The wheel of the year

There is sleep in the air,
rustling leaves begin to fall,
the sagging eyelids of the season.
Each day a crispness awakens,
it heralds other subtle changes,
rest for the land, flowers, lakes.
The cleansing purgatory of snow
gathers its chemistry in the north.
The gentle breeze whispers: “Quiet now,”
the hush is Mother Nature’s cool touch
upon the frantic fevered cheek of summer.
Human hearts yearn for this time,
they cling to past ancient old ways,
a quickening yearning for the hearth,
harvested fields, ducks on the fly.
Goddesses lurk in the shadows,
Modron and Olwen lean into their work,
shouldering, turning the wheel of the year.
Sages know only spring and autumn hold love,
the dawn and twilight of seasons,
the spiritual recharging of all life.
Smoke rises from a distant chimney,
it has comfort in its languid message,
a temple incense carrying prayers.
In the living is the solitary knowledge
that with the ending of the year awaits
creation’s glorious beginnings,
the only promise winter gives up.

©2015, 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

A Greek tragedy

The honey red heifer is birthing,
a difficult calving under monstrous
roiling dark bellied storm clouds,

She has chosen to offer up her gift,
under a twisted, gnarled, ancient tree ,
the only old guardian of the pastures.

She bellows not understanding it is necessary.
In the midst of her agony the Hyades
conspire to muffle her wild-eyed complaints.

The bowels of the fields are bulging,
constipated with swollen verdant seeds,
anticipating an elixir from above.

These grassy tarns of seasonal
vivacity will explode, grasping
the pastures fertile beckoning thighs,

a rapturous rupture of the soil, an
orgasm of awakening to satisfy
the heavenly rain spiked thrusts.

In the midst of April’s tribulation
a nocturnal nuisance has arrived,
raucous, unyielding in its annoyance.

Somewhere in the fence hedge, above
natures pious conversation, piercing
the vernal bacchanal of the night,

a feathered creature speaks in
full tenor timbre, Pavarotti incarnate,
it choruses the drama of this Greek

tragedy, played out in the amphitheater
of creation. Will there be life, or, the
tearful damning gloom of death.

Thor’s mighty hammer dispels
the Stygian darkness with crackling
light, a proctor quieting the class.

With a pause, sweet as the kiss of dew,
there is a gasp of all the calamity.
Mother Nature gathers her children, watching.

Life has arrived in a wet gelatinous
blanket, loved with soft brown eyes
and a lick for the first calf of spring.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Grandfather’s house

When I look back to childhood
I remember my grandfather’s house;
its smells rancor with age, with
things past slowly settling, slipping
into a grave of forgotten times.
The sweet odor of cooking bacon,
buttermilk biscuits, snuff, and drying herbs;
the seasons changed but the smells remained.
In winter the wind blew a shrill whistle,
drum beating against the clapboards.
Inside was cozy and warm, the iron stove
painting the room in sepia light, yellowed
by the glowing firebox Isinglass windows.
Grandmother in her straight back hardwood rocker,
knitting against its slow rhythmic creak,
slow as the hours that the house held,
rhythmic as the heartbeat counting seconds.
When the seconds ceased they were gone.
The house no longer had a purpose,
its life sucked into the depths of the grave.
Joyless, nonspeaking, life’s sigh silenced,
nothing left but aging memories to speak for it.

©2013, 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

Knees speak

My parts are wearing out,
The joints crackle and creak a bit,
Sounding as rusting door hinges,
Squeaking or aching or both at once.
The knees are the most vociferous,
The two old hounds won’t hunt,
Though, they do incessantly bark,
A constant mellow resonant growl,
Protesting, but not too loudly.
Their desire, not running anymore,
A connoisseur’s preference to sit,
Then constantly grumbling about sitting.
Saggy eared weather prognosticators,
Craving a warm fire in winter,
Then a soothing ice pack in summer.
So, I force them to take a daily walk,
Just so they will not become too lazy,
Lazy and fat and cantankerous.
These old dogs are trusted friends,
They have known my every step,
Every love, pain, disappointment and, vice.
At times I have been unkind to them,
Banging them through life, but
They persist, tagging along.
I am grateful for their attention.
Appreciative of their every scar,
Amused by their journey’s story.
And, when for the last time,
I rest upon satin sheets,
They too will lie down with me,
Trapped in an eternal slumber,
Finally, ignoring a season’s change,
Silenced to their complaints.
Together, three raggedy tramps of time,
Becoming fading fodder for the ages.

©2013, Donald Harbour

Holiday poetic prose

As a non-hibernating human being there is a time when in my existence I lay dormant in a shadowy malaise, as it were, a condition that transcends my true nature causing me to be a grumpy misfit among sun worshipers and barbecue bimbos as I have never seen the value in frying ones epidermis to a pork rind in the infra red blast furnace of ole Sol’s rays.

My arousal arrives with each day’s sunset beginning a little earlier and with the tree leaves shuddering to fall from their perch in a frosty apoplectic form anticipating re-birthing in the coming spring with a rather unwelcome death that coats the yard by their cast off carcasses leaving spindly shadows on a rather well manicured carpet of green.

However, autumn and winter herald scrumptious tables of Thanksgiving dining with friends and family, bright multicolor lights reflected in the eyes of joyful children, and glittering Christmas trees surrounded by gayly wrapped presents which are those things that energize me from somnolence into a jolly jig dancing Fantasia footed fool, ain’t it grand.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Flowers need a promise

Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.

As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.

Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.

The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.

Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.

Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.

Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.

Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.

I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.

Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Kingdom come

People are a disingenuous species,
Stealers, cheaters, killers, devourers.
Religious psychopaths imagining a God.
Teaching false humanity, love thy neighbor,
Unless the neighbor believes not as you, then,
destroy him in the creators name.
The hypocrisy of religion is salvation,
the cosmos cares not about beliefs,
the Creator cares only about life,
All life, even the hypocrites of life.
There is no judgement day, there is now,
there are the fish in the sea,
the birds singing in the trees,
the babble of cascading brooks,
azure blue skies with white clouds,
there is you, there is me, there is
only time flushing detritus of delusion’s delirium.
The excuses for our species,
the greed, government, uselessness,
organic perversion of universal life.
We will be judged not by our accomplishments.
We will be judged on our stewardship,
and the earth is taking names.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Thy prickly canes

Thy prickly canes!

Rose,
you have stems of beauty,
a fragrant blossom of love,
red garnished and velvet lipped.
Thou art a wonder of life,
and yet a thorny conundrum,
guarded by thy prickly canes,
all the while beckoning.
Your magic perfume consumes me,
thus its musky allure invites.
You have but to present yourself,
and so, to your occasion I respond,
for you, patulous pretty, my erotic heart,
rose.

©2012, Donald Harbour