A guest in lavender

Someone has arrived with spring,
A gangly girl cast in a lavender hue,
She sojourns at the garden gate,
Positioning her whimsy there,
Her want to protect the portal,
My wife has unfounded jealousy,
She says this spindly guest mocks,
Though she has not spoken, she clings,
Rearranging the wooden fence tactfully,
I find her a rather refreshing temptress,
Sliding beneath the crocus and rose,
Her gown of green lifted, baring,
Leggy female of Mother Earth,
You have interrupted my plans,
How can I but love you, my sweet,
Unwelcome beauty, euphonious Wisteria.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour


One night

One night in the late moody spring,
when the humid air lay as a shadow,
a cosmetic darkness lit only by fireflies,
through a garden window lattice, I saw you.
With smoky eyes a solitary, sultry woman,
cradled by I know not what, though
I felt that deep beneath your breasts
an Andalusian Palos held your beating heart,
its rhythm a sensuous dance of Gitanos.
There seemed to be a sigh upon your lips,
Perhaps a whisper, or an invitation,
An intent that you were want to speak.
Did a past of secrets bind your tongue,
Guiltless life lived without love,
A treasure of a soul’s stored jewels,
Unspent, saved for life’s one truth.
There was nothing that could be said,
Not enough words to express you,
The old masters painted women in your image,
Capturing the essence for all to behold.
And then, you were gone, leaving a void,
Now every night I come here again, and again,
Waiting in the shadows in the garden,
The fireflies have gone to bed, but
there is memory and the latticed window,
and mind cast upon the glass,your vision
One night in the late moody spring.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Thy prickly canes

Thy prickly canes!

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,

©2012, Donald Harbour

Flowers remember

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.

A humble pomegranate

My apology to those of you who view the pomegranate with religious significance, to me it is a lime in sheep skin. So here is a brief, albeit translucent, historical homily to this distasteful little Middle Eastern shrub.


There are over 700 varieties of pomegranate. The one I prefer is Cosmoplitan Martini.

There is loathing or liking
toward the humble pomegranate,
plum of the east,
globe from the desert sands.
Its refreshing juices
a tart invasion of the mouth,
muhamara slathered on pita,
aradana for the bowl of rice.
Chew and suck upon the arils
nested in the pulp creation,
adorning the crown and capital,
of Jachin and Boaz.
The righteousness Mitzvot fruit
carried in the robe of the Ephod,
rider on the rimmonim,
here the forbidden of the Garden.
The fatal fruit of Persephone
captive to Hades bidding,
you Sah the soul of Osiris,
the calyx of mighty Hera.
Let it be you in my kollyva
nurturing, succulent, life giving,
broken and bursting,
the symbol of the resurrection.
Growing in the gardens of Paradise
your blossoms bejewel the air,
the image of prosperity and fertility,
Loved by Bhoomidevi and Bijapuraphalasakta.
For thousands of years worshiped
as a treasure of beginnings and endings,
a leather skinned malum punicum,
behold, you are but a humble pomegranate.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Thou art a strumpet faire

This piece is written in the form of an Elizabethan (Shakespearean) Sonnet. It is the simplest and most flexible pattern of all sonnets, consisting of 3 quatrains of alternating rhyme and a couplet. The sonnet  was inspired by  Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra.


Oh thou bitterest fruit
Thee that claim mine emptied heart.
By my troth upon Pans lute,
Pray thee, hast thou a chart,
I would that thou didst take thy path,
‘Ods me, ’twere but returned,
Thief thee be for that thou hath,
A fortnight morrow my soul be burned,
Life begone, I crave your pardon,
Fie me, little wench ye pretty toed,
An it please thee I recline in thy garden,
Where I thank thee for pleasure owed,
This heart returned by a strumpet faire,
Thy kiss to seal hearts dalliance there.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour