A thought

This form of poetry is a Sestina. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a moment, bound by a proffered thought,
I was caught in its golden fleeting hold.
An eventide breach of my consciousness,
a vaporous single wisp buried in my mind.
It is a mysterious breeze, I must confess,
the wind of time has challenge me to know.

I felt fear of learning what I might know
nature’s mysterious parlor trick produced by thought.
Do we by a slight of hand, our secrets confess?
Or, do we strive to release our tenuous hold,
allowing some dusty forgotten corner of the mind
to sweep away, that grain of consciousness?

This bright pebble picked up in consciousness,
that flowing stream passing, rushing to know.
I am stilled by this hidden sacrament of mind,
a tarot card born of a single unread thought.
What fortune of the future does it now hold?
To gain it, to read it, what must I confess?

It is not as from a void the dying confess,
it is a shining diamond of life’s consciousness.
I wonder what telling my last breath will hold.
Yet I dwell upon this passage to feel, to know,
to search the foot paths of my soul. That thought,
runs wild across the aging pastures of my mind.

From somewhere in the misty past of the mind,
the fog of time has hidden things not to confess.
As water begins to boil, heating the caldron of thought,
it pulls those diaphanous  vapors into consciousness.
At last what was unknown becomes mine to know.
Something I had lost long ago, in vision I now hold.

From a dawning portico your half-light shadow I hold.
You who are a hallowed spire of a youthful day mind,
you have awakened dim memories I did not wish to know.
This is a receding tide of my heart I cannot confess,
for it lays bare the dark that fell between our consciousness.
In pain, my companion hearthstone, you rise to thought.

You are not a keepsake to hold, forgetting you I do confess,
banishing you from my mind. What was a challenge to consciousness,
I not want to know, remembering lost love is a foolish thought..

©2012, Donald Harbour

Reflections are not truth

life is always viewed
through the windows of the mind,
it is transformed, distorted
by the panes of perception,
becoming twisted reflections
filtered through a collage
of dust, streaks, fly specks,
hand prints, spittle, grime,
the imperfection of glass,
the baggage of living is
our collected experiences
that shape our beliefs
form what we become,
that film on the window panes,
there because we learn by it,
learn to be misjudged
tell misconceived lies,
feel anguish of disappointment,
view ourselves as we
believe we are seen,
it is a two-way street,
what we perceive
will also be perceived,
and, that is the danger,
reflections are false images,
beyond their dance is truth,
as surely as we digest them,
what is expelled is not the same,
what it once was, indistinguishable,
our frame of references,
our reflections have become,
the nutrient for another mind’s
fertile view of its reality.

A note about this poem: It is based on ‘one’s frame of reference’ that is taken from the psychological theory of Gestalt. We all have one, the trick is recognizing it and dealing with it.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Change chairs, hug difference

I am not fond of confrontation,
mental jousting,
porous logic,
mind game fornication .

There is that plastic moment,
stiff stilted thought,
mindless blather,
constipated congress.

Then the vociferated spilling,
contrite harangue,
sphincter spewing,
tiresome gibberish.

No one wins emotional articulation,
vacuous debate,
obtuse dogma,
overweening interest.

The truth is in you and me,
the human need,
pliable understanding,
agreeable acquiescence.

Opposite views are never black or white,
red or yellow,
limitless or yoked,
right or wrong.

Take my hand, see through my eyes,
trade shoes,
change chairs,
hug difference.

Together we will find similitude,

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Bone Crusher

Listening to the thoughts
Rattling in contemplative
Gestures of this mind held
By the constraints of who
We were, are, could be, taught,
Never, can’t, won’t, afraid.
A breath taken, a gift of oxygen
Fed only to the fire with in,
A moments supplication of why,
Pausing to reflect on all
The questions left unanswered
And never will because,
They are unanswerable grains
Of sandy grit burrowed under
The crotch of a salty bathing
Suit on a sun burnt beach,
An irritation stopped only
When naked under a cold
Shower of cleansing reality.
Smiles left to lay in the gutter
Where they slipped off the faces
Of intimate friends falsely
Chosen in a frantic clinging
Clasp of a need to be wanted,
Accepted, desired, felt, loved,
Appreciated, esteemed, falsehood.
The wine has been uncorked, tasted
Found lacking, of inferior quality,
However it was wine, dark red, with
A hint of wild berries, a romp
In the hay, a roll between the covers
Squeezing the succulent juices
Of ones marrow from the bone crushing
Dregs, to wit the bottle is empty.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour