Joyful madness

Potence has overtaken the dawn sky,
a mystical wakefulness in the scene,
a swirling mass of screeching devils,
choreographed jockeying for position.
They are grains of sand in the cosmos,
autumn’s winged disciple vagrant voyagers ,
These calamitous irreverent starlings,
gathering each year for millennium,
a convention of chirping auctioneers,
selling the season to winter’s chill.
Their movement paint on a Van Gogh canvas,
soon one will take command, a leader,
thousands will follow in joyful madness.
There will be evidence of their passing,
tree branches littered with white refuse,
then the tranquility of grateful silence.
I am transfixed by them and I wonder,
did humankind evolve from starlings?

©2013 Donald Harbour

Flowers need a promise

Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.

As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.

Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.

The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.

Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.

Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.

Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.

Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.

I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.

Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Winter change

Ahh, yes! So there you are. I see you snow.

The gathering voice of old man winter,
summoned the icy north-wind to blow.

Gently shaking, each oak limb trembles,
scattering a mosaic color carpet below.

The leaves a membrane for the season,
left over from the year’s autumn show.

Now nature is snug beneath its blanket,
Awaiting December’s first quiet snow.

©2011, Donald Harbour

A new dawn

Dawn rises behind beech trees in November.

In the fall crispness of early morning,
As the frost grew on the wilted grass,
One could hear daylight’s gentle whisper,
The song of the night as it passed.

Below a tree line of leaf bare branches,
Through the meadow and foggy glen,
The sun’s first rays touched tall beeches,
Warming forest creatures and blood of men.

The cock had spoken in a plaintive cry,
Calling the day from its foundling burrow,
Casting its suspicious rooster red-eye,
The beginning of yesterday’s tomorrow.

Birds fluffed feathers against the chill,
Their chirps a greeting to one another,
As on the top of a distant silhouetted hill,
Flowers peeped from beneath earth’s cover.

The heart is filled with an ancient desire,
To join in this wondrous jubilant chorus,
To stoke life’s primitive cooking fire,
From a time once remembered as glorious.

Buried there with in my quaking soul,
Where memory waits in a secret place,
I find an outward drift toward the light,
Absorbing its gracious gift upon my face.

This cherished experience of the ages,
A  thanksgiving for those past and gone,
Yet there before me it is held in wonder,
As was the earth’s first blessed golden dawn.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The lass of another year

"Spring Alive" - graphic art by Donald Harbour

The last bit of frost
visited this morning.
Winter’s child grasping
at Spring’s new issues.
There is a calamity
in the air and the dawn.
The seasonal titans
playing rocks and scissors.
The sky is darkened
by their incessant indecision.
But, the earth knows
awakening with a yawn.
Birds have stirred
to the parade of earthworms.
Ants are seen to muster
armies for future picnics.
Growth elbows and pushes
for a moments basking.
Slowly, inextricably
we tilt toward summer.
A smooth passage across
a sea of blossomed pastures.
The joy of life skips,
dances into the heart.
The lass of another year
is wearing her pinafore frock.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Shadows into darkness

The season’s shadows
Are folding into the year.
Glimpsed lapses in the turning
Of life and of living.
The lines upon this face
Traces of their path.
Creased etching in the stone
Of an alabaster heart.
Silently sitting with
Breath held in the moment.
The warmth of a golden sun
Silhouettes the coming of night.
A cool fragrance whispers with
A jasmine scented breeze.
The trees rustle restlessly
At its call to the end of the day.
Softly stroked as the waves caress
Their lovers glittering shore.
There is a peace that fills
This soul half empty of time.
Cradling the aching longing
For more of what has passed.
None taken, none given,
Only the turning of earth.
That and, the creeping,
Folding of the shadows into darkness.

Copyright:  2009, Donald Harbour

So together we wait for the return

When last I held her grace in my vision,
Downcast, I was watching her leave.
There was nothing to stop her,
The wind blew at her back,
Pushing her with an urgency.
Knowing her name the sunset called,
Calling to her hotly, beckoning.
The birds had ceased their singing
In sadness their quiet a silent protest.
Each breath I took was painful,
Searing air I did not want or need.
The dead do not need to breathe,
My soulless corpus a stone vessel.
I knew she would return someday,
Gently at first, budding with life.
Yet every cell of my being aches.
Desiring her soft sensuous touch,
The feel of her kiss a warm breeze.
For now I can only wait and dream,
Longing for that one moment in time,
Knowing from her approaching smell,
Her perfume the fragrance of April showers,
My heart quivers with anticipation.
She is my salvation, my reason to live,
She is the moment that gives me hope.
As the buzzing of a bee hive come to life,
There is a delicious yearning in my loins,
To thrust deep into her fertile thighs,
Planting my seeds binding her to me.
I long to wallow in her musky glory,
To soak every essence of it into me,
Melding, to remember the joy found in her.
Captive to her charms I long for her,
An urge given to all living creatures,
The gift of birth, of living, of existence.
Winter’s chill has suspended all elation.
With no bounty, gray skies are cold bosoms,
Yet life crawls toward the dawn each day.
I am stranded in the time of her departing.
So, together, Nature and I await her return,
That golden moment of Spring’s blushed caress.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour