Mirrors

mirrors are shameless
static plates of glass
renouncing the reality of image
a reflection cast as if
the reflected is magic
on the hard surface
specks dot the glare
streaks of water droplets
smudged finger prints
there randomly placed
gouging the clarity of the eye
a shot of Windex cleans
but it does not change
the visage as viewed
most find mirrors damaging
but then the eyes transform
seeing only the good qualities
lesser dimensions discarded
answering what we want to see
not the indigestible of what is
somewhere on the other side
where its magic resides
we are all being observed
not for beauty of form
not for the warts and moles
nor chemically whitened teeth
or grace of dress and makeup
those unseen others are there
searching the hidden places
recording the deeds of a life
watching for the cracks
the varnish of age presents
waiting until it is the hour
to unlock the shackled passages
opening that tiny place in the heart
that vaulted room of self where
we sit in a chair of destiny
releasing the fragile soul
into infinite cosmic consciousness

©2011, Donald Harbour

I can not see me

I looked in the mirror this morning,
I did not recognize the face reflected.
During a dream, or was it reality,
The layers of my life began to shed.
Bit by bit, skin by skin, memory by memory,
They all fell away as petals leave a flower.
Scattered and crushed on the soul’s floor,
Trod over into pulp, into shriveled pieces.
The mirrored person is staring sardonically at me,
A look of wonderment, amusement, or anguish.
I cannot tell, I cannot say, I cannot think,
Stunned by the stubble revealed, stalks of life.
There is a morphing in that callow face,
A presence that moves shadowed so slightly.
It is the bared essence of what I was,
Molded into what I’ve become, what I am.
All the years have chiseled at my stone,
Cover upon cover of fine particles, dust.
It is just a reflection in a mirror, but,
This reflection questions: “Is it you or me?”

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour