Giants

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly grandiose thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods, contradictions.

Now that I have aged, none of those
quaking trees of life remain, only
fallen timbers, a mountain of antiquated bones.

No stench of the decay lingers,
there is only a sense of stale stagnant air,
dried husks litter the path, detritus of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

They become unnoticed, small things, until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows, piercing
the flesh, reaching into a once ambitious soul,

The trivializing of being, a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances and opportunities.

Count not the past it is dead , buried,
nor the possibility of tomorrow, count
the day, the only truth is its brief reality.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Testimony

I have watched and listened,
Suffered from contradictions,
Those gaps in a man’s life.

There are misconceptions,
Blatant mental posturing,
Delusions defining a man.

They are misguided, shortsighted,
Easily manipulated, injected,
The vinegar of male inoculation.

These vocal dystopian needlers,
Miserable cretins of neutering,
Harpies eating the grist of manhood.

We need not fear them, ignore them,
Pay no attention to them, for
A man is no one’s beast of burden.

Some may think this folly of conjecture,
But, it bears the soul of Occam,
Simply put, we are what we are.

Acceptance is a harsh reality, truth,
The granite laid by human history,
It is the blame game between sexes.

Wasted posturing, justifying micro-niches,
The piddling prattling of wannabe’s,
Never reaching the true stature of a man.

Hold this truth close to your breast,
There is hidden danger in masculinity,
Subtle skirmishes can have dire consequences.

Even a male praying mantis is comfortable,
Feeling safe in his exoskeleton,
Until a satisfied female devours him.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Things Possessed

Are we not possessed of possessions.
Things in transition from one state,
to becoming something other than they are.
Every pot and pan, each book and tablet,
a garden, and home, all transitory.
Even the thread that binds a shirt,
changing, neither a possession nor
possessed, used, not owned, allowed.
This mind that writes these words,
changing, what was thought possessed,
now gone, here given to the reader.
We are all things that ever were,
recycled particles of the cosmos,
what we will become is never kept.
The only real thing that can be possessed
is this moment, this second of time,
a sweep of a tick-tock on  the eternal clock.
Things do not belong to us, as we do not
belong to ourselves, for we are only,
an earthly dalliance of creation, and
that too is a possession of eternity.

©2021 Donald Harbour

 

Retribution

Slipping on his father’s shoes,
the little boy was beaming,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a rugged path to manhood,
the shoes do not fit, but
he will grow into them…one day,
and so, begins the journey.

We leave footsteps in the past,
young men stumbling, to keep up,
driving to fill fading imprints,
and so, begins the journey.

It is a human obligation,
from father to son and so on,
each stride planted in different dust,
and so, begins the journey,

Some shoes become boots, hobnailed,
footprints in sand or jungle paths,
a nations youth slide into memorium.
and so, begins the journey.

Old men once in their youth,
now tamed by time and disappointment,
heads bent with anticipation,
and so, begins the journey.

Souls beckon for their escape,
a pursers bell chiming debarkation,
husks arriving at the final shore,
and so, begins the journey.

Creation’s retribution, a return,
fresh consciousness to begin again,
a new being, a new life,
“daddy, now I’m just like you”.
and so, begins the journey.

©2020 Donald C Harbour

 

Stella

She laughs,
The world listens,
She loves bugs,
The flowers of weeds,
She sparkles in the sun,
She is a tiny wondrous jewel.
And when she climbs up in my lap,
That small voice says,
“Poppy I love you,” then
I have lived all that can be lived.
Bone of my bone,
Flesh of my flesh,
If there is any good in my being
Have I given you that part?
I can not shelter you completely,
The experience of life is strength.
Nor would I bend your thoughts to mine,
To learn is how you find yourself.
But I would take the lash of thoughtless pain,
Baring my back to ugliness you will endure,
The sting would be my joy, my gift.
Pain will find you in life, it always does.
Too much of its cruelty paints a cynical veneer,
It builds walls of indifferent banality.
But, there is so much joy to behold,
The grand scheme of life yours to seek,
The perfect moment of innocence to hold.
Listen not to the conspiring of the crones,
Your heart will tell you the truth.
That inner voice you hear softly speaking,
Its whispers deep from with in your soul.
If there are angels they will know you,
But, if time is unkind and your path is blurred,
Reach out, Seraphim will come to guide you.
For I would spend all that I have been given,
An eternity, to help them find you.

©2019, Donald Harbour

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

There it is

There it is, that moment,
That gut felt knot, a pause,
Neither person speaks, then,
You think: “I feel so wooden”,
Dancing violates private space,
You both strain to be held,
But, there it is, uncomfortable,
A suppressed panic attack rises,
The dance floor a grassy plain,
Tugging at your feet, entangling,
No more gliding step, stumbling,
Arms, legs, every joint, hinged,
A tenuous relationship, splintered,
Your emotionless faces, blank,
Carved representations of dance,
Yet, there is something in touch,
A gentle palm resting on the back,
A brush of chest to chest,
A skirted thigh caressing thigh,
Cheeks that bear a slight blush,
Quickened breathing, parted lips,
Body heat mixing aftershave, perfume,
In an instant, its just you two,
You both know, you feel, together,
Neither person speaks, then,
That burning sense, pleasure,
There it is, that beginning moment,
Love.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Etymology of the Heart

Deep down inside of me,
a question lingers, languishing.
Which heart will I have today?
That muscle that contracts,
The one that pumps life, or
The one that aches, and waits.
Playing the jester to hearten
these heartless hours, comically
synchronizing each heartbeat.
Ticktock of this life’s clock,
it is folly to believe the song of heartstrings
could capture the fire of desire.
So I wait for the masters’ decision,
its heart-to-heart prognostication,

©2019, Donald Harbour

Let your light shine

Damnation is laid in the belly of our fears,
humankind’s quaking horror of everlasting darkness.
Those tiny hairs that first herald a breeze,
the same ones that motivate our souls to scream
alarm us as we are beckoned, peering into the unknown.
There is no choice in the matter, no bargain,
A Cararra trimmed portal cannot stay the nightmare,
No amount of Psalms, incantations, blessings,
no prayers, meditation, or pious beliefs,
nothing will stay that voyage into that gloom,
except, the immutable light of ones spirit.
Let it shine, hold it forth, brighten
each day, each person and all creatures with it.
A sempiternal bit of creation connecting us
with our creator, a beacon to guide us home.
There is no gloaming to our night, only
that warm sunset of welcome shining at journey’s end.

©2019, Donald Harbour

Truth

When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly ambitious thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods.

Now, none remain to crash through
the nubile trees of life, only
a slumbering mountain of aged bones.

There is no stench of their decay,
these giants, though their dried husks
have littered the path of the past.

Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.

The small things unnoticed until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows
piercing the flesh reaching into the heart.

The trivia of being a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances opportunities.

Count not the past nor the future,
for they exist only in memory, count
the moment, the only truth, a brief reality.

©2018, Donald Harbour