There my loves lay,
Those breasts swelling,
Challenging their limits,
I dream of them, I inhale their scent,
This loamy contact with them,
I love this moment, this communion,
They are surrounded with mystery,
An archaic moaning of ages,
Loved, challenged, dismissed,
They survive, triumphant, waiting,
These Arkansas Ozarks,
Mother Earth’s children.

©2018, Donald Harbour

Morning in the South

I arose this morning –
the dawn silently tip toeing,
across the sleeping dark horizon.

Bare stark branches of trees,
gatekeepers of the coming day,
beseech the horns of Luna to stay.

Night has left behind diamonds
glittering, strung across the ground,
a gift for the coming spring.

Tendrils of fireplace smoke waft
with the musky clear, crisp air,
a ritual offering to the hearth.

Fluffy feathered birds chirp awake,
shaking the cold from drowsy beaks,
tenors tuning up for their work.

A distant hound speaks its mind,
announcing another glorious
morning in the American South.

This magical moment of wakening,
carries the heritage of time,
of past and present, of tomorrows.

It touches the soul, the heart,
with things that are gentle reminders
of what it means to be a Southerner.

 ©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

Winter long flying bird

The hawk of winter is sinking
its talons into the soul of earth,
bitter grievous dark beacon of
the long sleep, long flying bird
that beckons the forgiveness of spring,
it cannot wait its task for it blankets
this night with the howl of its song
and the moulting of its cold cold feathers,
perched upon the dead and fallow ground
there is hope in the birth it nurtures,
a blessing in the sacrifice to destiny,
it will not nest forever but for the morrow,
cast back to its northern clime
duty bound to leave us when the sun
awakens from its southern sojourn
with a heated nod shooing that pesky bird.

©2014, Donald Harbour


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

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

Will we listen

Listen, do you hear it too,
a gentle prodding in the wind,
a whispered subtle coaxing voice.

Undisguised it speaks to me,
its words the faint movement of air,
distant thunder trembling the soul.

It has visited me before, has it you,
haunting through day and night,
obtusely, yet a clarion horn of alarm.

We strain to understand the meaning,
tossing the covers of our minds,
wallowing in our musky night sweats.

There, you hear it, what can we do,
it is not the voice of a god, or devil,
nor an angel, but the sound of a gnat.

Softly carried on the horizon’s wings,
it comes when you least expect a visit,
then with talon feet it clasps your heart.

Speaking true when ever we pause to listen,
I shudder at the thought, we may not answer,
The fertile dirt lays silent and waits.

©2013, Donald Harbour

I know the meaning

I dreamed that one held the scepter
of life. Not a god, not a beast, not
a government, not the whole of the universe.
I dreamed a child and I knew the meaning.

©2012, Donald Harbour

When will you remember our Mother

The bubble did not have a thick surface
its quality carried a rippling sheen,
Neither was it perfectly round,
the weight of it was so slight, yet
it distorted the space it occupied.
She laid upon it, laid across its
undulations, caressed it with her body,
hands, feet, lips, thighs, grasped it
with her arms, pressed her taut belly
into it’s surface. She loved the bubble,
it was her creation, her right by birth,
it existed as the beginning of eternity.
She possessed its contents and form with in her.
It was all she was meant to be, there was no
before or after, or distance, nor death,
there was only change as a constant.
The cusp of creation was her temporal parent,
a partner moving her through time.
It always sang her song, hummed her to sleep.
Gaea existed for it and it existed for her,
She was the Mother of all creatures, the Goddess
of life, all that was or ever would be.
In a single drop of her breast milk
she birthed the stars giving light to the void.
Her breath ignited their solar furnaces,
the brush of her hand set the planets in motion.
Gaea, the everlasting foundation of creation,
before its cold stillness and its raging inferno,
she moved into the purgatory of non-existence,
and waited for the day she would be remembered.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Herald of Southern Summer

Tithonus is proclaiming his immortality,
After seventeen years he shouts, sings it,
Shaking his timbals with mighty thunder,
Leaves of the trees quake and rustle,
The world vibrates with tettix joy,
All creation turns to hear the magical song,
He proclaims his many names across every hill,
Yellow Monday, Cherry Nose, Red eye, Whiskey Drinker,
Double drummer, black prince, La Cigarra,
Higurashi no Naku doro ni, summer’s jar fly,
A symbol of reincarnation he is the benign molter,
And yet the trickster, the ninja decoy utsusemi,
He represents insouciance singing into the night,
He is the ubiquitous herald of the Southern summer,
Ancient, praised in fable, the everlasting, cherished cicada.

Enjoy the  summer herald’s song

©2010, Donald Harbour