Reasons to live

There is a blessing in the morning silence,
That moment just before the awakening,
A solitude of expectations for beginning,
The day holds its pregnant breath waiting,
A thin light peaks beneath the dark,
As if to shove aside the dreams of night,
It is an invitation opening the soul’s door,
A corporeal alarm for all creatures to arise,
The birds gentle chirping natures wind chimes,
Rustling frantic fall leaves answer,
In the distance a cock beckons his flock,
Gaia moves, shouldering a frosty blanket,
We are all one, the one is in all,
It awakes from slumber with the dawn,
Offering a cascade of possibilities,
Possibilities for today, tomorrow, forever,
Inhale its fragrance, acknowledge its power,
Consume this gift of time and live.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Fallen sparrow

A small sparrow fell out of the sky today,
I held it in the palm of my hand,
Until it was well enough to fly away.

©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

Dali got it right

Last night I happily dreamed,
Our world’s ship turned upside down,
Giant oaks hung suspended in the air,
While birds flew on the ground.

Air was not polluted for breath,
All water pure for drinking too,
The earth’s creatures took photographs,
Of caged humans in their public zoo.

It was a world of imaginations,
Where peace reigned supreme,
Where guns were licorice sticks,
And oil was frothy whipped cream.

Blue skies were always overhead,
Rivers and lakes placidly flowed,
Fish were scaled in sparkling diamonds,
Multicolored butterflies paved each road.

Cows were made for milk and mooing,
Chickens cheerfully clucked a chicken song,
Lions laid beside fluffy white lambs,
No one ever heard the words: “This is wrong!”

There were no gods or seraph,
No torture or misguided religious grief,
No war mongers, government or politicians,
Pontificating their bellicose belief.

Pink peddle-pushers road horseback,
Through fields of limeade green,
Not found were homeless without homes,
Unbranded tennis shoes were only seen.

Dali was captain of this wondrous ship,
Sailing over the sea of cosmic space,
The passengers of his whimsical bark,
Different hues of the same human race.

Dawn pulled me from the dream,
It whispered a new beginning had begun,
Startled I realized in a jolt of epiphany,
All of us, could make this year, the one.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Joyful madness

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

Cartwheeling through the air

A flash against the azure hue,
I watch and marvel at the sight,
I watch and thrill at the arc
of each arrow perfect flight.
Spiraling to challenge clouds,
a skilled agile shining corsair,
an aerial performing acrobat,
cartwheeling through the air.
I wish that I were born different,
I wish that I could take flight too,
then I could have the fanciful fun,
as my feathered friend Grackles do.

©2013, Donald Harbour

Magpies

Ahh, what grace.  A Taiwan Blue Magpie.

Blue birds fly
through azure skies,
but, I prefer,
Taiwan Blue Magpies.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Pigeon sport

Watch out for pigeon poop!

there are pigeons perched upon
a rusted metal cornice of a building,
they are making sport of selections,
far below trudging humans the goal,
receivers of pigeon commented anointment
most birds have a sense of humor, although
they do not know it, it is in their DNA,
placed there as an after thought by
evolution, survival of the most fetished,
a creator’s comical adaptation for humankind,
with ruffled feathers cooing at the cold air,
fat friars coated in grey frocks, observant
their incantations magical mouthing of beaks,
casting watchful beady eyes at a stray cat.
pigeons do not enjoy simple gathering,
they want humans to participate, to feed,
bobbing heads puffed chested, strutting about,
bread crumb pecking white unguent factories,
don’t feed them you idiots, they’ll shit on you.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A new dawn

Dawn rises behind beech trees in November.

In the fall crispness of early morning,
As the frost grew on the wilted grass,
One could hear daylight’s gentle whisper,
The song of the night as it passed.

Below a tree line of leaf bare branches,
Through the meadow and foggy glen,
The sun’s first rays touched tall beeches,
Warming forest creatures and blood of men.

The cock had spoken in a plaintive cry,
Calling the day from its foundling burrow,
Casting its suspicious rooster red-eye,
The beginning of yesterday’s tomorrow.

Birds fluffed feathers against the chill,
Their chirps a greeting to one another,
As on the top of a distant silhouetted hill,
Flowers peeped from beneath earth’s cover.

The heart is filled with an ancient desire,
To join in this wondrous jubilant chorus,
To stoke life’s primitive cooking fire,
From a time once remembered as glorious.

Buried there with in my quaking soul,
Where memory waits in a secret place,
I find an outward drift toward the light,
Absorbing its gracious gift upon my face.

This cherished experience of the ages,
A  thanksgiving for those past and gone,
Yet there before me it is held in wonder,
As was the earth’s first blessed golden dawn.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Life of a Blue Footed Booby

Dancin’ the Booby Stomp

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d strut my stuff and sing a song,
I’d stretch my neck and stomp the deck,
I’d whistle all day long.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d live most of my life at sea,
I’d fly away to an island cay,
I’d find one Blue Footed Booby for me.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby
I’d dive into the blue ocean foam,
I’d catch fish to served as a Booby dish,
I’d take them to my chicks at home.

Oh, if I were a Blue Footed Booby,
I’d fly far from the ships of man,
I’d do my best to avoid that pest,
I’d stay away from the cook’s frying pan.

©2010, Donald Harbour