The Archangel cometh

We own you and we will take your soul. Bet on it, buy stock.

Poets are a dime a dozen, I
cost only a penny on the cheap.
Bilbo Baggins and Robert Frost
each a copper of time pasted
upon the digital landscape of
the Internet. No written pages,
only ones and zeros defining,
recording genius, talent, moronic
diatribes, the succubus of intellect.
The decay of society in the cloud
of tomorrow. Is that your ultimate
destination, bucolic acceptance?
At what point will the reason
of the word be given over to
the Machiavellian manipulators
You sheep, you followers, naysayers,
you destroyers, you that sleep
with Eden’s snake of technology,
will kill your children, welcoming
the Archangel of Destruction,
without ever knowing you are
no longer members of humanity?

©2012, Donald Harbour

Star voyager

Worlds Collide - Digital Art by Donald Harbour

Some nights, when I close my eyes,
Standing beneath the stars of forever,
I am taken up to fly to distant places,
Soaring through and between the planets.
Let it not be said that we are rooted,
Creatures held upon the soil of earth,
We are but the remnants of what was,
The cause of what is to be, someday.
There, point your finger toward the night,
Reach out your hand and grasp the heavens,
Inhale the scent of destiny’s purpose,
Understand that you are the mere shadow,
That fleshy shadow that has only tasted
The minutest particle of the infinite feast,
Unable to dine at the table of creation,
Until you come to believe its possibilities.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

The bouquet of your mind

iPod Touch 2G late 2009

Image via Wikipedia

This mouth is dry, burning with thirst,
It needs quenching , a drop of poetry,
Words of satisfaction rolling across a tongue.
There is none only the cellular ring,
iPod to global wandering, watching, tracking.
When did common conversation become damned?
Could it be that poets and time are out of sync?
Guardians of love, life, beauty, death….gone?
Did Walden’s Pond dry up to the insanity of a SIM chip?
Technology does not replete art, word, ideas,
You fools, you have  become bound to the mundane,
The text messaged impersonality of thought.
There is no juggernaut of intellect here,
Only the simpering distillation of abbreviation.
Call me,  let us  enunciate words, communicate,
Experience your thoughts, my thoughts….touch.
I want to feel the flesh of you mind,
Enjoy the scent of your intellect,
Not in Qwerty interpolation of your text speak.
Let me hear the emotion in your voice,
The character of your heart and soul,
Let me hear you intone your feelings,
Not the derivative of a plastic keyboard.
I hunger for the timbre of your voice,
A longing for the touch of your words,
The breath of your lips, a trust in your message.
Offer up the bouquet of your mind, speak to me!

© 2010, Donald Harbour