Time and old dogs

In the yard under a majestic poplar tree is an old hound,
The  tree has known him since he was a pup,
Its roots having grown around his favorite spot.
He slumbers, a reposed puddle of black and tan,
Ears marked with nicks, pieces missing,
His gray muzzle a scarred testament to his years.
He does not know time as we do, he knows seasons.
When the fall air turns crisp he acknowledges it,
Rheumy eyes peering at the woods around the house.
There is movement, scent in the air calling him.
Though instincts overcome his painful indolence,
He is no longer able to break brush on the hunt.
Once his strong voice told game he was on their trail,
Now, only a whispered rasp announces his wakefulness.
He believes he is still that force of nature and he speaks to it.
When the stars are spread like diamonds on black velvet,
On clear full moon nights, golden light fills his soul.
With nose pointed skyward he stands before heavens altar,
Howling a mournful comment for times lost, memories regained,
The lament a tribute to his cascading dreams of the past.
He is close to his time for his forever long last hunt.
He doesn’t know that he will be missed, hearts broken,
Those that know him will be burdened with that sadness,
Remembrance of a life well lived, the passing of time and old dogs.

©2019, Donald Harbour

I believe in change, nothing more

Change, we all change, life
is change. From the day of birth
change begins, we are a journey
of change. As a caterpillar becomes
a chrysalis to emerge a butterfly,
we exist in this cocoon of life to
emerge, changed. Our reality is death,
change from the material to the ethereal,
not an ending, a beginning, a wondrous,
marvelous participation in spiritual
evolution, our eternal existence,
the movement of energy through time
and space. The joining of the eternal
common thread. It has always been,
what has always been, and, it will
always be eternal. In change we
will once again join the spirituality
of creation’s cusp, to be born again.

©2015, Donald Harbour

So mote it be

Today, spoke I to a man old in the woods,
spoke of stones in the dark forest,
stones that knew of humankind and time,
spoke of ancient age before now.
before what we have written,
spoke of before what we call known,
these stones mottled with aeons,
weathered by the earth and its work,
these stones remembered and watched,
remembered and spoke of past before,
these scribes of the giant cataclysms,
watching the ancients descend to earth,
eyes of granite open to the past,
watching the unfolding of the future,
knowing what passed would again be,
watching the sons of soil in greedy toil,
brethren to the manna of Mother Earth,
descendent of the distant stars,
brethren to the woodland creatures,
now unknowing of who or what they were,
brethren of the stones, woods, water,
I am you, you are I, we are eternity,
spoke these watching brethren,
and thus the Gods said so mote it be.

©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

A birds nest tale

In the backyard, with indifferent abandon,
a holly bush leans against the fence.
An invitation that will be taken.

Within the protective dense thorny green foliage,
mom and dad Cardinal make a twig home.
Soon peeps announce a new families hatch.

Foraging with industry the male and female
endlessly fly to the yard garden grocery store.
The tomato horned worms do not survive.

It is an organic garden relying on benevolent help
from these talon red feathered creatures and good bugs.
Ravenous chicks doom the plant destroying worms.

A peek in the nest reveals two fluffy hungry babes
their open yellow rimmed beaks pointed skyward.
They are ravenous to any rustle of the branches.

Flashing dazzling colors, song birds dart about,
one of the benefits of planting a harvest of veggies.
Everyone benefits the bounty; birds and neighbors.

The family dogs seem to sense their unspoken duty
protectively lying in the shade beneath the nest branch.
Coming inside at nightfall they give up their guard watch.

Night darkness can become the indiscriminate evil hour for life,
when dark hides the skulking casual destroyers of homes.
The time of burglars, murders, the devils spawn, feral cats.

One of the neighbors daily feeds these treacherous felines,
in sympathy for their dispassionate wild primitive existence.
The cats have no morals, only a taste for baby birds.

©2013 Donald Harbour

A thought

This form of poetry is a Sestina. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, bound by a proffered thought,
I was caught in its golden fleeting hold.
An eventide breach of my consciousness,
a vaporous single wisp buried in my mind.
It is a mysterious breeze, I must confess,
the wind of time has challenge me to know.

I felt fear of learning what I might know
nature’s mysterious parlor trick produced by thought.
Do we by a slight of hand, our secrets confess?
Or, do we strive to release our tenuous hold,
allowing some dusty forgotten corner of the mind
to sweep away, that grain of consciousness?

This bright pebble picked up in consciousness,
that flowing stream passing, rushing to know.
I am stilled by this hidden sacrament of mind,
a tarot card born of a single unread thought.
What fortune of the future does it now hold?
To gain it, to read it, what must I confess?

It is not as from a void the dying confess,
it is a shining diamond of life’s consciousness.
I wonder what telling my last breath will hold.
Yet I dwell upon this passage to feel, to know,
to search the foot paths of my soul. That thought,
runs wild across the aging pastures of my mind.

From somewhere in the misty past of the mind,
the fog of time has hidden things not to confess.
As water begins to boil, heating the caldron of thought,
it pulls those diaphanous  vapors into consciousness.
At last what was unknown becomes mine to know.
Something I had lost long ago, in vision I now hold.

From a dawning portico your half-light shadow I hold.
You who are a hallowed spire of a youthful day mind,
you have awakened dim memories I did not wish to know.
This is a receding tide of my heart I cannot confess,
for it lays bare the dark that fell between our consciousness.
In pain, my companion hearthstone, you rise to thought.

You are not a keepsake to hold, forgetting you I do confess,
banishing you from my mind. What was a challenge to consciousness,
I not want to know, remembering lost love is a foolish thought..

©2012, Donald Harbour

My dogs won’t be guiet

There are times
when I am most interested
by the conversation of,
my old dogs barking.

Trekking through the woods
or plowing a field
they are always talking,
my old dogs barking.

When we take a stroll
down cement and asphalt
they are insistent critters,
my old dogs barking.

Remove the leather leash
lay them down on the porch
there is silent reproach from,
my old dogs barking.

Grab some soap and water
wash away their days dirt
yet still they whine,
my old dogs barking.

We have traveled many miles
seen sights seen by few
they were there,companions,
my old dogs barking.

When I am placed in the grave
when my burden is laid low
it will be the only rest I get from,
my old dogs barking.

©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

A Dog’s Life

Our family dogs are very special members of the pack. Ever waiting, ever giving, they are a joy of life. This poem is for them. Their website is at: http://siraengus.wordpress.com

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Aengus and Baxter take time to smell the roses!

I have waited all day,
Patiently, in the house.
The sounds outside interesting,
Though some of them strange.
I have lifted my head
Listening to sidewalk footsteps.
I thought it might be you,
They were not.
Twice I wandered to the yard,
Feeling the grass tickling,
Smelling the flowers and dew.
All the loose things lying about,
I picked them up and
Move them, several times.
I ate or drank when I wanted,
Though I did not have a hunger.
The phone rang four times,
I did not answer it.
My only interest is you,
You complete my day,
For you I live and long.
The neighbor cat visited.
It walked the window ledge,
Peering in at me,
But it has no motivation,
It’s just a stupid cat.
The radio has been on,
At least there are voices.
The clock inside me is ringing,
I know that you will be here,
Soon.
The thought of you makes me quiver,
Then I hear the key in the door,
I hear the rustle of your clothes,
Your scent fills my lungs.
And there you are.
I am so happy I could burst.
You reach for me,
Take my face in your hands,
Saying, “Hey boy, how was your day.”
It is good now,
You are home.

©2011, Donald Harbour