Lost in your moment

The blistering heat of summer
has been replaced by
the cool mint of your smile
the rush of day slowed
halted by your gentle breeze
you linger in my thoughts
the wisp of your memory
the manna that feeds me
where the sun is a keen knife
your touch dulls the blade
even in the sweat of a moment
you are a clear mountain pool
a reflection of winter’s beauty
now life sustaining, giving
why were you made perfect
and, why are you among mortals
writing words speaks not of you
only being in your presence
defines your immense treasure
summoning the glory of your love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

The bouquet of your mind

iPod Touch 2G late 2009

Image via Wikipedia

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

Find Your Center

I am speaking
can you hear?
Do you understand
the words spilling
out of my brain?
Have you given
pause to digest?
These fornication of thought
give birth to the gut,
the bastard of reason,
the copulated prodigy of poetry.
Where does the artist live
hidden behind the paper
and the ink of emolument emotion?
Have you received the grape?
This wine soaked emigrant
of despair, quackery of life,
gorged on the sibilance
of others, cannot, will not!
One chokes on the gall
of undigested prose and pontifical
lyrical verse reasoned for the sake
of chronic psychotic cleansing.
Poetry, bullshit, get a life,
read Keats, Poe, Sandburg,
Waldon, find your center.
Find your meaning.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour