Worn Shoes

I dreamed of a night with stars above,
millions of other dreamers stood about me,
each shod with life’s tired worn shoes,
toeing the edge of a decaying precipice,
the shore to crossing the river Styx,
light, darkness – salvation, damnation,
is destiny mapped or do we have a choice,
when will we leave this path, to face
the calamity of our ultimate fate,
how are we ascribed in the book of life,
some say it is not for us to know,
is the scything dark angel  the only choice,
a life snuffed by the world’s insanity,
religious fervor screaming “God is great,”
there, now you have the arbiter,
it is emblazoned on every particle,
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,”
the wafer is stale, the wine is vinegar,
the priest has dirty finger nails,
rivers of blood ooze from the Bible,
from the Quran, from every word,
from every holy book ever written,
from the lifeless lips of children,
from the souls of mothers, fathers,
from the heart of self-righteous nations,
from the bowels of despots and bigots,
every opus a tome of contradiction
from which there is no salvation,
the beast of dogma opens its greedy maw,
all will be consumed by their beliefs,
the only contribution to their shrill voices,
a mountain of unlaced tired worn shoes.

©2017, Donald Harbour


Kingdom come

People are a disingenuous species,
Stealers, cheaters, killers, devourers.
Religious psychopaths imagining a God.
Teaching false humanity, love thy neighbor,
Unless the neighbor believes not as you, then,
destroy him in the creators name.
The hypocrisy of religion is salvation,
the cosmos cares not about beliefs,
the Creator cares only about life,
All life, even the hypocrites of life.
There is no judgement day, there is now,
there are the fish in the sea,
the birds singing in the trees,
the babble of cascading brooks,
azure blue skies with white clouds,
there is you, there is me, there is
only time flushing detritus of delusion’s delirium.
The excuses for our species,
the greed, government, uselessness,
organic perversion of universal life.
We will be judged not by our accomplishments.
We will be judged on our stewardship,
and the earth is taking names.

©2012, Donald Harbour

When will you remember our Mother

The bubble did not have a thick surface
its quality carried a rippling sheen,
Neither was it perfectly round,
the weight of it was so slight, yet
it distorted the space it occupied.
She laid upon it, laid across its
undulations, caressed it with her body,
hands, feet, lips, thighs, grasped it
with her arms, pressed her taut belly
into it’s surface. She loved the bubble,
it was her creation, her right by birth,
it existed as the beginning of eternity.
She possessed its contents and form with in her.
It was all she was meant to be, there was no
before or after, or distance, nor death,
there was only change as a constant.
The cusp of creation was her temporal parent,
a partner moving her through time.
It always sang her song, hummed her to sleep.
Gaea existed for it and it existed for her,
She was the Mother of all creatures, the Goddess
of life, all that was or ever would be.
In a single drop of her breast milk
she birthed the stars giving light to the void.
Her breath ignited their solar furnaces,
the brush of her hand set the planets in motion.
Gaea, the everlasting foundation of creation,
before its cold stillness and its raging inferno,
she moved into the purgatory of non-existence,
and waited for the day she would be remembered.

© 2011, Donald Harbour