Etymology of the Heart

Deep down inside of me,
a question lingers, languishing.
Which heart will I have today?
That muscle that contracts,
The one that pumps life, or
The one that aches, and waits.
Playing the jester to hearten
these heartless hours, comically
synchronizing each heartbeat.
Ticktock of this life’s clock,
it is folly to believe the song of heartstrings
could capture the fire of desire.
So I wait for the masters’ decision,
its heart-to-heart prognostication,

©2019, Donald Harbour

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Testimony

I have watched, listened, experienced,
Pondered to learn from contradictions,
Those gaps, the teachers in a man’s life .

There are glaring misconceptions,
The folly of blatant mental posturing,
Delusional justifications trying to define a man.

They are misguided, shortsighted,
Easily manipulated, injected,
The vinegar of male inoculation.

These vocal dystopian needlers,
Miserable knife wielding neuters,
Harpies ingesting the food of manhood.

Some would saddle the horse, ride him,
Use the crop until his strength stumbles,
But, no man is anyone’s beast of burden.

Some may think this folly of conjecture,
But, it bears the soul of Occam,
Simply put, we are what we are.

Acceptance is a harsh reality, truth,
The granite laid by life’s history,
It is the blame game between sexes.

Wasted posturing, justifying microniches,
The piddling prattling of want-a-be’s,
Never reaching the stature of a man.

Even a male praying mantis, comfortable,
Feeling safe in his exoskeleton,
Until an unsatisfied female mantis devours him.

Let your light shine

Damnation is laid in the belly of our fears,
humankind’s quaking horror of everlasting darkness.
Those tiny hairs that first herald a breeze,
the same ones that motivate our souls to scream
alarm us as we are beckoned, peering into the unknown.
There is no choice in the matter, no bargain,
A Cararra trimmed portal cannot stay the nightmare,
No amount of Psalms, incantations, blessings,
no prayers, meditation, or pious beliefs,
nothing will stay that voyage into that gloom,
except, the immutable light of ones spirit.
Let it shine, hold it forth, brighten
each day, each person and all creatures with it.
A sempiternal bit of creation connecting us
with our creator, a beacon to guide us home.
There is no gloaming to our night, only
that warm sunset of welcome shining at journey’s end.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Truth

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly ambitious thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods.

Now, none remain to crash through
the nubile trees of life, only
a slumbering mountain of aged bones.

There is no stench of their decay,
these giants, though their dried husks
have littered the path of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

The small things unnoticed until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows
piercing the flesh reaching into the heart.

The trivia of being a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances opportunities.

Count not the past nor the future,
for they exist only in memory, count
the moment, the only truth, a brief reality.

©2018, Donald Harbour

Simba

Watch carefully the path you casually tread,
for silently, I am intently watching you,
each step you take heard, and noted.

You may hide in a rustling grove of trees
however that will do no good for you,
nor will the gently waving grass hide you.

There is no help to call, no savior,
to rise up and thwart my advance,
there is only you and I, soon to be one.

That tawny ripple in the midday sunlight,
it is I devouring the seconds and minutes
until our journey meets in the dust of today.

You should know I have waited for you,
it is on the gentle breeze your musk rode,
a tingling arousal of my senses announced you.

Do not fear me, give in to this chance moment,
opportunity made us companions for our dalliance,
desire’s craving the hunger that feeds this kismet.

We each have a place in this life, to give and to take,
defined by an evolving chain of living and dying.
I feel no malice, we are both prisoners to our birth.

You will be an honor to my ancient royalty,
For I am Simba, King of the Jungle, and you,
are a delicious irony for my kingdom’s table.

©2018, Donald Harbour

 

 

 

Damned to live

It is oh, so subtle,
No remark, no words said,
A slight shifting of the eyes,
A movement of the shoulders,
An unfinished breathe,
These slight adjustments change us.
I know you, I can see you,
I am drawn into your aura,
A quirk of conversation,
The words drift aimlessly.
No connection to the moment,
It is miss direction, a slight of hand,
This is all a magic show, nothing,
Nothing in our future,
Will over come this passing.
The bond between becomes broken,
Memories crumble,
They are foundations built on sand,
Yet you persist,
Always the fanatical true believer,
And I, a skeptic lover knowing that,
I am damned to live in your lies.

©2018, Donald C. Harbour

Worn Shoes

I dreamed of a night with stars above,
millions of other dreamers stood about me,
each shod with life’s tired worn shoes,
toeing the edge of a decaying precipice,
the shore to crossing the river Styx,
light, darkness – salvation, damnation,
is destiny mapped or do we have a choice,
when will we leave this path, to face
the calamity of our ultimate fate,
how are we ascribed in the book of life,
some say it is not for us to know,
is the scything dark angel  the only choice,
a life snuffed by the world’s insanity,
religious fervor screaming “God is great,”
there, now you have the arbiter,
it is emblazoned on every particle,
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,”
the wafer is stale, the wine is vinegar,
the priest has dirty finger nails,
rivers of blood ooze from the Bible,
from the Quran, from every word,
from every holy book ever written,
from the lifeless lips of children,
from the souls of mothers, fathers,
from the heart of self-righteous nations,
from the bowels of despots and bigots,
every opus a tome of contradiction
from which there is no salvation,
the beast of dogma opens its greedy maw,
all will be consumed by their beliefs,
the only contribution to their shrill voices,
a mountain of unlaced tired worn shoes.

©2017, Donald Harbour