure invites.
You have but to present yourself,
and so, to your occasion I respond,
for you, patulous pretty, my erotic heart,
rose.
©2012, Donald Harbour
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has been replaced by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
Sharks and Barracudas always take the bait
she opened and closed
her mouth, a fish
out of water, gasping
for the air of life….
the angler deftly
chummed the moment:
“I did not do what
you wanted, because,
I did not want to do it!”
a ripple on the placid surface
of mental juxtaposition,
chanced dead reckoning
into an attitudinal tidal wave,
a fornication of latitude,
the belaying pin clubbing of
a constipated personal dilemma,
hooked, gutted, cleaned, and,
oh so… delicious to devour,
verbal sake soaked sashimi,
commented and parsed
on a sinker leaded line….
a dysfunctional relationship
cast into the depths, it is
a soon to be swallowed
dangling morsel of raw fleshy
articulated…..bait.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Where I live there are parades three daily panty hose parades down main street morning, noon, and late afternoon a pleasure to behold a joyous carnival it’s the “Puttin’ on and Struttin’ Parade” however, men are not supposed to watch or make any obviously delirious comments it’s politically and dangerously incorrect watching with admiration is sexist.
Still I have asked my self “self, why are those women wearing all those fine things glittering with costume bling perched on stiletto heels and more makeup than a Barnum and Bailey Circus dressing room if they are not struttin’ their stuff, what are they doing” it’s a quandary.
I whistled once at a gorgeous blonde really thought she was a beauty until she opened her mouth, called me asshole and, used her middle finger to demonstrate her level of intelligence but wait, brunettes, and reds do the same thing I guess they are proud of their Revlon nail polish show offs.
I never call a woman names unless she asks me to or use hand signs that would be ungentlemanly I have too much respect for the opposite sex and I have come to the conclusion there is not a gentleman among them.
Ladies my twisted sisters a smile and a thank you makes you beautiful.
©2011, Donald Harbour
For the one I love.
***********************************************
My Mother Earth Goddess
And, when we come together
holding forth our orbs of light
And, when those lights combine
as if two suns met and burn
And, when I see the heavens
twinkle as stars set in your eyes
And, when I feel your warmth
caressing as the morning dawn
And, then I know that we are one
for all time molded by love
And, I am become soaring everlasting
on eagle wings through burnished blue.
©2011, Donald Harbour
She stood alone among the trees
a woman formed ripe with life,
a perfect beautiful figure
alone and naked in the light.
With confused mind I watched her
while peering through the leaves,
blushing at the vernal scene,
her auburn hair dancing in the breeze.
I could not find air to breath,
my lungs suffocated with my guilt,
yet hidden I viewed her mesmerized,
shuddering with the disgrace I felt.
She stepped into a placid stream,
a bare ripple on the watery plane,
slowly swimming from my sight,
disappearing among river cane.
As if the moment was yesterday
I still smell wild flower’s bloom,
I hear the tinkling water flow,
and the call of a lonely loon.
Fifty-six years have passed me by,
the spot grown over where I stood,
yet an adolescent emotion haunts me,
shamed by a vigil in the silent wood.
©2011, Donald Harbour
I saw you as a bleach blond,
I saw you as a Clairol brunette,
I saw you in your curlers
And a funky black hair net,
I’ve seen you in a bathrobe,
Bunny slippers and flannel jammies,
A tight full black body stocking
And sexy silk thong panties.
I saw you all painted up,
I saw you without it too,
I saw you in the bed at night
With face covered in green goo.
I’ve seen you at your best and worse,
When you were right or wrong,
But the last time I ever saw you,
You said adios, goodbye, I’m gone.
Now the dogs are eating better,
They don’t worry, whine or fret,
I don’t have bad dreams in my sleep,
I don’t break out in cold night sweats.
I’m thankful for the things you are,
For defining what the word woman can mean,
But watching your big old backside depart,
Was the best of you I have ever seen.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Listening to the heated words
there is no connection, no thought, no cognitive
reasoning that can be completed. The chain of
adjectives, nouns, verbs, adverbs: just the
punctuated construct of melodrama yelled,
screamed, blathered and blurted
in the audible range of everyone’s hearing.
The moment is oppressive, hot,
the mind boxed into a submission of
recognition. Compromise is undefined,
no agreement, no disagreement, only the words.
A verbalized water boarding of consciousness,
torturing the inner spirit, wasting
any possibility of minimal comprehension.
“Did you hear what I said?” There it is , an angst mallet
clubbing into oblivion the glimmer of understanding.
Any effort to communicate is swallowed, digested,
deposited on a compost pile of the steaming
rotted illogical thought. What was will never be again.
What is said, scribed onto the inner cavity of the skull,
can not be forgotten. Its stench a constant reminder.
“I’ve said all I going to say.” Ahhh relief,
reprieve from the incessant diatribe of an
emotional downpour disappearing into a sea
of PMS insanity. The ocean is once again placid,
serene, gently rocking life’s fragile boat until
the next storm looms over a tomorrow horizon.
Careful, monsters cruise just below the surface.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Mien zaftig Saffira
Saffira is a beautiful zaftig woman,
Entering a room with a feathery swish.
All the men gasp, become quiet,
Silent except for a slight susurrus,
An undertone of electrical crackle.
The women complain, saying of her,
“A tuches un a halb!” – no, not Saffira.
The older women call after her,
“Chap ein a meesa meshina!”
Saffira only smiles, warmly, knowingly,
A smile that could illuminate any castle.
There is a small starfish tattoo on
The swell of her left breast.
Some thought it to be a Star of David,
But it is in truth a starfish.
The colors of this aquatic creature have
A luminescence that is ethereal.
As she moves, her oceans gently sway
And the starfish swims in rhythm.
She walks lightly with a crisp step,
The oscillation of her hips, sensuous.
Her eyes the color of African amethyst
With flashes of turquoise specks.
A glance from Saffira envelops one
In a saffron glow, a chili pepper heat.
She is ebullient with life’s joys
Showing her resilience and resoluteness.
Saffira is a living Rubens work of art,
An effervescent sparkle of the Divinity.
Males seem poised to zoom in upon her,
Desiring to crack the crunchy acorn of lust.
But then she dances across the floor,
Saffira sees only me and I see only her.
