Winter long flying bird

The hawk of winter is sinking
its talons into the soul of earth,
bitter grievous dark beacon of
the long sleep, long flying bird
that beckons the forgiveness of spring,
it cannot wait its task for it blankets
this night with the howl of its song
and the moulting of its cold cold feathers,
perched upon the dead and fallow ground
there is hope in the birth it nurtures,
a blessing in the sacrifice to destiny,
it will not nest forever but for the morrow,
cast back to its northern clime
duty bound to leave us when the sun
awakens from its southern sojourn
with a heated nod shooing that pesky bird.

©2014, Donald Harbour

The bite of winter

The season’s dog has clamped its jaws,
biting deep into my warm, moist flesh.
It’s bark turning the sky dispiriting grey
as a canopy of death, an ash urn turned
upside down clutching at the life below
with corpse cold fingers. The birds
refuse to fly, those that do soon drop
from heaven, feathered chunks of ice.
To breathe is to inhale shards of glass,
each breath a searing arctic surgery.
The air is still, cloying, a suffocating chill.
Frigidness permeates every pore in the body
making hands useless, hammer struck fingers
ache dangling off reddened fleshy paws.
The end of the year brings the burden
of survival to all creatures; except
those frozen in stillness, burrowed deep in
the earth never knowing the suffering above,
sleeping to awaken when spring triumphs,
banishing old man Winter to his northern realm.

©2013, Donald Harbour

The Battle of Germ Alley

A tiny flu germ found me the other day,
As through the air it floated on its way.
I didn’t ask it with me to abide,
But with in hours it was at home inside.
Now I’m not rude nor am I a bore,
Though it out stayed its welcome as my throat became sore.
It seems it was a germ geologist by trade,
And being rocky ground my throat is where it stayed.
I coughed and sputtered in an effort to move it out,
It invited headache and fever to help with the bout.
They decided to start a new country, a germ colony,
Their unexploited kingdom they voted to be me.
In panic I ran to my bottled army awaiting on the shelf,
To put an end to this upstart kingdom with in myself.
I sent out Sir Aspirin – he charged through my heart,
They rusted his armor before he got a good start.
Then puny stomach showed up in the feud,
So into the fight came a potion I brewed.
“Ah ha,” cheered the germs as my brigade came to sight,
“Fresh meat, our settlement really feasts tonight.”
Down went my soldiers without even a dent,
On those unwelcome strangers, no blood could they vent.
In desperation, lest I be consumed by the germ tide,
Penicillin and teramiacin were invited inside.
They flanked my gullet, their charges were fast,
Over the foe they soon trampled in triumph at last.
Now where a colony in shiny mucus once lay,
My body has awakened to a far brighter day.
No words were spoken for the germs that were smote,
You see, the doctor on his bill the germ’s epitaph he wrote.

©1986, Donald Harbour