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

A lonely night walk home

A path across stone laid earth
Is the shortest path to home,
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only lonely spirits roam.

In late October a frosty chill
Cast dead leaves upon the ground.
Sycamores stand with boney branch,
Here only deathly silence abounds.

One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place.
The graveyard of embalmed bodies,
Where their lives lost the final race.

It is known, as it has always been
Some spirits are want to never leave.
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation as they grieve.

Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.

Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance,
Imagined rags dance in the dank night air.

You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.

It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.

Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Is it only just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?

©2015, Donald Harbour

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

An inconsequential assault

Listening to the heated words
there is no connection, no thought, no logical
reasoning that can be completed. The chain of
adjectives, nouns, verbs, adverbs are the
punctuated construct of melodrama yelled,
screamed, blathered and blurted
in the audible range of everyone’s hearing.

The moment is oppressive, hot,
the mind boxed into a submission of cowed
acceptance. Compromise is undefined,
no agreement, no disagreement, only the words.
A verbalized water boarding of consciousness,
torturing the of inner spirit, wasting
any possibility of minimal comprehension.

“Did you hear what I said,” a mallet of angst
clubbing into oblivion the apple of truth.
Any effort to communicate is swallowed, digested,
deposited on a compost pile of the steaming
rotted past. What was will never be again,
what is said can not be forgotten,
its stench a constant mental reminder.

“I’ve said all I going to say.” Ahhh, relief,
reprieve from the incessant diatribe of an
emotional downpour disappearing into a sea
of hormonal insanity.The ocean is once again
placid, serene, gently rocking life’s fragile boat
until the next storm looms over a tomorrow horizon.
Careful, monsters cruise just below the surface.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Wine of life

The pharmacology of life
is the ancient fermented grape,
tritest  of the holy Omar Khayyam,
a diner at Charlemagne’s plate,

Bacchus to Caesar’s copulate sins,
blood of the Christian Christ,
the sacrament damned by its purity,
barbarian and cannibalistic.

Hypocrisy of Protestant dominion,
the sangria of death in the bull ring,
Trousseau Noir of bastard Kings,
parlance of the French Paradox.

Thou nectar of the drunkard’s vine,
sweet covenant of life stupor,
deceitful beggar of  a wise man’s reason,
damn you for our own weakness.

You are a  coward of the living
sacramental remembrance of the divine,
dispenser of the opiate for the masses,
your prophet guards the gate, but

hell is the companion of his deceit.
Religion is not a substitute for truth,
Wine endures, long after the Kiddush
thus the vine will forever survive.

©2015, Donald Harbour

This old house

Forever, an old house has stood in a field,
A grey silent sentinel ghost of the past,
It stands consumed by the morning fog,
Leaning imperceptibly, it is unperturbed,
The house knows its value, its purpose remains,
People may forget history, the house will not,
Lives passed through  its doors and rooms,
Children once scampered and played on its porch,
Lazy hounds escaped the summer heat there,
How many meals were cooked in its kitchen,
What joy gathered there in its dining room,
It has seen men go off to war, never returning,
It has heard the moan of birthing pain,
Then, swelling with the cries of a newborn,
Silenced, Sunday hymns once sang its song,
Where old men whittled, a possum or two live,
A tree is growing up  though the porch floor,
Now forlorn, passed by, it is indistinguishable,
Time is swallowing it year upon year,
That boundless cavern has eaten its heart,
Its eyes to the outside world hollow, glass-less,
The house will slowly collapse into the earth,
While it stands, it holds the vault of memories,
But, just as the house, memories die with time too,
When they are gone, only the debris of life remains.

©2015, Donald Harbour