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

Morning in the South

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

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

Wood envy

Before me an ancient table,
a lustrous finished piece of wood,
the surface slightly marred,
dull in spots, yet having
a depth that seems translucent
encasing waves of flowing hair.

There is love and character
in each twist of its grain,
years of stories written
in multicolored age rings,
what volumes are there, if
only one could read them.

A master gifted by time,
handled and buffed this wood
until, its surface was mirrored
to a sheen that reflects back
each transfixed soul gazing upon it,
marveling at its golden warmth.

With all my heart I do adore
and envy you for you will be lost,
I weathered and twisted by age,
will loose grasp of your touch
and, you will seek to be treasured,
capturing another admiring lover.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Lost in your moment

The blistering heat of summer
has been replaced by
the cool mint of your smile
the rush of day slowed
halted by your gentle breeze
you linger in my thoughts
the wisp of your memory
the manna that feeds me
where the sun is a keen knife
your touch dulls the blade
even in the sweat of a moment
you are a clear mountain pool
a reflection of winter’s beauty
now life sustaining, giving
why were you made perfect
and, why are you among mortals
writing words speaks not of you
only being in your presence
defines your immense treasure
summoning the glory of your love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

My twisted sisters

Where I live there are parades,
three daily panty hose parades down main street,
morning, noon, and late afternoon,
a pleasure to behold,
a joyous carnival,
it’s the  “Puttin’ on and Struttin’ Parade”,
however, men are not supposed to watch,
or make any obviously delirious comments,
it’s politically and dangerously incorrect,
watching with admiration is sexist.

Still I have asked my self,
“self, why are those women wearing all those fine things,
glittering with costume bling,
perched on stiletto heels, and
more makeup than a Barnum and Bailey Circus dressing room,
if they are not struttin’ their stuff, what are they doing”,
it’s a quandary.

I whistled once at a gorgeous blonde,
really thought she was a beauty, until
she opened her mouth, called me asshole, and
used her middle finger to demonstrate her level of intelligence,
but wait, brunettes, and reds do the same thing,
I guess they too are proud of their Revlon nail polish,
show offs.

I never call a woman names unless she asks me to,
or use hand signs, that would be ungentlemanly,
I have too much respect for the opposite sex, and
I have come a conclusion: there is not a gentleman among them.

Ladies, my twisted sisters,
a smile and a thank you,
makes you beautiful.

©2011, Donald Harbour

A child’s memory

She stood alone among the trees
a woman formed ripe with life,
a perfect beautiful figure
alone and naked in the light.
With confused mind I watched her
while peering through the leaves,
blushing at the vernal scene,
her auburn hair dancing in the breeze.
I could not find air to breath,
my lungs suffocated with my guilt,
yet hidden I viewed her mesmerized,
shuddering with the disgrace I felt.
She stepped into a placid stream,
a bare ripple on the watery plane,
slowly swimming from my sight,
disappearing among river cane.
As if the moment was yesterday
I still smell wild flower’s bloom,
I hear the tinkling water flow,
and the call of a lonely loon.
Fifty-six years have passed me by,
the spot grown over where I stood,
yet an adolescent emotion haunts me,
shamed by a vigil in the silent wood.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Love’s language

Face half shadowed,
A tilt of the head,
There a smile crinkles,
(Is this for me or a memory?)

A slight sweet scent,
Still air gently moved,
The rustle of your gown,
(How you fill my life and senses.)

The clock is counting,
Between dark and dawn,
There is no sleep,
(Paradise does not pick its time.)

Finger tips touched,
Soft warm hair caressing,
Skin burns with desire,
(Love’s language has been spoken.)

©2011, Donald Harbour