I am crowing for you

Morning is prying at my eyelids,
a nagging beggar demanding my attention.
It’s begging bowl gray clouds scudding,
held in the palm of a chilly autumn wind,
the rim loudly banging on the front door.
Somewhere a rooster offered a raspy croak,
a half hearted cock-a-doodle-do,
not a pleasant prospect of events.
You were buried in the cotton covers,
a wall of bricks plastered with blankets,
I feeling a conjugal urge to merge.
The rooster rules the rooster’s roust, but
there is a barnyard hierarchy, pecking order,
one’s order deduced by the clucking hens,
the mares nips at the stud, sows
nudge the boar away from the tough,
the bull levies his interest subtly,
modulated to the cows seasonal expectation.
You are not that tolerant, judgmental,
you are a woman ruled by the unknown.
I a furnace of heat, you a chasm of ice,
would, that you would thaw, melt into me,
then, hear my full throat cock-a-doodle-do.

©2015, Donald Harbour

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Morning in the South

I arose this morning –
the dawn silently tip toeing,
across the sleeping dark horizon.

Bare stark branches of trees,
gatekeepers of the coming day,
beseech the horns of Luna to stay.

Night has left behind diamonds
glittering, strung across the ground,
a gift for the coming spring.

Tendrils of fireplace smoke waft
with the musky clear, crisp air,
a ritual offering to the hearth.

Fluffy feathered birds chirp awake,
shaking the cold from drowsy beaks,
tenors tuning up for their work.

A distant hound speaks its mind,
announcing another glorious
morning in the American South.

This magical moment of wakening,
carries the heritage of time,
of past and present, of tomorrows.

It touches the soul, the heart,
with things that are gentle reminders
of what it means to be a Southerner.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

Greeting a winter morning

The alarm twitters on the night stand,
Window panes are glazed frosty dark,
A winter drizzle fogs the morning,
It is a  rolling mist of chilled foreboding,
With metallic mouths  we greet each other,
Peering from beneath hay stack tousled hair,
Another day reveals itself as a comic,
I listen to the patio wind chimes sing,
They are temple bells calling for meditation,
Although together we harvest the years,
The feeling is that life will never end,
Mornings are the heralds of continued love,
Blurred promises to honor the day,
It expands chrysanthemum tendrils of light,
The window still casts its non-commitment,
So we turn away from its fractal vision,
Inward to the home, to coffee, and each other.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The bond with the soil

Spider Web

A spider guarding her diamonds.

It is one of those mornings, when
the cool night has mated, with
the moisture laden autumn  air.
A southerly breeze pushes, licking
the field heads of dry grain, nudging
a rustling chorus from the stalks.
Fairy wings dance in the light, gems
sparkling in dawn’s first rays, bubbling
effervescent beads on spider webs.
Movement stirs the smell of life, piquant
aspic of the rolling earth’s bosom, inhaled
to nurture the soul and give food to reason.
It is one of those moments unspoken, planted
deep in the bonding fibers of being, defining
from this soil we came and to it we return.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Write here, now

A simple thing, morning,
The dawn peeks across the horizon,
Purple, orange and grey hued.
Morning clears its throat,
Spitting out the new day,
Its smell carried on a breeze,
Fresh rose scented, moist,
Kissing the open window screen.
Sounds begin to drift in,
The daylight’s foundations:
A baby cries, dogs bark,
An alarm clock speaks, then
A plaintive, “Get up, get up!”
There on my desk,
A cup of coffee steams,
Vapor tails course the air,
I have started my engine,
Waiting for takeoff time.
On the magic carpet monitor,
A poetry blog flickers to life,
Its pixelated prompt challenge,
“Write here, now,” it says.
A simple thing, yet,
There I sit in my underwear,
My left shoulder hurts,
The lower back throbs,
The right knee aches,
The gym free weights call.
My mouth tastes metallic,
Awakening’s first warning savored
I feel anxious…no, I feel compelled.
The table top is strewn with interests,
Pencils, pens, paper, pastel chalk,
An unfinished paper on alien abductions,
Snakes of computer wires writhe,
Books press backs against the wall,
A work area scattered with bills.
They too are simple things, but
Each screams to be noticed,
Demanding,  “write here, immortalize me!”
I am conflicted by choices, responsibilities,
However, they will have to wait,
My bladder has arrived in the “now!”

©2011, Donald Harbour

Pounding on the door of dawn

Morpheus, Phantasos and Iris, by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, 1811 God of dreams

how does one know
they are truly awake
is it physical awareness
the sensation of being
is life a reality or
a temporal construct
a cloning of vision
thrust into the open mouth
of a screaming newborn
are we part of a Matrix
life forces harvested
sucked from our bodies
existing for an alien
indifferent satisfaction
somewhere between awakening
and sleep lies the truth
that one infinitesimal moment
when dreaming a breath or
actually taking one
pulls us into this world
yanking us from oblivion
some never wake-up to life
in that deep forever sleep
will we dream we are awake
or be satisfied to sleep
in the arms of eternity
my encapsulated self yells
pounding on the door of dawn
I thrive for morning wakefulness
treasuring the early hours
thankful that I have survived
to enjoy one more day in this
marvelous fantastic life.

©2011  Donald Harbour