Spirit Whisperer of Avalon

“It is time,” softly spoken the words awoken
the heart that was clasped in stone,
grains of time wilted, on dry stalks stilted,
blossomed from the dark fertile loam,
the air unscented became heavenly minted
with love flowered honeysuckle cologne,
midnight gloom banished from the ancient room
as cast, Avalon’s brilliant rainbow shone,
arising in the midst of a cascading mist
the Flower of Life reclined on a golden throne,
thus having awakened the dreamers were taken
back to their far off lost celestial home,
all humankind wondered as heavens thundered
“It is done,” leaving their souls lost and alone.

©2013, Donald Harbour

Passions potion

This eve there is a pristine magic,
It floats softly on the still air of night,
A potion vapor by desire’s sorceress,
Reflected in the moon’s golden light.

Held not by man or woman or beast,
As dandelion seeds drift on parasols,
The whimsical spirit wavers to want,
Shunning all but love’s whispered calls.

There wanders it through heart and soul,
Caught in a dream catchers spider thread,
To flame the passion tangled there,
Of entwined bodies on a silken bed.

©2011, Donald Harbour

There was a brook

There was a brook that wended
Through a forest. Its ancient path
A trace of thousands of years.
Majestic noble rocks, rounded with time,
The instruments of the water’s song.
Moss and fern cling to their mottled surface,
Lovers performing a summer kiss.
The hours are without motion,
Hands on a clock refuse to move.
The brook performs its symphony,
Life flourishes in its coolness.
Spiders skate on placid pools
As leaf boats languidly voyage
Fairies on holiday past rippling reeds.
Magic stirs the woodland air,
The old trees join hands above,
A cathedral protecting precious life.
The stream banks are crowded with flowers,
Awakened by a breeze from drowsy slumber.
The harmony, an Audubon painting,
Dazzling with the wonder of life.
The ink of creation still wet
Waiting for nature to exhale.
There was a brook.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour

Dancing and chasing dust devils

One day the dust devils came,
Whirling dervishes of dirt,
Silently scraping the parched earth.
They came in a magic ballet,
Creating an entity of motion.
Their passing refreshing,
The hot searing touch of a lover,
A sudden sweaty midday passion,
Twisting in the sheets of desire.
When the dust devils spoke
Their voices were whispers,
The raspy hissing of sand.
Each towering funnel of chaos
A spiritual connections from earth,
To the gods in the sky.
I felt that there must be ancients
Buried beneath the parched land,
As the dust devils passed them
Their spirits were sucked up
Sent into the clear blue above.
They did not thirst for water,
Only dried withered souls,
Dessicated corpses of rock and clay.
With a gritty realization,
That I too was made of them,
I knew they would be back one day
Searching for my life’s emptied bowl.
Dancing, shimmering in the heat,
Reaching out to carry me home,
Back to where I began.
For as I was I will once again be.
So I danced under the summer sun,
Danced and chased the dust devils,
Like so many dreams running away,
Until exhausted we lay down to sleep
Where the day met the night,
On the slope of my mother’s
Cactus covered rocky shoulders.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

A walk down a darkened path

Phantasma

"Phantasma" graphic art by Donald Harbour

A path across stone laid ground
Is the shortest path to home.
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only haunted spirits roam.

In late October as a frosty chill
Lays dead leaves upon the ground,
Sycamores standing bony branched
In deathly silence do abound.

One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place,
The graveyard of coffined corpses
Laid where life lost its final race.

It is known as it has always been
Some spirits are wont to never leave,
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation they grieve.

Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.

Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling, that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance
And imagined rags dance in the cold night air.

In the distance a bell tower chimes,
The beginning of All Hallows Ween,
When things one has never noticed
Become real and thus are seen.

You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.

It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.

Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Or is it just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

The Watchers

When you are alone,
there are often those times
that the silence is pierced,
a heaviness in the air,
an oh, so slight pressure
upon the senses, the nerves, the mind.
A movement across the ceiling,
Trembling in the darken corners.
A calling, an awakening
In some forgotten part of psyche.
Hidden in the primitive recesses
of the distant ancestral past
it sleeps, waiting to be summoned.
Once again you are huddled around
a blazing fire the spirits dancing
upon the cavern walls, and you fear.
The neck becomes tight, painful,
the scalp prickly with anticipation.
You are now so very close to them.
All the past, all the lives lived,
can be held in a grain of sand,
the prism of a rain drop,
the gentle whisper of a breeze,
darkness of night, a shadow.
No god, no talisman, no shaman
can hold back the knowledge
the feeling in your bile filled gut,
that you are being watched.
Are we really alone?

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour