A lonely night walk home

A path across stone laid earth
Is the shortest path to home,
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only lonely spirits roam.

In late October a frosty chill
Cast dead leaves upon the ground.
Sycamores stand with boney branch,
Here only deathly silence abounds.

One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place.
The graveyard of embalmed bodies,
Where their lives lost the final race.

It is known, as it has always been
Some spirits are want to never leave.
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation as they grieve.

Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.

Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance,
Imagined rags dance in the dank night air.

You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.

It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.

Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Is it only just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?

©2015, Donald Harbour

That smell

it is recorded in a brain cell
that one particular scent
the bouquet of it stains
as wine on a linen dress
an ambrosia of memory
carrying its own fetidness
that stench awakens consciousness
a cloddish backhand of the past
one only need savor its tang
the rankness of remembrance
is not the perfume of passion
nor the musk of desire
no it is the foulness of battle
searing nostril burning smoke
the odor of fear of stale sweat of pain
the stink of the jungle
the rancidness of the rotting earth
all nature returning to dust
the sounds can be dismissed but
never the malodorous carcass of death
an unwanted smirch upon life
the vial is opened so easily
bacon cooking on the stove
the smell of a gun oil rag
acrid Fourth of July fireworks
a red fluid reeking of iron
road kill baking in the sun
the obscenity permeates the nose
that offending orifice of breath
then like a passing bullet
it is gone until some noisome finger
pulls that mentally stored trigger
to fire that one overpowering sense
wounded by the mind again

©2011, Donald Harbour

A walk down a darkened path

"Phantasma" graphic art by Donald Harbour

A path across stone laid ground
Is the shortest path to home.
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only haunted spirits roam.

In late October as a frosty chill
Lays dead leaves upon the ground,
Sycamores standing bony branched
In deathly silence do abound.

One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place,
The graveyard of coffined corpses
Laid where life lost its final race.

It is known as it has always been
Some spirits are wont to never leave,
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation they grieve.

Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.

Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling, that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance
And imagined rags dance in the cold night air.

In the distance a bell tower chimes,
The beginning of All Hallows Ween,
When things one has never noticed
Become real and thus are seen.

You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.

It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.

Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Or is it just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Do you fear to be human?

When I walk down a street,
I know people are looking at me.
But then I am looking at them,
you see that look is a trade off.
I look them in the eyes, and smile,
it is amusing to see their embarrassment.
Why do people look at each other
as if they are alien beings, strangers?
It’s as if a force field is erected
by a simple stare, a glance, a look.
A barrier of barb wire metaphysical
hands pushing out of the eye sockets.
Get back, stay away, I am dangerous,
leave me alone, don’t touch, back off!
I saw man laying in the gutter,
draped between two cars, he was bleeding.
People did not look, they turned away.
The compassion in humanity is so fragile,
it only exists when it is selfishly needed.
An old lady spills her groceries,
the sidewalk hoodlums scoop and run away.
They have not only stolen her sustenance,
they have given their soul to hell.
Don’t get involved, don’t stop, only look
when the threat is a warning, a facade.
There is fear in them, those that only look.
Fear of who they really are, who they
will never be, what they can never achieve.
Fear to be human! Why is that, when we are,
human?

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour