Different Year Same Baggage

This winter, the New Year has become a trollop of time.
An indecent excuse for the changing of the year.
It violates our thoughts with despair and declension,
This calamity of illness, a contentious infection.
The brave face, a stout heart, none can turn it away,
It is earned, bought with the coin of ignorance.
Its festered soul nurtured by social pestilence.
The nations great shamans are lacking a cure,
Burying their heads in tribal hoodoo voodoo.
All opportunity to soar above dyscrasia, squandered,
Wasted on petty dogma and personal convictions.
The world waits, groaning at humankind’s confusion,
City on the Hill eagles have fallen from the skies,
There is no one left to teach them how to fly.
A year just begun, its inheritance, last year’s baggage.

2023, Donald C Harbour

My old friend

There is a forgotten point in the past,
when first our paths converged.
We were far too young to know it,
as threads of friendship bound us.
Destiny set us on our separate journey,
stretching those golden fibers.
But, they were always there, unbroken,
tugging at the heart’s memories.
Whenever life becomes contrite and mean,
I often think of you and smile.
Remembering your laughter and joy,
we are sixteen again, singing Doo-wop.
Possessed by Brill Cream and Juicy Fruit,
Rock ‘n Roll knights charging forth.
Shod in Penny Loafers, armored in Old Spice,
we had swallowed the pill of innocence.
A marvelous foundation on which to stand,
God-smacked, age replaced it with reality.
Our dreams the glue to a kismet’s circle,
each step through time has led to today.
Through it you have always been my brother,
eternity can never change nor take that away.
If I find no other fortune, you are a treasure,
unblemished, shining, uncounted and valued.

©2021 Donald C. Harbour

Giants

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly grandiose thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods, contradictions.

Now that I have aged, none of those
quaking trees of life remain, only
fallen timbers, a mountain of antiquated bones.

No stench of the decay lingers,
there is only a sense of stale stagnant air,
dried husks litter the path, detritus of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

They become unnoticed, small things, until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows, piercing
the flesh, reaching into a once ambitious soul,

The trivializing of being, a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances and opportunities.

Count not the past it is dead , buried,
nor the possibility of tomorrow, count
the day, the only truth is its brief reality.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Testimony

I have watched and listened,
Suffered from contradictions,
Those gaps in a man’s life.

There are misconceptions,
Blatant mental posturing,
Delusions defining a man.

They are misguided, shortsighted,
Easily manipulated, injected,
The vinegar of male inoculation.

These vocal dystopian needlers,
Miserable cretins of neutering,
Harpies eating the grist of manhood.

We need not fear them, ignore them,
Pay no attention to them, for
A man is no one’s beast of burden.

Some may think this folly of conjecture,
But, it bears the soul of Occam,
Simply put, we are what we are.

Acceptance is a harsh reality, truth,
The granite laid by human history,
It is the blame game between sexes.

Wasted posturing, justifying micro-niches,
The piddling prattling of wannabe’s,
Never reaching the true stature of a man.

Hold this truth close to your breast,
There is hidden danger in masculinity,
Subtle skirmishes can have dire consequences.

Even a male praying mantis is comfortable,
Feeling safe in his exoskeleton,
Until a satisfied female devours him.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Things Possessed

Are we not possessed of possessions.
Things in transition from one state,
to becoming something other than they are.
Every pot and pan, each book and tablet,
a garden, and home, all transitory.
Even the thread that binds a shirt,
changing, neither a possession nor
possessed, used, not owned, allowed.
This mind that writes these words,
changing, what was thought possessed,
now gone, here given to the reader.
We are all things that ever were,
recycled particles of the cosmos,
what we will become is never kept.
The only real thing that can be possessed
is this moment, this second of time,
a sweep of a tick-tock on  the eternal clock.
Things do not belong to us, as we do not
belong to ourselves, for we are only,
an earthly dalliance of creation, and
that too is a possession of eternity.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

I’m crowing for you

Morning is prying at my eyelids,
a nagging beggar demanding my attention.
It’s begging bowl, gray clouds scudding,
held in the palm of a chilly autumn wind,
the rim loudly banging on the front door.
Somewhere a rooster has offered a raspy croak,
a half hearted frosted cockle-doodle-do,
not a pleasant outlook for dawn’s events.
You are buried in the down and cotton covers,
a brick wall plastered with blankets.
I feeling a prospective male conjugal urge,
The rooster rules the rooster’s, roust.
There is a barnyard hierarchy, pecking order,
one’s order deduced by the clucking hens.
The mares nips chasing the stud away.
Sows nudge the boar from the trough.
The bull levies his interest subtly,
modulated to the cows seasonal expectation.
You are not that tolerant, judgmental,
you are a woman ruled by the unknown.
I, a furnace of heat, you a chasm of ice,
would that you could thaw, melt into me,
then, awaken to my, full throated cockle-doodle-do.

©2020, Donald Harbour

Retribution

Slipping on his father’s shoes,
the little boy was beaming,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a rugged path to manhood,
the shoes do not fit, but
he will grow into them…one day,
and so, begins the journey.

We leave footsteps in the past,
young men stumbling, to keep up,
driving to fill fading imprints,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a human obligation,
from father to son and so on,
each stride planted in different dust,
and so, begins the journey,

Some shoes become boots, hobnailed,
footprints in sand or jungle paths,
a nations youth slide into memorium.
and so, begins the journey.

Old men once in their youth,
now tamed by time and disappointment,
heads bent with anticipation,
and so, begins the journey.

Souls beckon for their escape,
a pursers bell chiming debarkation,
husks arriving at the final shore,
and so, begins the journey.

Creation’s retribution, a return,
fresh consciousness to begin again,
a new being, a new life,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”.
and so, begins the journey.

©2020 Donald C Harbour

 

Stella

She laughs,
The world listens,
She loves bugs,
The flowers of weeds,
She sparkles in the sun,
She is a tiny wondrous jewel.
And when she climbs up in my lap,
That small voice says,
“Poppy I love you,” then
I have lived all that can be lived.
Bone of my bone,
Flesh of my flesh,
If there is any good in my being
Have I given you that part?
I can not shelter you completely,
The experience of life is strength.
Nor would I bend your thoughts to mine,
To learn is how you find yourself.
But I would take the lash of thoughtless pain,
Baring my back to ugliness you will endure,
The sting would be my joy, my gift.
Pain will find you in life, it always does.
Too much of its cruelty paints a cynical veneer,
It builds walls of indifferent banality.
But, there is so much joy to behold,
The grand scheme of life yours to seek,
The perfect moment of innocence to hold.
Listen not to the conspiring of the crones,
Your heart will tell you the truth.
That inner voice you hear softly speaking,
Its whispers deep from with in your soul.
If there are angels they will know you,
But, if time is unkind and your path is blurred,
Reach out, Seraphim will come to guide you.
For I would spend all that I have been given,
An eternity, to help them find you.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Death of poets

We are all scattered,
autumn leaves cast before the wind,
scraping across the face of time.

We are all scattered,
Remembered only in the past,
lost to scribbled words uttered in silence.

We are all scattered,
Drifting beggars in poetic rags,
a dispersal for unremembered causes.

We are all scattered,
become tribe of wandering word smiths no more,
rocks pounded to dust by digital prose.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Reasons to live

There is a blessing in the morning silence,
That moment just before the awakening,
A solitude of expectations for beginning,
The day holds its pregnant breath waiting,
A thin light peaks beneath the dark,
As if to shove aside the dreams of night,
It is an invitation opening the soul’s door,
A corporeal alarm for all creatures to arise,
The birds gentle chirping natures wind chimes,
Rustling frantic fall leaves answer,
In the distance a cock beckons his flock,
Gaia moves, shouldering a frosty blanket,
We are all one, the one is in all,
It awakes from slumber with the dawn,
Offering a cascade of possibilities,
Possibilities for today, tomorrow, forever,
Inhale its fragrance, acknowledge its power,
Consume this gift of time and live.

©2019, Donald Harbour