Giants

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly grandiose thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods, contradictions.

Now that I have aged, none of those
quaking trees of life remain, only
fallen timbers, a mountain of antiquated bones.

No stench of the decay lingers,
there is only a sense of stale stagnant air,
dried husks litter the path, detritus of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

They become unnoticed, small things, until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows, piercing
the flesh, reaching into a once ambitious soul,

The trivializing of being, a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances and opportunities.

Count not the past it is dead , buried,
nor the possibility of tomorrow, count
the day, the only truth is its brief reality.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Things Possessed

Are we not possessed of possessions.
Things in transition from one state,
to becoming something other than they are.
Every pot and pan, each book and tablet,
a garden, and home, all transitory.
Even the thread that binds a shirt,
changing, neither a possession nor
possessed, used, not owned, allowed.
This mind that writes these words,
changing, what was thought possessed,
now gone, here given to the reader.
We are all things that ever were,
recycled particles of the cosmos,
what we will become is never kept.
The only real thing that can be possessed
is this moment, this second of time,
a sweep of a tick-tock on  the eternal clock.
Things do not belong to us, as we do not
belong to ourselves, for we are only,
an earthly dalliance of creation, and
that too is a possession of eternity.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Retribution

Slipping on his father’s shoes,
the little boy was beaming,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a rugged path to manhood,
the shoes do not fit, but
he will grow into them…one day,
and so, begins the journey.

We leave footsteps in the past,
young men stumbling, to keep up,
driving to fill fading imprints,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a human obligation,
from father to son and so on,
each stride planted in different dust,
and so, begins the journey,

Some shoes become boots, hobnailed,
footprints in sand or jungle paths,
a nations youth slide into memorium.
and so, begins the journey.

Old men once in their youth,
now tamed by time and disappointment,
heads bent with anticipation,
and so, begins the journey.

Souls beckon for their escape,
a pursers bell chiming debarkation,
husks arriving at the final shore,
and so, begins the journey.

Creation’s retribution, a return,
fresh consciousness to begin again,
a new being, a new life,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”.
and so, begins the journey.

©2020 Donald C Harbour

 

Time and old dogs

In the yard under a majestic poplar tree is an old hound,
The  tree has known him since he was a pup,
Its roots having grown around his favorite spot.
He slumbers, a reposed puddle of black and tan,
Ears marked with nicks, pieces missing,
His gray muzzle a scarred testament to his years.
He does not know time as we do, he knows seasons.
When the fall air turns crisp he acknowledges it,
Rheumy eyes peering at the woods around the house.
There is movement, scent in the air calling him.
Though instincts overcome his painful indolence,
He is no longer able to break brush on the hunt.
Once his strong voice told game he was on their trail,
Now, only a whispered rasp announces his wakefulness.
He believes he is still that force of nature and he speaks to it.
When the stars are spread like diamonds on black velvet,
On clear full moon nights, golden light fills his soul.
With nose pointed skyward he stands before heavens altar,
Howling a mournful comment for times lost, memories regained,
The lament a tribute to his cascading dreams of the past.
He is close to his time for his forever long last hunt.
He doesn’t know that he will be missed, hearts broken,
Those that know him will be burdened with that sadness,
Remembrance of a life well lived, the passing of time and old dogs.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Let your light shine

Damnation is laid in the belly of our fears,
humankind’s quaking horror of everlasting darkness.
Those tiny hairs that first herald a breeze,
the same ones that motivate our souls to scream
alarm us as we are beckoned, peering into the unknown.
There is no choice in the matter, no bargain,
A Cararra trimmed portal cannot stay the nightmare,
No amount of Psalms, incantations, blessings,
no prayers, meditation, or pious beliefs,
nothing will stay that voyage into that gloom,
except, the immutable light of ones spirit.
Let it shine, hold it forth, brighten
each day, each person and all creatures with it.
A sempiternal bit of creation connecting us
with our creator, a beacon to guide us home.
There is no gloaming to our night, only
that warm sunset of welcome shining at journey’s end.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Truth

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly ambitious thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods.

Now, none remain to crash through
the nubile trees of life, only
a slumbering mountain of aged bones.

There is no stench of their decay,
these giants, though their dried husks
have littered the path of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

The small things unnoticed until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows
piercing the flesh reaching into the heart.

The trivia of being a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances opportunities.

Count not the past nor the future,
for they exist only in memory, count
the moment, the only truth, a brief reality.

©2018, Donald Harbour

Ode for Politicians

There was a time when I believe in you,
believed you were great, I overlooked
the tarnish on your soul, the blemishes
that you had acquired with your position.
Then you stumbled, you sprawled
in the ditch of politics, the sewer
of corruption, a belligerent narrow
minded corridor of greed, of deception.
I am ashamed for you, feel pity for
those you hurt, those that you deem lesser,
those that seek justice, only to find
grievance cast upon the rocks of self interest,
bigotry, religious indifference, hate.
You call yourself a person of the people,
yet you only people your hollow person,
an illusion of ego, a festering pox,
diseased by conceit, hiding an intolerant
pornographic personality of megalomania.
Do the world a favor: leave, adios, so long,
sayonara, take a hike, abscond with your bag
of lobbyist promises, and kiss our
collective up turned posterior goodbye.

©2016, Donald Harbour

Slippers

Days glide quietly by, so easily,
Worn as comfortable slippers,
Caressing a journey of tired, aching feet,
The compounded sum, of yet another year,
Pages in a seasonal tome, published
In the confetti of autumn,
Each year another chapter,
An incomplete record of events,
Becoming as ancient etchings, inked
Upon life’s papyrus, casting
About for reason, for time.

©2016, Donald Harbour

Consequences

The years continue to fly by,
casual acquaintances, fleet of foot,
a dimple in time, of no consequence.

We are positioned to  respect authority,
to believe in the system, hide behind
its pseudo shield of  protection.

For order, for the nation’s good.
thus the mind is plowed, sowed
with the seeds of social control.

Beggar of the greedy, manipulators,
fear forged in lies and corruption,
we grow older more complacent.

Place one foot in front of the other,
toe the mark, walk the path, stay
in line, don’t complain, be a patriot.

Watch the shadows created for you,
there is a man behind the curtain,
he runs the show, you have a ticket.

The theater never closes, the show
continues, you are a seated actor,
participant in your own demise.

Wrapped in a shroud of cultural cloth,
buried in a coffin of political dogma,
one cannot escape the future.

What will be is ordained, contemptuous,
manacled, shackled by religion,
society’s boundaries, doomed.

Our beliefs, poisoned by labels
marking others different from us,
shallow humanity lacking compassion.

When you are poured back
into the cusp of creation, what
part of you will you leave.

What will honor your life, how will
consequence have made a difference,
will the hell you left, follow you.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Resilience

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