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
Dreams are timeless time animist creations,
sonnets of somnolent imagination,
they are prostitutes of random memory.
The mind wears hobnailed jackboots,
its tactic to tread with worn cleated soles,
feet stomping through an oneirologist party.
Brief shadows pass silently without speaking,
lurking just on the edge of what is known,
flirting casualties of a long cold forgotten past.
The waiting dark graveyard is full of bodies,
all unwilling embalmed participants caught by life,
I wonder, do they twitch and dream too.
The script is written by a cruel comic mime,
a perverted titular Morpheus goatsucker,
the dual manifestation of the Upanishads.
When at last we hold our breath forever,
will the distant dim beacon of oblivion beckon,
or, will we dream an eternal Dharmic dream.
©2013, Donald Harbour
Far from sky and earth
passing galaxies of neurons
through a vast pallium void
there is a tranquil place
shimmering with rainbow colors
feeding creations’ furnace
a place that beckons
flirting with natures’ meaning,
a place that knows no master
nor is itself a master,
it lies so distant, yet
complete a circle of being
and it is there, barely awake,
incomprehensible, tolerant,
holding within all that can be,
cerebrum volute dreams of forever,
what it knows is unknown,
there to be freely taken, if only
we would open its door.
©2013, Donald Harbour
in a sequence of sensations,
so short-lived, so fleeting,
there is a transient moment,
a haunting reluctance of reality,
an evanescent tug at reason,
a brief, joyous, vision of insanity,
lifting one into an unimaginable scape,
there in a fleeting dream, I saw you,
and knew, that I floated above,
as a clouded ceiling fills the sky,
I felt, omnipotent, limitless,
your outstretched form, below,
stirred, as a butterfly released,
you fluttered into this reverie,
and, captured by the magic
of a shared dream, sparkling,
warm with desire’s hunger,
rising, from the tangled sheets,
on tip toes, reaching toward me ,
then, placing your moist red lips,
on my skin, pressing them gently,
searing my flesh with a biting caress,
the ephemeral became, morning love.
©2012, Donald Harbour
(Ole Doc Harry Manes wrestles with his demons)
Dreams in the world of Neither Now,
Are fleeting glimpses into a place dark and foul.
Where slumber climbs a well-worn stair,
Toward light above clinical despair.
Gosh, is his companion in times of pain,
For in wakefulness or sleep he calls its name.
A sturdy steed in sparkling brace,
Knowing eyes set in a thoughtful face.
Ole Doc Manes battles upon his charge,
With imagined demons hairy, scary and large.
A nightmare joust toward dreaded meet,
On a field where minion other Docs compete.
Far out on the edge of the misty horizon,
Dark knights wait with swords tipped in poison.
Alone but for faithful Gosh astride he waits,
For Hell to open the medical paper gates.
To loose the hounds, ears laid back on matted mane,
To hear their bark with breath of insane.
To see the dark knights armor shimmer in call,
For him to gather up his mace, his pike and maul.
The air is split with battles raucous thunder,
In a start Ole Doc Manes awakes from dream filled slumber.
And sitting there in the gloom alone,
He peers into the room of his castle home.
Listening to the kingdom sounds from without,
He is comforted from the dream caused doubt.
Now the knights of that nightmare play,
Are bared of their armor in the dawning of day.
Maslow, Freud, Rorschach, even you obnoxious Beech,
“I know each of you,” he sighs with relief.
Gathering the magic keyboard from his North Carolina desk,
He smiles his knowing smile full of mirth and jest.
Out goes a message in plain English email,
A formula for success so no psychologist minion will fail.
A tale dreamed briefly for them to aspire,
By a psychologist practiced in making smoke without fire.
“If you need help battling that which you cannot see,
Get in touch with me by fax, direct call, or toll-free.”
Scribbled in characters forming the magical words,
Ole Doc Harry’s thoughts are steeped in adjectives and verbs.
So the incantations will be tested in trial,
He laces the info with Camp Henry intellect and guile.
Yes, the Doc has triumphed with Alfred Adler nosh,
Delivered for psychologists by Doc Manes and his steed “Oh my Gosh.”
©2011, Donald Harbour
This poem is written in the Japanese Haibun style that uses prose and Haiku.
***********************************************************
There is a pessimism about dreams becoming reality. They have a way of turning into monsters. Misshapen gargoyles of the irrational mind. Flagrant compulsions of life past. The journey between bedtime and morning awakening a startled grappling with ogres.
sunset feeding life
dreams catching playful imps
bridge dark and light
The dogs lay at the foot of the bed. Jerking and whimpering in their sleep. What demons wrestle dog sleep? Humans imagine shadows, creaks, a wind blown branch brushing the roof, imagine T-Rex at the front door. A drooling blood thirsting beast. Bone crushing teeth to devour the flesh. The door is never broken inward, no claw footed scaly apparition appears.
find purpose once
blue birds soar on tiny wings
living is no less
Step out onto the somnolence road of night. Coverlets over the head cannot hide the asphalt. Those that have awakened relish the consequence of meeting night monsters. Hug the twilight of the mind’s abyss. A dark plunge into its rebounding depths, purpose to give purpose, exhilarate in knowing sleep is life as it could be provided you do not awaken to it.
oaks have deep root
ocean bottom limitless sky
a fence contains
© 2010, Donald Harbour
I suppose that one day I will wake-up to a bad dream
finding life the effect of a salami on rye sandwich.
You see, in this circus, balancing the flaming debris
of the corpus on the chin will burn you.
Is a bad dream really a metaphor for poor choices,
of leaving, staying, saying, mocking angst?
Or, is it a pyrotechnic pentagram filled with all the magic
and ridiculousness that follows an outcome, as remorse?
We are all zombies trudging through our existence until the door
slams shut on tomorrow and your Melba toast gets soggy.
If I swallow this torched frame of life will I disappear, will tissue
papers of the past become fly ash, smokey wisps to my memory?
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 