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

Humpty Dumpty

Woman, you pierce me,
with your knitting needles,
of contradiction ,
I have become  a grief stained,
papyrus sheet, tear washed,
Ancient, old, worn,
weathered by, your brilliance,
There is no succor that,
can heal my proffered soul,
The foundation of creation
has weakened under,
the weight of your love,
That is a burden,
you have chained,
upon my back, my heart,
I will not laugh,
at your choices,
because I am one of them,
How telling is the reflection,
in your fun house mirrors,
The fractured, shattered,
splinters of its glass,
your conscience,
I would want to help you mend,
your broken pieces together,
But, like Humpty Dumpty,
the evil in you can never,
ever, be put together again.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Post Script: My darlin’ wife Luscious wanted everyone to know this was not about her (or else), it is an observation of relationships gone awry. ~ Donald Harbour

Morning desire

Spring breath sighs upon my breast
fragrant lilac, dew laced and cool.

There at forest edge the paleness
of moonlight kissed rosy cheeks,

where crept the thunder of life
amongst moulted tree castings.

The finger of day beckons, a passionate
desire, eyes shaded, lips parted,

to summon flesh upon flesh, sweet,
sweet flower of fire burning my soul,

consuming all that will become of me,
rolling in the frothing white surf of love.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

What makes her so

She approached, softly,
a pink flamingo perched
upon a frozen lake, each step
a fluid motion creating
a sensual languid moment,
the tableau hers alone,
time stopped to watch,
oceans ceased movement,
the air held its breath,
she is the whisper of mist,
lilac scented crystal dew,
a lover’s passionate sigh,
the space she occupies, a
captivating sacred temple,
where others fail, what
makes a woman so, what
magic does she possess,
in a field of weeds,
she is that one blossom
standing alone, rising
above the common grass,
her entrance silences a room,
it is not beauty, it is grace,
that indefinable essence of a woman.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Lordy, lordy it’s all good

She’s a two ton woman
in a two pound sack,
Walked out the door
she ain’t comin’ back,
Went up the river
to that Memphis town,
Got herself a new man
so she could fool around,

And It’s all good,
it’s all good, lordy,
lordy, lordy, it’s all good.

One side of my bed
hangs down to the floor,
Now I ain’t got a debt
at the grocery store,
My buddies say hey man
where you’ll been,
Without that big ole woman
they can see me again,

And it’s all good,
it’s all good, lordy,
lordy, lordy it’s all good.

Went to the bar
last Saturday night,
Found me a skinny girl
to hold me tight,
She said she would never
leave me alone,
Oh yeah, that meat is
sweeter close to the bone,

And it’s all good,
it’s all good, lordy,
lordy, lordy it’s all good.

©2014, Donald Harbour

What they have made me

Campbeltown, Argyll, Scotland, home of my Grandmother Elsie "Ferguson" Harbour's family.

Campbeltown, Argyll, Scotland, home of my Grandmother Elsie “Ferguson” Harbour’s family.

Awakening this morning
I am blushed with the dawn,
Standing at a frosty window
inhaling with an icy yawn,
Dogs are greeting the day
whining at the frozen grass,
You snug under the covers
my blonde blue-eyed lass,
I leave off my bathrobe
the cold good against my skin,
Feeling the call of forefathers
those Celtic Highlander men,
From deep in my sired soul
voices reach an open mental ear,
Guiding my footsteps in life
each day, week, month, and year,
There are others there to speak,
all from a far distant time,
Crafted by their ancient wisdom
knowledge carried in my mind,
I am grateful for their presence
for the things they let me know,
I am that which they have made me
a mosaic of my clan past tableau.

©2012, Donald Harbour

That word

There is a word we all have spoken,
a word as eternal as time,
a word not easily uttered,
although, it is whispered and shouted,
while it contains the parable of existence,
poets, cannot explained this word, yet
it is comprehended, and, misunderstood,
cleaved, it becomes a dichotomy,
a pronouncement of hate and desire,
such a word is at creations center,
a single word that begins a journey,
a step into insanity, jealousy,
a voyage of commitment, peace, tranquility,
it describes the deepest ocean,
circumscribes the limits of the cosmos,
has the power to drive nations to war,
or, cause giants to tremble as a babe,
it can bring souls together, as well as
force them apart into despair,
such a word is a magical source,
it should never be used foolishly,
for it has made fools of us all,
having conquered its tremendous power,
accepting it for its eternal beginning,
vowing ones heart to its burden,
is to become free, soaring lighter than air,
basking in its warm consuming light,
it is that word, which gives joy,
spoken in the brilliance of dawn,
murmured under the coverlet of twilight,
it is a reason for living and for life,
all languages contain this word,
sadly, few have the wisdom to say it.

©2012, Donald Harbour