Life’s roads

Roads always go somewhere,
Like a many branched tree
Leading to tributaries of life,
Until there is only a trickle.

Faced with dark rolling clouds,
Or rays of a sun tinted sky,
Roads point in all directions,
Exist in every imaginable climate.

No matter which choice is made,
The journey of a short stroll,
A trip of a thousand days, always,
Choices lead us back to our beginning.

The value of the moment is decision,
Courage the teacher of the effort,
Living and learning from the choice,
Is the path to find our true self.

©2012, Donald Harbour


From the corner of my eye
I could see black birds feasting,
No flesh wasted that is consumed.
The world turned on its axis,
The sun racing the seasons,
No day wasted that has not dawned.
Somewhere it is raining,
Falling upon mother’s breast,
No plant wasted that is suckled.
Two lovers entwine their souls,
A kiss to seal their vow,
No commitment is wasted by passion.
Time arrives in each beggars hand,
It is the taker of immortality,
No moment is wasted by eternity.
Staring in the eyes of a baby,
Feeling the grasp of a tiny hand,
No one is wasted by redemption.
Around each of us there is reason,
Cause to inhale the miracle of life,
No choice is wasted that is given.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Your Melba toast gets soggy

I suppose that one day I will wake-up to a bad dream
finding life the effect of a salami on rye sandwich.

You see, in this circus, balancing the flaming debris
of the corpus on the chin will burn you.

Is a bad dream really a metaphor for poor choices,
of leaving, staying, saying, mocking angst?

Or, is it a pyrotechnic pentagram filled with all the magic
and ridiculousness that follows an outcome, as remorse?

We are all zombies trudging through our existence until the door
slams shut on tomorrow and your Melba toast gets soggy.

If I swallow this torched frame of life will I disappear, will tissue
papers of the past become fly ash, smokey wisps to my memory?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour