Spring breath sighs upon my breast
fragrant lilac, dew laced and cool.
There at forest edge the paleness
of moonlight kissed rosy cheeks,
where crept the thunder of life
amongst moulted tree castings.
The finger of day beckons, a passionate
desire, eyes shaded, lips parted,
to summon flesh upon flesh, sweet,
sweet flower of fire burning my soul,
consuming all that will become of me,
rolling in the frothing white surf of love.
©2015, Donald Harbour
I have never really said what I truly want.
I mean, when one voices that desire your
cards are on the table for everyone to see.
I’ve walked around it’s edges never stepping into it.
Exposing the intimacy of wants, dreams, can bare the soul.
My physical nudity does not embarrass me, nor
does the exposure of what I write or say.
But, to express want, that is a different creature.
That demon can become the skewer that finally ends
any thought of moving past a now shattered mirror of self.
The reflection has transmuted want and moved on
into the next life of impossibilities.
What do I want? To not have that question asked!
For to answer it would destroy what I am.
Your secret irresistible voice whispers in my ear.
When you are close enough for my mind to feel the heat
of your Sen-Sen scented breath the desire in me
rattles the bars of my mental confinement,
screaming like a simian in a circus cage.
Desire is replaced with unfathomable passion, longing,
the corpse past, the moment a bog of unformed sculptors clay.
Your hands will mold it, thumbs, fingers gouging, stroking
the flesh until it is what you want it to be.
There will be resistance, a denying of the inevitable.
That cloying thrill when your body barely touches mine,
the anticipation an ecstasy, the taking a sensual summit,
sucking at my soul, devouring it until your creation is finished.
Fired by passion, this ceramic investment of chelations awaits the
cast when again your secret irresistible voice whispers in my ear.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
When I was six
my family went to Pensacola.
I loved the ocean,
The crash of the waves,
the seashells, bikinis,
the smell of suntan oil,
the scent of the women.
That’s when I got my first
crack full of sand, and
understood why the girls
were joyfully squealing.
The pleasure of it all,
the compacted joy of sand
scrubbing the erotica
between your legs.
Eeehhhhhhhhhhh!
As I grew older I found
more entertaining pleasures.
Slow dancing at the Jaycee Teen Town,
sweaty, butch wax duck-tailed hair,
unforgiving layers of petticoats,
the over use of Chanel number 5,
Clearasil, moon pies with RC Cola,
Pabst Blue Ribbon, copping a feel,
penny loafers, pack of Lucky Strikes, and
desire rubbing hard up against desire.
Oohhhhhhhhhhhh!
College years were complicated.
I was a spring buck in heat,
quantum copulation in the backseat,
breathless fondling expression,
whispered promises to break.
Woodstock, bra burners, free love,
girls without innocence,
consequential satisfaction,
that potent release.
Aaahhhhhhhhhhh!
But time plays a mirthful game,
pulling away the layered onion
of age, the mark of the years,
making a living, satisfying
the man, the big kahuna.
The shaving of obligation,
the dues collector paid,
screw yourself the common gratification.
The postmortem of Vietnam,
chaos theory imposed by Old Charter.
Iiieeeeeeeeeee!
That leaves only the thought of
what was, the ego of who,
the id of what is, the sensual,
pulsing, erotic, clamor for the whole.
The part hidden to youth by
the discrimination of age.
Driven by the pull of experience,
the itch of sand, slow dances, backseats,
ecstasy in a world of derivative pleasure,
knowing all this is life’s warp and woof.
Founded in the assurance of the past,
there is only one sound left, only one vowel,
the melancholy plenary discomfort of the future,
it is: “Uuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
One day the dust devils came,
Whirling dervishes of dirt,
Silently scraping the parched earth.
They came in a magic ballet,
Creating an entity of motion.
Their passing refreshing,
The hot searing touch of a lover,
A sudden sweaty midday passion,
Twisting in the sheets of desire.
When the dust devils spoke
Their voices were whispers,
The raspy hissing of sand.
Each towering funnel of chaos
A spiritual connections from earth,
To the gods in the sky.
I felt that there must be ancients
Buried beneath the parched land,
As the dust devils passed them
Their spirits were sucked up
Sent into the clear blue above.
They did not thirst for water,
Only dried withered souls,
Dessicated corpses of rock and clay.
With a gritty realization,
That I too was made of them,
I knew they would be back one day
Searching for my life’s emptied bowl.
Dancing, shimmering in the heat,
Reaching out to carry me home,
Back to where I began.
For as I was I will once again be.
So I danced under the summer sun,
Danced and chased the dust devils,
Like so many dreams running away,
Until exhausted we lay down to sleep
Where the day met the night,
On the slope of my mother’s
Cactus covered rocky shoulders.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
There is something to be said,
I do not know how to tell you.
Words reach my mouth,
but they are not spoken.
The spark with in me,
a nagging urging to speak.
You would not understand,
nor would you believe me.
Our universe is a constant,
a space void of comprehension.
I choose not to waste words,
when they will not be heard.
That is why I am silent,
watching, waiting, muted.
When my silence finally reaches you,
a question will form in your mind.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” and,
the echo of life will answer.
All the memories – the volume of us,
desire’s hearth left untended.
The flame has turned to cold ashes,
for I have forgotten how to love.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Your lips are divine
creations, American Beauty
rose petals, moist, opening
to loves jeweled morning dew,
beckoning with the red of passion.
A whisper of breath
from between those parted
chalices of desire, nectar,
the perfume of your heart,
a pulsating moment of completion.
The thought of caressing
their velvet fullness excites,
igniting a fire deep inside,
spreading warmth to every limb,
every particle of this body.
Anticipation is a quivering,
slow motion pressing of flesh,
a sweet taste of nourishing honey,
the cascading rapture of bliss,
a brief soaring on angel wings, Heaven.
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 