I am 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 offered a raspy croak,
a half hearted cock-a-doodle-do,
not a pleasant prospect of events.
You were buried in the cotton covers,
a wall of bricks plastered with blankets,
I feeling a conjugal urge to merge.
The rooster rules the rooster’s roust, but
there is a barnyard hierarchy, pecking order,
one’s order deduced by the clucking hens,
the mares nips at the stud, sows
nudge the boar away from the tough,
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 would thaw, melt into me,
then, hear my full throat cock-a-doodle-do.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Will we dream

Dreams are timeless time animist creations,
sonnets of somnolent imagination,
they are prostitutes of random memory.

The mind wears hobnailed jackboots,
its tactic to tread with worn cleated soles,
feet stomping through an oneirologist party.

Brief shadows pass silently without speaking,
lurking just on the edge of what is known,
flirting casualties of a long cold forgotten past.

The waiting dark graveyard is full of bodies,
all unwilling embalmed participants caught by life,
I wonder, do they twitch and dream too.

The script is written by a cruel comic mime,
a perverted titular Morpheus goatsucker,
the dual manifestation of the Upanishads.

When at last we hold our breath forever,
will the distant dim beacon of oblivion beckon,
or, will we dream an eternal Dharmic dream.

©2013,  Donald Harbour

 

 

Kingdom come

can one contemplate forever
forever is the eternal plain
a distance without punctuation
unending since creation began
a horizon so unimaginable
constant as the wearing of time
to tread upon it finds no end
a soul decays on the journey
relief in acceptance of the trial
the testing of a human shell
watched weighted and valued
the worth only in forgiveness
there is so much that is lost
so many drop into the abyss
that purgatory of damnation
souls used and used and used
learning until they are ready
until they know the meaning
of life and its immutable cycle

©2012, Donald Harbour

Embracing nothing

did you ever know desolation
knowing that there is nothing
but a mind trapped in a loop
the scene playing over and over
no way to turn off its totality
a feeling of vast aching emptiness
a wilderness scream no one hears
no one cares no one ever will

the streets are  full of catatonic people
moving objects in cloistered shells
avoiding each others eye contact
no smile no hint of human recognition
they are a wasteland of flesh and bone
bodies clothed in a death shroud
plaintive expressions of indifference
no one cares no one ever will

the thought occurs you are alone
you are the only thinking human left
you feel the species quickened demise
fear has replaced rational reason
in a moment breath is gone collapsing
there is a panic of emotional suffocation
you now know the burden of loneliness
no one cares no one ever will

©2012, Donald Harbour

This room holds history

Look about this room,
Inhale the scent of its past,
Peer into its shadows,
Memories dark places cast.
Come, look at its walls,
Where pictures neatly hang,
Faces smiling, faces frowning,
Faces grimacing in pain.
There is history here,
Though not at first sight,
Things buried deep within,
Vanquished, never seeing light.
This room is a shrine,
A place of hope and frustration,
A constant reminder,
A time vault of consternation.
It is a journey’s narrative,
The quest that one man gained,
It is the only room he owns,
It opens only to his name.
All these things are treasures,
Pages filled with love and strife,
This room a valued possession,
The library of one man’s life.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Remembering Wanda Hawley

Wanda Hawley, 1920, silent movie star. You are remembered.

Blue Wanda, you are nectar,
That sweet cusp of desire,
You, tucked in violet petals,
Perched upon a delicate stem,
Rooted in Hollywood’s vermicelli,
You waited for the sting of love,
Thirsted for that drop of dew,
Quivering in life’s passing breeze,
Blue Wanda you captivate the heart,
Posed only in a fading still photo.
Born in the soil of Bacchus,
You soften our existence,
Your twin star yet shines in bloom.

©2011, Donald Harbour

A psychologist’s dream

(Ole Doc Harry Manes wrestles with his demons)

Dreams in the world of Neither Now,
Are fleeting glimpses into a place dark and foul.
Where slumber climbs a well-worn stair,
Toward light above clinical despair.
Gosh, is his companion in times of pain,
For in wakefulness or sleep he calls its name.
A sturdy steed in sparkling brace,
Knowing eyes set in a thoughtful face.
Ole Doc Manes battles upon his charge,
With imagined demons hairy, scary and large.
A nightmare joust toward dreaded meet,
On a field where minion other Docs compete.
Far out on the edge of the misty horizon,
Dark knights wait with swords tipped in poison.
Alone but for faithful Gosh astride he waits,
For Hell to open the medical paper gates.
To loose the hounds, ears laid back on matted mane,
To hear their bark with breath of insane.
To see the dark knights armor shimmer in call,
For him to gather up his mace, his pike and maul.
The air is split with battles raucous thunder,
In a start Ole Doc Manes awakes from dream filled slumber.
And sitting there in the gloom alone,
He peers into the room of his castle home.
Listening to the kingdom sounds from without,
He is comforted from the dream caused doubt.
Now the knights of that nightmare play,
Are bared of their armor in the dawning of day.
Maslow, Freud, Rorschach, even you obnoxious Beech,
“I know each of you,” he sighs with relief.
Gathering the magic keyboard from his North Carolina desk,
He smiles his knowing smile full of mirth and jest.
Out goes a message in plain English email,
A formula for success so no psychologist minion will fail.
A tale dreamed briefly for them to aspire,
By a psychologist practiced in making smoke without fire.
“If you need help battling that which you cannot see,
Get in touch with me by fax, direct call, or toll-free.”
Scribbled in characters forming the magical words,
Ole Doc Harry’s thoughts are steeped in adjectives and verbs.
So the incantations will be tested in trial,
He laces the info with Camp Henry intellect and guile.
Yes, the Doc has triumphed with Alfred Adler nosh,
Delivered for psychologists by Doc Manes and his steed “Oh my Gosh.”

©2011, Donald Harbour