A Greek tragedy

The honey red heifer is birthing,
a difficult calving under monstrous
roiling dark bellied storm clouds,

She has chosen to offer up her gift,
under a twisted, gnarled, ancient tree ,
the only old guardian of the pastures.

She bellows not understanding it is necessary.
In the midst of her agony the Hyades
conspire to muffle her wild-eyed complaints.

The bowels of the fields are bulging,
constipated with swollen verdant seeds,
anticipating an elixir from above.

These grassy tarns of seasonal
vivacity will explode, grasping
the pastures fertile beckoning thighs,

a rapturous rupture of the soil, an
orgasm of awakening to satisfy
the heavenly rain spiked thrusts.

In the midst of April’s tribulation
a nocturnal nuisance has arrived,
raucous, unyielding in its annoyance.

Somewhere in the fence hedge, above
natures pious conversation, piercing
the vernal bacchanal of the night,

a feathered creature speaks in
full tenor timbre, Pavarotti incarnate,
it choruses the drama of this Greek

tragedy, played out in the amphitheater
of creation. Will there be life, or, the
tearful damning gloom of death.

Thor’s mighty hammer dispels
the Stygian darkness with crackling
light, a proctor quieting the class.

With a pause, sweet as the kiss of dew,
there is a gasp of all the calamity.
Mother Nature gathers her children, watching.

Life has arrived in a wet gelatinous
blanket, loved with soft brown eyes
and a lick for the first calf of spring.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Baptism of life

Storms rolled in last night,
I have not slept much,
Not because they were disturbing
No, I marvel at their sounds,
Thor dashing bolts between clouds
Then clearing his throat,
The gentle patter of rain,
Nourishing tears from Freya,
The earth does not rebel, it basks,
Turning its face to the roiling sky,
Accepting the moisture on parched lips,
I wonder why humans avoid storms,
Huddling beneath canvas canopies,
Scurrying from the gods gift,
Complaining when it arrives,
Then complaining when there is none,
Maybe that is why there are droughts,
Punishment for not accepting the gift,
Last night there was forgiveness,
Standing in the backyard, drenched,
I gave thanks in wondrous joy,
Pleasured by Mother Natures love,
Bathed in her life-giving baptism.

2013, Donald Harbour


A poem in the form of a Japanese Tanka.

Grey marbled clouds
rolling across the sky,
on the earth below
life awaits a moist kiss
from nature’s pursed lips.

©2012, Donald Harbour


In the west skies have darkened,
roiling morning clouds advance.
The sun lies hidden in the east,
a grey cloak over its face.
Pregnant mares thunder overhead,
their hooves beating a drum roll.
There is a scent on the wind,
Mother Nature’s elemental perfume.
Earthy, calming, full of promise,
Gaea toils to bring forth life,
her sweet sweat seminal.
All existence pauses in anticipation,
Obedience to the wonder of creation.

©2012, Donald Harbour


From the corner of my eye
I could see black birds feasting,
No flesh wasted that is consumed.
The world turned on its axis,
The sun racing the seasons,
No day wasted that has not dawned.
Somewhere it is raining,
Falling upon mother’s breast,
No plant wasted that is suckled.
Two lovers entwine their souls,
A kiss to seal their vow,
No commitment is wasted by passion.
Time arrives in each beggars hand,
It is the taker of immortality,
No moment is wasted by eternity.
Staring in the eyes of a baby,
Feeling the grasp of a tiny hand,
No one is wasted by redemption.
Around each of us there is reason,
Cause to inhale the miracle of life,
No choice is wasted that is given.

©2011, Donald Harbour

It’s a jungle out there

The rain is falling in torrents,
Somewhere high above Spring’s pitcher
tips and the water cascades over
the rim of the mile high clouds.
Creatures are draped in soaked
giant Elephant Ear  leaves .
The plain is festooned with mushrooms,
umbrellas clutched against the wind.
All the hippopotamuses, rhinos, and
wildebeests mix with the sharks,
the lions and birds of paradise.
The herd is on the move, sloshing,
Snorting at the elephants waiting
on the other side of the crossing.
A monkey wearing white gloves
whistles at the multitude and waves.
Another trail fills with scrambling
leather and rubber clad hooves.
There is no sound from them,
they do not exchange glances or
touch, their space never shared.
But, there is fear in their eyes.
Fear that instead of eating,
they will be the ones eaten.
It’s a jungle out there, in the city.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour