Humpty Dumpty

Woman, you pierce me,
with your knitting needles,
of contradiction ,
I have become  a grief stained,
papyrus sheet, tear washed,
Ancient, old, worn,
weathered by, your brilliance,
There is no succor that,
can heal my proffered soul,
The foundation of creation
has weakened under,
the weight of your love,
That is a burden,
you have chained,
upon my back, my heart,
I will not laugh,
at your choices,
because I am one of them,
How telling is the reflection,
in your fun house mirrors,
The fractured, shattered,
splinters of its glass,
your conscience,
I would want to help you mend,
your broken pieces together,
But, like Humpty Dumpty,
the evil in you can never,
ever, be put together again.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Post Script: My darlin’ wife Luscious wanted everyone to know this was not about her (or else), it is an observation of relationships gone awry. ~ Donald Harbour

Morning desire

Spring breath sighs upon my breast
fragrant lilac, dew laced and cool.

There at forest edge the paleness
of moonlight kissed rosy cheeks,

where crept the thunder of life
amongst moulted tree castings.

The finger of day beckons, a passionate
desire, eyes shaded, lips parted,

to summon flesh upon flesh, sweet,
sweet flower of fire burning my soul,

consuming all that will become of me,
rolling in the frothing white surf of love.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

Only a shard

I know it is hard for some,
their life a distant companion,
solitary, plodding, unyielding,
notable events become cairns,
markers in time to which we return,
in returning we know where we are,
but not who we are, why we are,
then moving to the next stone pillar,
absorbing where we have been,
it is a purposeful circling,
fear of losing the path, stumbling
in the rut of loneliness,
we forget to look up, there is
wonder all around us, by it we are loved,
to change life’s path one must,
change your gaze, that which
fills your heart arrives,
through the soul’s eyes, your eyes,
there is time for you, time,
to wrap yourself in your being,
the marvel of your existence,
kindling the spark of your spirit,
one bright shining shard of flame,
that when given a chance could
consume the whole world by it’s own
awareness, you are that shard.

©2015, Donald Harbour

Night wind

Hubble telescope; Pillars of Creation in the  Eagle Nebula.

Hubble telescope; Pillars of Creation in the Eagle Nebula.

The celestial wind is whispering tonight,
a voyager from the beginning of time,
dusty ancient castaway breath of the stars.
Where have you been, what have you seen,
did you skirt the Pillars of Creation,
did you watch the birth of new stars,
did you teach the planets a song to sing?
The sky is your concert hall, your ballroom
Is it you that makes the heavenly lights twinkle.
There the bright pinpoints beckon, toying,
challenging creatures to ride your zephyr,
feeling the breeze of your alluvium is kindred,
and, I wonder if what you are, am I also?

So mote it be

Today, spoke I to a man old in the woods,
spoke of stones in the dark forest,
stones that knew of humankind and time,
spoke of ancient age before now.
before what we have written,
spoke of before what we call known,
these stones mottled with aeons,
weathered by the earth and its work,
these stones remembered and watched,
remembered and spoke of past before,
these scribes of the giant cataclysms,
watching the ancients descend to earth,
eyes of granite open to the past,
watching the unfolding of the future,
knowing what passed would again be,
watching the sons of soil in greedy toil,
brethren to the manna of Mother Earth,
descendent of the distant stars,
brethren to the woodland creatures,
now unknowing of who or what they were,
brethren of the stones, woods, water,
I am you, you are I, we are eternity,
spoke these watching brethren,
and thus the Gods said so mote it be.

©2014, Donald Harbour

The least of us

Tonight, a cold north wind
finds a tormented soul,
encrusted in cast-off old rags,
discarded fabric, forgotten cotton,
feet clad with worn out leather,
a motionless form lays crumpled,
held in a cardboard shroud,
the scraps of existence, no joy,
a forgotten shadow of life,
of what was, of what could be,
the wonder of city night lights,
perform kaleidoscope dances,
they mask the most precious,
humanity’s sack cloth clothed,
life should not suffer so,
life abundant should provide,
the lesser are the mightiest,
the strength of the spirit,
existing to remind us of,
in a heartbeat, are you, am I.

©2014, Donald Harbour

Enchantress

in the verdant deep woods,
the tome of time waits
an ancient silent sentinel,
expressing life in each leaf
in every dewdrop falling
from breeze blown boughs,
the scent of time is bound
to woodland earth creatures,
to the forest fertile loam
giving reason for mighty oaks,
dogwood, sassafras, spindly pines,
here there is quietude in life,
a circle of creation, dying,
birthing, returning, the rhythm
of the eternal seasonal clock,
as it has always been and will be,
Mother Nature does not care,
she is creation’s mistress,
her oil, gas and her coal,
are mankind’s succubus.

©2014, Donald Harbour