Starship

On a clear winter night,
When the frost begins to awaken
I lay on the cool fragrant ground,
Mother Earth strapped to my back.
A million billion twinkling lights
Spread across the sky just for me.
They banish the darkness of night,
A blazing universe of celestial candlelight
Spirits leave their hiding places,
Whispering, singing, caressing,
Frolicking among the vapors.
A gentle breeze carries their voice,
These night gypsies quiet the soul.
This magical moment a cup of wine,
The nectar of nature’s offered grape.
I have become the prow of Gaia’s ship
Plowing through a sea of stardust,
A course set toward a distant forever.
The beauty overwhelms me, I cannot breathe.

© 2019, Donald Harbour

Furl

Do you see when life begins to furl,
evolving, encompassing,
creating its own canard,
then floating back into vision,
a wind snapped flag, billowing,
to settle moist upon time’s petals,
time, I wonder about you,
there, I see you as you are,
as you have been, but I cannot
see you as you will become,
that is not to know, tomorrow
is written in the dawn of scudded
skies, purple and mauve as love,
tinted with promise, a soft kiss
lifting the heart a beat, I
wonder, when I close my eyes
as the dark of day descends,
will you be waiting for me tomorrow,
or will you unfurl that great cloak,
sail of your eternal arcane ship,
a boundless passage into the unknown.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Dali got it right

Last night I happily dreamed,
Our world’s ship turned upside down,
Giant oaks hung suspended in the air,
While birds flew on the ground.

Air was not polluted for breath,
All water pure for drinking too,
The earth’s creatures took photographs,
Of caged humans in their public zoo.

It was a world of imaginations,
Where peace reigned supreme,
Where guns were licorice sticks,
And oil was frothy whipped cream.

Blue skies were always overhead,
Rivers and lakes placidly flowed,
Fish were scaled in sparkling diamonds,
Multicolored butterflies paved each road.

Cows were made for milk and mooing,
Chickens cheerfully clucked a chicken song,
Lions laid beside fluffy white lambs,
No one ever heard the words: “This is wrong!”

There were no gods or seraph,
No torture or misguided religious grief,
No war mongers, government or politicians,
Pontificating their bellicose belief.

Pink peddle-pushers road horseback,
Through fields of limeade green,
Not found were homeless without homes,
Unbranded tennis shoes were only seen.

Dali was captain of this wondrous ship,
Sailing over the sea of cosmic space,
The passengers of his whimsical bark,
Different hues of the same human race.

Dawn pulled me from the dream,
It whispered a new beginning had begun,
Startled I realized in a jolt of epiphany,
All of us, could make this year, the one.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Helmsmanship

There are times when we are
enlightened with moments of
reflective thought, forgiveness
for our decisions, guilt
for our lack of correction.

A sailor should always know
where the North star is shining,
in which direction the
Southern Cross is pointing.

Navigation has never been
one of humanities finer points.

Bile is always waiting to rise,
hiding behind the next rolling
swell of events, and
the inevitable slide into the
trough trailing a foaming path.

You cannot stop the movement,
the ship is your journey,
it is a dumb tool of
your patience, experience,
a skill obtained through
feeling the wind, swells, currents,
anticipating the changing sea,
tracking the fall of the bow,
“Helmsman, mind your helm.”
“Aye, aye sir!”

 

©2014, Donald Harbour

A span of faith

Everywhere you look there are
bridges, spans, ancient and new.
Connections from somewhere,
to somewhere with an intermediate
transverse from having been there,
to being there, a slog, a trip, or a
simple uncomplicated, happenstance,
a foot tread over a void of space.
We trust our bridges believing they will
support us and others on our travels,
but, whether conscious or not,
there is always a gnawing doubt of fear .
Stepping out on a native vine laced
thread across a chasm of jungle,
motoring over asphalt, encased in steel
with rolling waves beneath us,
it is all the same, trust, belief.
Given the movements of earth and time,
why is it that we give our lives
so easily to such fragile designs?
We become tightrope walkers on perilous
dew dropped spider web suspensions,
no safety net below or on either side,
In calculations and plans, as in life,
we tempt fate whose fickle finger may
casually brush us away with a gentle breeze
as it does a spiders artful creation.

©2013, Donald Harbour