Reflection

Searching through my attic
I found an old dusty box,
the cardboard stained by years,
neglect chewing its frayed edges.
It contained things not forgotten,
things unremembered,
the mind grocery list left behind,
a storehouse of need, yearning.
To awaken  the past can be
a terrible realization of the present,
a specter finger pointing, condemning, accusing.
A dangerous reflection leads to guilt,
I wishes, whys, whys.

©2015, Donald Harbour

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Words to live by

However many holy words you read,
however many you speak,
what good will they do you
if you do not act on upon them?
Whatever words we utter
should be chosen with care
for people will hear them and
be influenced by them for good or ill.
Better than a thousand hollow words,
is one word that brings peace.
In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west;
people create distinctions out of their own minds
and then believe them to be true.
The way is not in the sky,
the way is in the heart.
A jug fills drop by drop.
Every human being is the author
of his own health or disease.
To understand everything
is to forgive everything.
In a controversy the instant we feel anger
we have already ceased striving for the truth,
and have begun striving for ourselves.
No one saves us but ourselves,
no one can and no one may,
we ourselves must walk the path.

This poem is written with the words of a man named Siddhārtha Gautama, the Buddha. I am not a Buddhist however if one were to internalize his words, they would change that persons life forever. It is that simple. May they bring you reflection and peace.

©2015, 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

A guest in lavender

Someone has arrived with spring,
A gangly girl cast in a lavender hue,
She sojourns at the garden gate,
Positioning her whimsy there,
Her want to protect the portal,
My wife has unfounded jealousy,
She says this spindly guest mocks,
Though she has not spoken, she clings,
Rearranging the wooden fence tactfully,
I find her a rather refreshing temptress,
Sliding beneath the crocus and rose,
Her gown of green lifted, baring,
Leggy female of Mother Earth,
You have interrupted my plans,
How can I but love you, my sweet,
Unwelcome beauty, euphonious Wisteria.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

Morning desire

Spring breath sighs upon my breast
fragrant lilac, dew laced and cool.

There at forest edge the paleness
of moonlight kissed rosy cheeks,

where crept the thunder of life
amongst moulted tree castings.

The finger of day beckons, a passionate
desire, eyes shaded, lips parted,

to summon flesh upon flesh, sweet,
sweet flower of fire burning my soul,

consuming all that will become of me,
rolling in the frothing white surf of love.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

A lonely night walk home

A path across stone laid earth
Is the shortest path to home,
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only lonely spirits roam.

In late October a frosty chill
Cast dead leaves upon the ground.
Sycamores stand with boney branch,
Here only deathly silence abounds.

One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place.
The graveyard of embalmed bodies,
Where their lives lost the final race.

It is known, as it has always been
Some spirits are want to never leave.
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation as they grieve.

Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.

Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance,
Imagined rags dance in the dank night air.

You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.

It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.

Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Is it only just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?

©2015, Donald Harbour

Wine of life

The pharmacology of life
is the ancient fermented grape,
tritest  of the holy Omar Khayyam,
a diner at Charlemagne’s plate,

Bacchus to Caesar’s copulate sins,
blood of the Christian Christ,
the sacrament damned by its purity,
barbarian and cannibalistic.

Hypocrisy of Protestant dominion,
the sangria of death in the bull ring,
Trousseau Noir of bastard Kings,
parlance of the French Paradox.

Thou nectar of the drunkard’s vine,
sweet covenant of life stupor,
deceitful beggar of  a wise man’s reason,
damn you for our own weakness.

You are a  coward of the living
sacramental remembrance of the divine,
dispenser of the opiate for the masses,
your prophet guards the gate, but

hell is the companion of his deceit.
Religion is not a substitute for truth,
Wine endures, long after the Kiddush
thus the vine will forever survive.

©2015, Donald Harbour