This old house

Forever, an old house has stood in a field,
A grey silent sentinel ghost of the past,
It stands consumed by the morning fog,
Leaning imperceptibly, it is unperturbed,
The house knows its value, its purpose remains,
People may forget history, the house will not,
Lives passed through  its doors and rooms,
Children once scampered and played on its porch,
Lazy hounds escaped the summer heat there,
How many meals were cooked in its kitchen,
What joy gathered there in its dining room,
It has seen men go off to war, never returning,
It has heard the moan of birthing pain,
Then, swelling with the cries of a newborn,
Silenced, Sunday hymns once sang its song,
Where old men whittled, a possum or two live,
A tree is growing up  though the porch floor,
Now forlorn, passed by, it is indistinguishable,
Time is swallowing it year upon year,
That boundless cavern has eaten its heart,
Its eyes to the outside world hollow, glass-less,
The house will slowly collapse into the earth,
While it stands, it holds the vault of memories,
But, just as the house, memories die with time too,
When they are gone, only the debris of life remains.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Knees speak

My parts are wearing out,
The joints crackle and creak a bit,
Sounding as rusting door hinges,
Squeaking or aching or both at once.
The knees are the most vociferous,
The two old hounds won’t hunt,
Though, they do incessantly bark,
A constant mellow resonant growl,
Protesting, but not too loudly.
Their desire, not running anymore,
A connoisseur’s preference to sit,
Then constantly grumbling about sitting.
Saggy eared weather prognosticators,
Craving a warm fire in winter,
Then a soothing ice pack in summer.
So, I force them to take a daily walk,
Just so they will not become too lazy,
Lazy and fat and cantankerous.
These old dogs are trusted friends,
They have known my every step,
Every love, pain, disappointment and, vice.
At times I have been unkind to them,
Banging them through life, but
They persist, tagging along.
I am grateful for their attention.
Appreciative of their every scar,
Amused by their journey’s story.
And, when for the last time,
I rest upon satin sheets,
They too will lie down with me,
Trapped in an eternal slumber,
Finally, ignoring a season’s change,
Silenced to their complaints.
Together, three raggedy tramps of time,
Becoming fading fodder for the ages.

©2013, Donald Harbour

The old man

A January wind
Caught the old man
Clasping withered limbs
Breaking his bones
Exposing sockets
Glaring fresh scars
Over scattered remains.

©2013, 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