In the glade an old Red Oak stands naked,
except for a single fluttering leaf,
still cast with the color of fall.
I have watched it for hours, and
I wonder if is proclaiming a message.
An axiom of life in its resilience,
its tenacity to purpose, to refusal,
a dogged determination to hang in there.
Though the winter wind tugs at its grip,
still it stays convinced that it must,
if not for purpose, then for the tree.
©2015, Donald Harbour
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
I arose this morning –
the dawn silently tip toeing,
across the sleeping dark horizon.
Bare stark branches of trees,
gatekeepers of the coming day,
beseech the horns of Luna to stay.
Night has left behind diamonds
glittering, strung across the ground,
a gift for the coming spring.
Tendrils of fireplace smoke waft
with the musky clear, crisp air,
a ritual offering to the hearth.
Fluffy feathered birds chirp awake,
shaking the cold from drowsy beaks,
tenors tuning up for their work.
A distant hound speaks its mind,
announcing another glorious
morning in the American South.
This magical moment of wakening,
carries the heritage of time,
of past and present, of tomorrows.
It touches the soul, the heart,
with things that are gentle reminders
of what it means to be a Southerner.
©2015, Donald Harbour
Tonight, a cold north wind
finds a tormented soul,
encrusted in cast-off old rags,
discarded fabric, forgotten cotton,
feet clad with worn out leather,
a motionless form lays crumpled,
held in a cardboard shroud,
the scraps of existence, no joy,
a forgotten shadow of life,
of what was, of what could be,
the wonder of city night lights,
perform kaleidoscope dances,
they mask the most precious,
humanity’s sack cloth clothed,
life should not suffer so,
life abundant should provide,
the lesser are the mightiest,
the strength of the spirit,
existing to remind us of,
in a heartbeat, are you, am I.
©2014, Donald Harbour
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
The house is speaking tonight,
commentary, with clicks and sighs.
Its mouthpiece a north wind,
moaning, as the zephyr whistles.
Then, gathering itself up
to move, with the darkness.
Somnolent solitary shifting,
as if, the night hides secrets.
Does it hide truths of the past,
a desolate sentinel of time.
Lives lived, lives lost, composted,
can its timbers remember, and speak.
A whispered reciting of life’s passage,
I do not understand its language.
An ancient part of me hears, feels, and
knows, this house dwells in all of us.
©2014, Donald Harbour
this night is cold and wet,
an ice water rinse of clothing.
parts of me curse my inability
to find shelter, leading me to
a lapse in judgement, it is
an illustrative life event.
my only solace, a dimly lit beer tavern,
it is a rain drop caught on the tongue
quenching a drought of understanding.
there thrust into amateur night chaos,
finding a poetry slam pit of confusion.
in a grungy corner perched on a stool
presumed poets are preaching,
spewing out denial, these floundering
disciples of expressionism, railing
against men, women, war, peace,
a rambling dirge of complaints,
they are puppies barking at nothing,
cats piteously crying for recognition.
words strung together, randomly
searching for cognitive thought,
limited by their experiences, they are
lost lunatic poetic apostles ,
wandering a wasteland of thought,
the poems dried fish divided
for the masses. their vinegar will
never be made into wine, their bread
offered is stale, pitted by the weevils
of claustrophobic boredom, the voices
self searching plastic soul surgery.
the beer is flat and tasteless, untouched
I return back into the drenching night,
thankful for its companionship, once again
wrapped in the comfort and warmth of its misery.
2014, Donald Harbour
The season’s dog has clamped its jaws,
biting deep into my warm, moist flesh.
It’s bark turning the sky dispiriting grey
as a canopy of death, an ash urn turned
upside down clutching at the life below
with corpse cold fingers. The birds
refuse to fly, those that do soon drop
from heaven, feathered chunks of ice.
To breathe is to inhale shards of glass,
each breath a searing arctic surgery.
The air is still, cloying, a suffocating chill.
Frigidness permeates every pore in the body
making hands useless, hammer struck fingers
ache dangling off reddened fleshy paws.
The end of the year brings the burden
of survival to all creatures; except
those frozen in stillness, burrowed deep in
the earth never knowing the suffering above,
sleeping to awaken when spring triumphs,
banishing old man Winter to his northern realm.
©2013, Donald Harbour
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
Potence has overtaken the dawn sky,
a mystical wakefulness in the scene,
a swirling mass of screeching devils,
choreographed jockeying for position.
They are grains of sand in the cosmos,
autumn’s winged disciple vagrant voyagers ,
These calamitous irreverent starlings,
gathering each year for millennium,
a convention of chirping auctioneers,
selling the season to winter’s chill.
Their movement paint on a Van Gogh canvas,
soon one will take command, a leader,
thousands will follow in joyful madness.
There will be evidence of their passing,
tree branches littered with white refuse,
then the tranquility of grateful silence.
I am transfixed by them and I wonder,
did humankind evolve from starlings?
©2013 Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 