The bouquet of your mind

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This mouth is dry, burning with thirst,
It needs quenching , a drop of poetry,
Words of satisfaction rolling across a tongue.
There is none only the cellular ring,
iPod to global wandering, watching, tracking.
When did common conversation become damned?
Could it be that poets and time are out of sync?
Guardians of love, life, beauty, death….gone?
Did Walden’s Pond dry up to the insanity of a SIM chip?
Technology does not replete art, word, ideas,
You fools, you have  become bound to the mundane,
The text messaged impersonality of thought.
There is no juggernaut of intellect here,
Only the simpering distillation of abbreviation.
Call me,  let us  enunciate words, communicate,
Experience your thoughts, my thoughts….touch.
I want to feel the flesh of you mind,
Enjoy the scent of your intellect,
Not in Qwerty interpolation of your text speak.
Let me hear the emotion in your voice,
The character of your heart and soul,
Let me hear you intone your feelings,
Not the derivative of a plastic keyboard.
I hunger for the timbre of your voice,
A longing for the touch of your words,
The breath of your lips, a trust in your message.
Offer up the bouquet of your mind, speak to me!

© 2010, Donald Harbour

Table scraps

Eating at the table is a family affair,
The noises of consumption, fork to plate.
An occasional pea dropped in the gravy.
The crunch of fresh celery or a carrot.

A good meal defined by the scraps,
Those bits and pieces that are dropped,
Or purposefully place under the table.
Not necessarily on purpose but with purpose.

In between the bites, the hand to mouth movement,
There is the sparring of conversation,
Crumbs and snippets rolling off the tongue or
The fork of intended half consumption.

Every family does it with tacit agreement,
Scraps shoved under the table, dropped there.
If one were to glimpse beneath the table cloth,
That skirted vale hides the dogs of mendacity.

“Margret, how is Aunt Jane lately?”
(You mean the one with the fifth a day habit?)
“Fine, she’s off to a new adventure this year.”
(She’s going to try to dry out again before her liver dies.)

“I saw that new girl in town is dating Frank.”
(Frank is bagging that new girl, only one left to bag.)
“Yes he is and I really think she is a match for him.”
(Everyone else has had them, they might as well have each other.)

“Mom these mashed potatoes are really the greatest.”
(Damn things are lumpy again, after sixty years get it right!)
Pop, your garden is going to be the best you ever planted.”
(If you would weed it once in awhile we could find the ripe veggies.)

Table scraps….you never know who dropped them,
You never know which hound is going to snap them up,
You never know how long they will stay beneath the table.
Maybe only until someone slips and drops a chunk of meat.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

This day of limits

A Moment of Passion - graphic art by Donald Harbour

We don’t talk much.
The hours, days, weeks,
Time speaks for us.
Stitches in the fabric
Woven by indifference.
Though we have loved,
The weight of life,
Bears the burden now.
This waltz we dance,
Where flesh never touches,
Where the heart’s feet feel not
The pieces of shattered shards.
Were we really only reflections
Or did we just exist, together?
You will frame your answer
But there is no sense to the words.
There is complaint in the passion,
That wheedling, nagging, binding,
Coldness where once was warmth.
The chemistry of age
Gave us this day of limits.
And, we know not where or why,
We wandered into it, together.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

There is always parting, in meeting!

Funny how people always find each other,
in a crowded cocktail lounge, dimmed lights
filled with strangers, a smokey haze, mystical,
ice clanking in glasses, laughter, sighs, coughs,
groans, indistinguishable words, the profanity
of blasé participation, social intercourse.

Funny how two people chance a furtive glance
then locking eyes like magnets attracting begin
dragging the steel filings of their life baggage
with them, bulging at the seams, scraping across the floor,
until there they are, so close to one another
they can smell the perfume sweat of the work day.

Funny how it all changes at that odd moment,
the chemistry of oneness, desire replaces the
structure of reason and they are melded, held like
sticky notes wrapped in a condom of conversation,
of twitters, smiles, sips, commonality, accidental
bumps into the others personal space, welcomed.

Funny how they flirt without really understanding why,
not feeling molested by a casual intimate touch,
a warm hand on a shoulder, a back, a gentle push,
Tic-Tac sweetened breath spoken on an ear lobe,
flushed by the heat of a passing cheek, a curl of hair
tickles, smiling downcast eyes, moist lips, flirty things.

Funny how their lives are Rorschach ink blots on parchment,
pen and ink dribbles across intersecting lines,
sketched indictments of their need to funnel dreams,
aspirations, self-image, placement in the present,
while two people fondle with their libidos, stroking,
expanding the aura of sensation, semblance, suggestion.

Funny how the elements conspire against them, quickly,
lights brighten, the room clears, the drinks are watery,
the conversational condom is removed, discarded, avoided, the haze
gone, the only words are parting, halting, flat, a dull murmur
replaces laughter, reason returns, space renewed, discomfort.
“See you again,” spoken, then into the cold dark night, alone.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour