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

A thought

This form of poetry is a Sestina. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, bound by a proffered thought,
I was caught in its golden fleeting hold.
An eventide breach of my consciousness,
a vaporous single wisp buried in my mind.
It is a mysterious breeze, I must confess,
the wind of time has challenge me to know.

I felt fear of learning what I might know
nature’s mysterious parlor trick produced by thought.
Do we by a slight of hand, our secrets confess?
Or, do we strive to release our tenuous hold,
allowing some dusty forgotten corner of the mind
to sweep away, that grain of consciousness?

This bright pebble picked up in consciousness,
that flowing stream passing, rushing to know.
I am stilled by this hidden sacrament of mind,
a tarot card born of a single unread thought.
What fortune of the future does it now hold?
To gain it, to read it, what must I confess?

It is not as from a void the dying confess,
it is a shining diamond of life’s consciousness.
I wonder what telling my last breath will hold.
Yet I dwell upon this passage to feel, to know,
to search the foot paths of my soul. That thought,
runs wild across the aging pastures of my mind.

From somewhere in the misty past of the mind,
the fog of time has hidden things not to confess.
As water begins to boil, heating the caldron of thought,
it pulls those diaphanous  vapors into consciousness.
At last what was unknown becomes mine to know.
Something I had lost long ago, in vision I now hold.

From a dawning portico your half-light shadow I hold.
You who are a hallowed spire of a youthful day mind,
you have awakened dim memories I did not wish to know.
This is a receding tide of my heart I cannot confess,
for it lays bare the dark that fell between our consciousness.
In pain, my companion hearthstone, you rise to thought.

You are not a keepsake to hold, forgetting you I do confess,
banishing you from my mind. What was a challenge to consciousness,
I not want to know, remembering lost love is a foolish thought..

©2012, Donald Harbour

Reflections are not truth

life is always viewed
through the windows of the mind,
it is transformed, distorted
by the panes of perception,
becoming twisted reflections
filtered through a collage
of dust, streaks, fly specks,
hand prints, spittle, grime,
the imperfection of glass,
the baggage of living is
our collected experiences
that shape our beliefs
form what we become,
that film on the window panes,
there because we learn by it,
learn to be misjudged
tell misconceived lies,
feel anguish of disappointment,
view ourselves as we
believe we are seen,
it is a two-way street,
what we perceive
will also be perceived,
and, that is the danger,
reflections are false images,
beyond their dance is truth,
as surely as we digest them,
what is expelled is not the same,
what it once was, indistinguishable,
our frame of references,
our reflections have become,
the nutrient for another mind’s
fertile view of its reality.

A note about this poem: It is based on ‘one’s frame of reference’ that is taken from the psychological theory of Gestalt. We all have one, the trick is recognizing it and dealing with it.

©2011, Donald Harbour

No beginning, no ending

Tibetan endless knot

There is no beginning, there is no ending, there is only existance.

that which is unknown
that which cannot be known
gathered up the ends of eternity
binding the path of spirituality
with the undulations of time
capturing its changing movement
gathered it all together
interweaving with serenity
into the endless knot of infinity
the knot had no beginning
nor did it have an ending
there laid it upon the divine
that which is infinite wisdom
became the matter of creation
in the emptiness of existence
began the endless cycle
suffering birth death re-birth
inseparable from its ritual of being
that became compassion
giving light and meaning to the void

© 2011, Donald Harbour