Death of poets

We are all scattered,
autumn leaves cast before the wind,
scraping across the face of time.

We are all scattered,
Remembered only in the past,
lost to scribbled words uttered in silence.

We are all scattered,
Drifting beggars in poetic rags,
a dispersal for unremembered causes.

We are all scattered,
become tribe of wandering word smiths no more,
rocks pounded to dust by digital prose.

©2019, Donald Harbour

These shoes

what feet have walked in these shoes,
where have they traveled untold miles,
have they trod a hot dusty plantation road,
bruised and burdened by years of burden,
have they felt the blisters of the field,
the pain of the long hoed furrow,
what misery have they withstood, these shoes
wading the rising stream of history,
stumbling across conflict’s slippery rocks,
crossing the granite steps of destiny,
have they trampled over barbwire,
heard the whistle of bullets, death’s sting,
their soles sodden and soaked in blood,
tripping on the remains of fallen heroes,
have they followed the path of freedom,
marching in the name of righting wrong,
washed by the fire hose of ignorant bigotry,
what do these shoes know that we should know,
has their leather and thread held,
binding the resolve of a nation to be better,
to be something more than religious zeal,
weathering the greed of the money counters,
patching their wear with a people’s conscience,
have they taken up the challenge to leaders,
demanded that what is written will be truth,
that all that exist are equal in life, in creation,
is it only for poets to ask where they have been,
will others find the answers in their soul,
who will pick up these shoes and repair them,
who will continue this magnificent human journey,
who will believe in the brotherhood of all creatures
who will wear these shoes

©2011, Donald Harbour

Poetic non-poets

Lately a trend is emerging,
groups of writers and poets huddle
together in sacrosanct cliques.

An immersion of fraternal bathing,
escaping the scrubbing glare of
critique.

The same names fall
as tin soldiers in line with
double entandre only understood
by them. Their faces betray
the herd instinct of their kind.

You see them at book signings,
art showings, or any grouped
literary display of self gratification,
gulping cheap wine, because it’s free.

Chiropractors love them….profiting.
All those contortionist movements
patting each other, as well as
themselves on poetic posteriors.
Their backs strengthened with soft,
indistinguishable, mole pocked
narcissistic verses.

They are always elated with their
efforts, never a blue note in
the tremor of meaning.

They have forgotten, that is, if
they ever knew, how to reach
into the deepest, darkest despairing corner,
of the human soul to reveal truth.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour