Words to live by

However many holy words you read,
however many you speak,
what good will they do you
if you do not act on upon them?
Whatever words we utter
should be chosen with care
for people will hear them and
be influenced by them for good or ill.
Better than a thousand hollow words,
is one word that brings peace.
In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west;
people create distinctions out of their own minds
and then believe them to be true.
The way is not in the sky,
the way is in the heart.
A jug fills drop by drop.
Every human being is the author
of his own health or disease.
To understand everything
is to forgive everything.
In a controversy the instant we feel anger
we have already ceased striving for the truth,
and have begun striving for ourselves.
No one saves us but ourselves,
no one can and no one may,
we ourselves must walk the path.

This poem is written with the words of a man named Siddhārtha Gautama, the Buddha. I am not a Buddhist however if one were to internalize his words, they would change that persons life forever. It is that simple. May they bring you reflection and peace.

©2015, Donald Harbour

A gift: Twelve Words for Christmas

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Love knows no season, no gender, no race, no form, or countenance. It is a universal feeling that permeates the soul transcending time and place. It is the one word no one can truly live without.

Humanity is the essence of the Christmas spirit expressed in kindness, goodwill and benevolence, no matter what religion practiced or language spoken, it transcends the evil in life.

Perseverance guides us all in our chosen path, though fraught with difficulties, it gives the traveler a steady persistence in a course of action and purpose in spite of obstacles and discouragement.

Respect is often forgotten in relations, not only in esteem for the worth of others, but also as a manifestation of personal quality and ability; respect others as you would wish others to respect you.

Character is the building blocks of a person forming the aggregate of traits that define the nature of an individual, it is a compilation of all the good things and stalwartness of who you are.

Peace resurrects the passion for living among persons existing as a state of mutual harmony, its satisfaction allows the security of being and the joy of all things good in this world.

Fraternity does not relate to a group of men but rather the brotherhood and sisterhood shared by all human beings without regard to station in life or purpose, it is the quality that binds us all to one another.

Family is why we are here whether dwelling together or separated by generations, it is what identifies each one of us in the vast sea of existence calling to us across miles and ages to be a part of something greater.

Spirituality has value, not necessarily for religion, but for the contentment found in our acceptance of the unseen that is felt, rather than seen, in the universality of all creation.

Bravery is in all of us giving us the strength of conviction with courage to face the unknown, the mettle to place ourselves between on rushing events or things and the weak and helpless, it is the conduct that some call heroism but in truth is being human.

Honesty will help you find freedom from deceit dealing you fairness through sincerity and truthfulness, qualities that cause trust in a person and of others whose paths we cross.

Happiness is the biggest gift of all and is the culmination of everything, a magical word providing good fortune, pleasure, contentment and joy, for without it we have not succeeded in being what we were meant to be.

Be happy, be grateful, and allow yourself to love and be loved. Merry Christmas.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Holiday poetic prose

As a non-hibernating human being there is a time when in my existence I lay dormant in a shadowy malaise, as it were, a condition that transcends my true nature causing me to be a grumpy misfit among sun worshipers and barbecue bimbos as I have never seen the value in frying ones epidermis to a pork rind in the infra red blast furnace of ole Sol’s rays.

My arousal arrives with each day’s sunset beginning a little earlier and with the tree leaves shuddering to fall from their perch in a frosty apoplectic form anticipating re-birthing in the coming spring with a rather unwelcome death that coats the yard by their cast off carcasses leaving spindly shadows on a rather well manicured carpet of green.

However, autumn and winter herald scrumptious tables of Thanksgiving dining with friends and family, bright multicolor lights reflected in the eyes of joyful children, and glittering Christmas trees surrounded by gayly wrapped presents which are those things that energize me from somnolence into a jolly jig dancing Fantasia footed fool, ain’t it grand.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Grandma

Every morning, looking out the window,
clad in a thread bare chenille house coat,
she watches.

She is an unseen companion to memory.
A diminutive figure stooped from ninety
years of life, of waiting. Yet she
stands there with a slight tremor
in her hands and watches.

Her thin legs coursed with purple veins
end in feet planted in terry cloth slippers,
they are the best she has.

From somewhere in her head shrouded
by a silver-grey cloud of hair,
visions of the past play in her mind.
A kaleidoscope of good times, youth, and love.
Feelings of joy and sadness.
A pantheon of life treasures.

Today she forgot her teeth but a smile is there,
on her lips and in her eyes.
Some might think her a fool smiling, never speaking.
Occasionally blinking or with her tongue
wetting thin cracked lips.

She leans closer to the window,
her slight breath leaves a fog of moisture on the pane.
She does not know that she has out lived
her man and her children. She was the one
that gave their home a heart. The truth for
her is that they are out there somewhere
playing or working.

And so, remembering, she watches,
waiting for their return home to her
and to the comfort of her love.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Live, love, work, play and eat in the South

I like my cracklin’ cornbread
eaten with a pot of pinto beans,
and a pan of salt pork cooked with
collard, poke, and turnip greens.
I like my chicken fried in butter,
served with mash sweet potatoes too,
a baked white onion pie and
slow cooked Brunswick venison stew.
I like my Mallard duck roasted
stuffed with Arkansas wild rice,
for dessert a steamed bread pudding
and orange sauce is mighty nice.
I like to pick my peaches
off my granny’s lone peach tree,
put them in a brown sugar cobbler
and have a pitcher of sun brewed iced tea.
I like to pick yellow sweet corn,
and eat it raw right off the stalk,
have dinner with friends and kinfolk,
and long summer evening porch talk.
I like my smoked bacon sliced thick,
in its grease my eggs turned over easy,
or scrambled with last falls souse,
that is if it won’t make you queasy.
I like catfish cooked in cornmeal
with coleslaw, pickles and bread,
a moon pie and an RC cola,
a shady place to nap after I’m fed.
I like….no, I love cayenne peppers,
eaten every meal fresh off the vine,
or orange habeneros and serranos,
pickled in vinegar, saltwater and wine.
I like a bowl of wilted lettuce,
fried pork chops and blackeyed peas,
a pan of milk gravy and biscuits
dipped in the syrup of wild honey bees.
I like my thick buttermilk to have
golden flakes floating on its top,
and mom’s toasted molasses bran bread
with redeye gravy in the skillet to sop.
I like my coffee brewed black and strong
in our 100 year old percolator pot,
Aunt Mabel’s cinnamon buns from the oven,
when they are still steamy and hot.
I like each year’s bounty of our fields,
a true pleasure for anyone’s mouth,
but most of all I like the way we live, love,
work, play, and eat, in the good Old American South.

Now, y’all come for dinner, ya hear?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

We are what we have been

Great Grandmother Francis Elizabeth Blasingame painting, age 14, ca. 1856.

The lines of life diverge,
Crisscrossed paths of breath,
Entwined fingers of the past,
A scrapbook collage to the future.
The ancestors wait to be found,
Furtive scribbled lines in books,
A birth, a marriage, baptism, burial.
Who are you to ask who am I?
Dig deeper into the yellowed pages.
Horse thief, laborer, carriage maker,
Farmers, housewives, soldiers, MIA.
Holding a hand before your face,
The skin has belong to so many,
What will you pass on to the next?
Kindred, owner, user, chromosome?
The DNA of yesteryear a burden,
The crushing weight of evolution,
A contribution to the pool of existence.
And yet, we are what we have been.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour