If I stepped into the void
would you follow, would you
trust what you have been told.
If tomorrow was to vanish
would you grieve the loss,
never knowing what was to be.
If as leaves leave the tree
we flutter aimlessly through time,
does chance or time guide destiny.
If all we are is eternity’s dream
does anything really matter,
when ultimately we sleep forever.
©2013, Donald Harbour
Dreams are timeless time animist creations,
sonnets of somnolent imagination,
they are prostitutes of random memory.
The mind wears hobnailed jackboots,
its tactic to tread with worn cleated soles,
feet stomping through an oneirologist party.
Brief shadows pass silently without speaking,
lurking just on the edge of what is known,
flirting casualties of a long cold forgotten past.
The waiting dark graveyard is full of bodies,
all unwilling embalmed participants caught by life,
I wonder, do they twitch and dream too.
The script is written by a cruel comic mime,
a perverted titular Morpheus goatsucker,
the dual manifestation of the Upanishads.
When at last we hold our breath forever,
will the distant dim beacon of oblivion beckon,
or, will we dream an eternal Dharmic dream.
©2013, Donald Harbour
in a sequence of sensations,
so short-lived, so fleeting,
there is a transient moment,
a haunting reluctance of reality,
an evanescent tug at reason,
a brief, joyous, vision of insanity,
lifting one into an unimaginable scape,
there in a fleeting dream, I saw you,
and knew, that I floated above,
as a clouded ceiling fills the sky,
I felt, omnipotent, limitless,
your outstretched form, below,
stirred, as a butterfly released,
you fluttered into this reverie,
and, captured by the magic
of a shared dream, sparkling,
warm with desire’s hunger,
rising, from the tangled sheets,
on tip toes, reaching toward me ,
then, placing your moist red lips,
on my skin, pressing them gently,
searing my flesh with a biting caress,
the ephemeral became, morning love.
©2012, Donald Harbour
I met a man,
researching his genealogy.
He said he was looking
for his past, his history.
I said: “And, when you find it,
what will you do with it?”
He replied: “I don’t know!”
Sometimes not knowing who we are,
is the only salvation we have.
©2011, Donald Harbour
(Ole Doc Harry Manes wrestles with his demons)
Dreams in the world of Neither Now,
Are fleeting glimpses into a place dark and foul.
Where slumber climbs a well-worn stair,
Toward light above clinical despair.
Gosh, is his companion in times of pain,
For in wakefulness or sleep he calls its name.
A sturdy steed in sparkling brace,
Knowing eyes set in a thoughtful face.
Ole Doc Manes battles upon his charge,
With imagined demons hairy, scary and large.
A nightmare joust toward dreaded meet,
On a field where minion other Docs compete.
Far out on the edge of the misty horizon,
Dark knights wait with swords tipped in poison.
Alone but for faithful Gosh astride he waits,
For Hell to open the medical paper gates.
To loose the hounds, ears laid back on matted mane,
To hear their bark with breath of insane.
To see the dark knights armor shimmer in call,
For him to gather up his mace, his pike and maul.
The air is split with battles raucous thunder,
In a start Ole Doc Manes awakes from dream filled slumber.
And sitting there in the gloom alone,
He peers into the room of his castle home.
Listening to the kingdom sounds from without,
He is comforted from the dream caused doubt.
Now the knights of that nightmare play,
Are bared of their armor in the dawning of day.
Maslow, Freud, Rorschach, even you obnoxious Beech,
“I know each of you,” he sighs with relief.
Gathering the magic keyboard from his North Carolina desk,
He smiles his knowing smile full of mirth and jest.
Out goes a message in plain English email,
A formula for success so no psychologist minion will fail.
A tale dreamed briefly for them to aspire,
By a psychologist practiced in making smoke without fire.
“If you need help battling that which you cannot see,
Get in touch with me by fax, direct call, or toll-free.”
Scribbled in characters forming the magical words,
Ole Doc Harry’s thoughts are steeped in adjectives and verbs.
So the incantations will be tested in trial,
He laces the info with Camp Henry intellect and guile.
Yes, the Doc has triumphed with Alfred Adler nosh,
Delivered for psychologists by Doc Manes and his steed “Oh my Gosh.”
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 