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.

Fishing

Sharks and Barracudas always take the bait

she opened and closed
her mouth, a fish
out of water, gasping
for the air of life….
the angler deftly
chummed the moment:

“I did not do what
you wanted, because,
I did not want to do it!”

a ripple on the placid surface
of mental juxtaposition,
chanced dead reckoning
into an attitudinal tidal wave,
a fornication of latitude,
the belaying pin clubbing of
a constipated personal dilemma,
hooked, gutted, cleaned, and,
oh so… delicious to devour,
verbal sake soaked sashimi,
commented and parsed
on a sinker leaded  line….
a dysfunctional relationship
cast into the depths, it is
a soon to be swallowed
dangling morsel of raw fleshy
articulated…..bait.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Old men paint in winter

For my friend Wayne, displaying his painting talents on canvas in far Northwest Canada.
*******

Where Wayne creates and paints.

It is said that old men paint in winter,
Remembering warmer times, years,
Winter is not kind to bones and joints,
But winter does not really know old men,
There lies with in their soul an acceptance,
A reflection upon invested years of age,
The knowledge of journey and time,
Theirs is an awareness of that march,
A travail, a struggle to their goal,
Old men know what those lesser do not,
Life takes more than it gives,
Life watches, waiting for it’s moment,
It is the jester of their childish follies,
A trap door to be sprung without warning,
Their life, words, and painted pictures, leftovers,
The satisfaction of having been at the table,
How will they be remembered, these old men,
Viewed in the springs of their youth,
Interpretation of life on canvas,
Accumulated tablets of poetry,
How will winter remember them,
And, when your cold dark night comes,
What will you paint in your winter.

©2011, Donald Harbour