The wonder to roam this golden furrow

When I was a young man,
I ventured to the grain
shaped cave of heavens door.
There the lotus flower
of desire became the grotto
of the white tigers cavern.
Nestled in this hidden pocket,
I found the gift of life,
a sea shell that held a red pearl.
Its priceless treasure house was
the antechamber to a tender trap.
We all are consumed by our minds myth,
however, where the two rivers meet,
where flows a dripping delta, exists
a golden doorway to an everlasting
seat of pleasure, a blessing
from the god’s temple of love.
Ah, the exquisite joy, the elation,
the wonder to roam this golden furrow.
To pleasure in its mystery, ancient,
the inner terrace to existence.
Some of you will know of what
I speak, others will only read,
uncomprehending, oblivious to this
jade gate, this tunnel to tomorrow,
this giver of life, this creator,
this succulent apricot goddess, this
female crucible to the door of creation.
You have but to love and it will be opened.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

First crack full of sand

When I was six
my family went to Pensacola.
I loved the ocean,
The crash of the waves,
the seashells, bikinis,
the smell of suntan oil,
the scent of the women.
That’s when I got my first
crack full of sand, and
understood why the girls
were joyfully squealing.
The pleasure of it all,
the compacted joy of sand
scrubbing the erotica
between your legs.
Eeehhhhhhhhhhh!
As I grew older I found
more entertaining pleasures.
Slow dancing at the Jaycee Teen Town,
sweaty, butch wax duck-tailed hair,
unforgiving layers of petticoats,
the over use of Chanel number 5,
Clearasil, moon pies with RC Cola,
Pabst Blue Ribbon, copping a feel,
penny loafers, pack of Lucky Strikes, and
desire rubbing hard up against desire.
Oohhhhhhhhhhhh!
College years were complicated.
I was a spring buck in heat,
quantum copulation in the backseat,
breathless fondling expression,
whispered promises to break.
Woodstock, bra burners, free love,
girls without innocence,
consequential satisfaction,
that potent release.
Aaahhhhhhhhhhh!
But time plays a mirthful game,
pulling away the layered onion
of age, the mark of the years,
making a living, satisfying
the man, the big kahuna.
The shaving of obligation,
the dues collector paid,
screw yourself the common gratification.
The postmortem of Vietnam,
chaos theory imposed by Old Charter.
Iiieeeeeeeeeee!
That leaves only the thought of
what was, the ego of who,
the id of what is, the sensual,
pulsing, erotic, clamor for the whole.
The part hidden to youth by
the discrimination of age.
Driven by the pull of experience,
the itch of sand, slow dances, backseats,
ecstasy in a world of derivative pleasure,
knowing all this is life’s warp and woof.
Founded in the assurance of the past,
there is only one sound left, only one vowel,
the melancholy plenary discomfort of the future,
it is: “Uuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

That is enough

I can see your heart in your face,
A golden haze of pulsating pleasure,
Drowsy love of the night lingers,
You are its scent, an apricot moon,
The sweet spice of candied ginger,
This single moment atones for all,
All life’s pains, disappointments,
You lift up the spirit, buoyant,
Held aloft by Nirvana’s fingers,
There is no earth, no heaven,
No space or time or purpose,
There is you…and, that is enough.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour