So mote it be

Today, spoke I to a man old in the woods,
spoke of stones in the dark forest,
stones that knew of humankind and time,
spoke of ancient age before now.
before what we have written,
spoke of before what we call known,
these stones mottled with aeons,
weathered by the earth and its work,
these stones remembered and watched,
remembered and spoke of past before,
these scribes of the giant cataclysms,
watching the ancients descend to earth,
eyes of granite open to the past,
watching the unfolding of the future,
knowing what passed would again be,
watching the sons of soil in greedy toil,
brethren to the manna of Mother Earth,
descendent of the distant stars,
brethren to the woodland creatures,
now unknowing of who or what they were,
brethren of the stones, woods, water,
I am you, you are I, we are eternity,
spoke these watching brethren,
and thus the Gods said so mote it be.

©2014, Donald Harbour

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Someone made a mistake

there must have been a mistake
a quirk of an evolutionary misstep
somewhere between the beginning
and tomorrow there is only its existence
a creature on a bumbling journey
foolishly looking for its holy grail
searching for reason to why it has life
it is the futility of the species
a diagnosis of disastrous history
its guidance the contradiction of self
indecisive in its differences
hostile to its grand possibilities.
its character an abomination of nature
blinded by the wickedness of religion
it assaults the walls of diversity
clamors for the destruction of intellect
it has a myopic understanding of reality
it is a moral oxymoron conundrum
this pestilence of nature humankind.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Is there a perfect word

Is there a perfect word,
one that is the plum of meaning?
A word wrapped in the husk of reason.
Is there a word that is the vassal
of life’s sleep-walking dream?
Syllables coated with a confection
of sweet memories sugar cookie?
Find an arrangement of the alphabet
that the multitude will accept,
hold the letters to the limelight
of poetry, extend and stretch them
beyond the meter of scofflaw pretenders,
the pedant writers of verse
trying to be hip, or, those that
conform to a convention of acceptance.
A word that tastes like honeyed red clover
blossoms in the mouth when spoken?
This word, does it remedy the ignorance
of narrow minded religious politic?
Can it nourish the hungry soul longing
for the spoken salvation of humankind.
This perfect word, this pittance of cost
to speak, to think, to place in the
felt bottomed silver offertory plate
of scrutiny, this word does it have weight?
Will it stop wars, soothe pain, press
love into the heart, mend transgressions,
will it last past tomorrow, can it exist
in a future without a future?
This word, is it so simple, so complete, so
very powerful that it is mirrored in every
reflection of everyday, in every adversity?
This perfect word does it carry a universe
of meaning, conflicts, and contradictions.
Is there a word that completes the circle
of creation, defining a closure to the gaping
maw of a god’s imagined invention.
Is there such a perfect word?
Yes! The word is, and always has been…you.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour