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
Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.
As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.
Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.
The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.
Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.
Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.
Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.
Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.
I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.
Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Thy prickly canes!
Rose,
you have stems of beauty,
a fragrant blossom of love,
red garnished and velvet lipped.
Thou art a wonder of life,
and yet a thorny conundrum,
guarded by thy prickly canes,
all the while beckoning.
Your magic perfume consumes me,
thus its musky allure invites.
You have but to present yourself,
and so, to your occasion I respond,
for you, patulous pretty, my erotic heart,
rose.
©2012, Donald Harbour
I lay among the thorns of life but do not feel the pain, for the sweetness of it's beauty is the salve that blunts each stabbing prick.
The garden knows the direction!
Each morning the flowers face the east,
brandishing blossoms like out stretched arms,
praising the arrival of the sun below the trees.
The flowers know God and he, she, it,
knows them. Their fragrance the scent
of sweet creation, perfume from their souls.
Heady splashes of color shout the joy of
rootedness and purpose. While they sleep
in winter they plan and write their
canticles to silently chant them in spring.
Now I stand with them and feel the warmth
of my creator’s blessing, painting my face
with golden light, drawing me to the earth’s bosom.
How did the flowers come to remember that
which humans have so long ago forgotten?
©2012, Donald Harbour
It’s Earth Day, remember our mother, Gaea.
For you my love.
This flower began as a single bud,
Small but strong and true,
Nurtured by the roots of life,
It became a rose stem and grew.
Wrapped tight against outside harm,
Its petals formed and flourished,
The tender care of mother nature,
A promise to protect and nourish.
It is a symbol of the love we share,
All the things out of love you do.
It is a promise that my heart is yours,
That my forever Valentine is you.
©2011, Donald Harbour
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
Donald Harbour Poetry 