Days glide quietly by, so easily,
Worn as comfortable slippers,
Caressing a journey of tired, aching feet,
The compounded sum, of yet another year,
Pages in a seasonal tome, published
In the confetti of autumn,
Each year another chapter,
An incomplete record of events,
Becoming as ancient etchings, inked
Upon life’s papyrus, casting
About for reason, for time.

©2016, 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