Debris of a life

in the debris of a life
there is never found comfort or
useful desire for its remains
like stale pizza molding
among scattered paper
a collage embellished
by cans of flat soda
rank crumbs upon the floor
a child has been here
with a chant of rhymes
stories of the big bad wolf
the worst kind of evidence
of unfulfilled destiny
is there an answer to be found
derived from this discarded past
no beautiful swarm of butterflies
no thrill of accomplishment
no ship of love at the dock no
they have skirted this room
avoided the attracted sting of flies
pests laying their larvae of criticism
it is the insects reward to devour
feast upon ones disparate offal
to consume the rubbish collected
in the debris of a life

© 2010, Donald Harbour

Beads, bell bottoms, and butterflies

Pink Floyd, when pigs fly.

Putting on a purple flowered shirt
And easing into grandpa’s Knickers,
I strapped sidewalk skates to my feet
Vaulting into glorious free space.
Flying pigs zoomed passed my eyes,
I marveled that they could fly,
Witches on brooms rode round the room
Where giant butterflies covered the sky.
The world was a Pink Floyd dream,
For nothing made any reasonable sense,
And nothing would ever be as it seemed.

©2011, Donald Harbour