Days glide quietly by, so easily,
Worn as comfortable slippers,
Caressing a journey of tired, aching feet,
The compounded sum, of yet another year,
Pages in a seasonal tome, published
In the confetti of autumn,
Each year another chapter,
An incomplete record of events,
Becoming as ancient etchings, inked
Upon life’s papyrus, casting
About for reason, for time.
©2016, Donald Harbour
Do you see when life begins to furl,
evolving, encompassing,
creating its own canard,
then floating back into vision,
a wind snapped flag, billowing,
to settle moist upon time’s petals,
time, I wonder about you,
there, I see you as you are,
as you have been, but I cannot
see you as you will become,
that is not to know, tomorrow
is written in the dawn of scudded
skies, purple and mauve as love,
tinted with promise, a soft kiss
lifting the heart a beat, I
wonder, when I close my eyes
as the dark of day descends,
will you be waiting for me tomorrow,
or will you unfurl that great cloak,
sail of your eternal arcane ship,
a boundless passage into the unknown.
©2015, Donald Harbour
Forever, an old house has stood in a field,
A grey silent sentinel ghost of the past,
It stands consumed by the morning fog,
Leaning imperceptibly, it is unperturbed,
The house knows its value, its purpose remains,
People may forget history, the house will not,
Lives passed through its doors and rooms,
Children once scampered and played on its porch,
Lazy hounds escaped the summer heat there,
How many meals were cooked in its kitchen,
What joy gathered there in its dining room,
It has seen men go off to war, never returning,
It has heard the moan of birthing pain,
Then, swelling with the cries of a newborn,
Silenced, Sunday hymns once sang its song,
Where old men whittled, a possum or two live,
A tree is growing up though the porch floor,
Now forlorn, passed by, it is indistinguishable,
Time is swallowing it year upon year,
That boundless cavern has eaten its heart,
Its eyes to the outside world hollow, glass-less,
The house will slowly collapse into the earth,
While it stands, it holds the vault of memories,
But, just as the house, memories die with time too,
When they are gone, only the debris of life remains.
©2015, Donald Harbour
I saw an old man today
winding an old watch
twisting the stem back and forth
tightening its spring
so fragile a moment
time hanging on a thin wisp of coiled steel
giving the mechanism its life
each second’s tick counting
to the inevitable moment
when there are no fingers to wind
when its need has ended
and life for its creation ceases
Isn’t that our story too?
©2013, Donald Harbour
Autumn woods
Strolling down a pebble strewn path
each footstep a Rice Crispy morning,
diamond dew is fresh on the grass,
trident tips of oak tree leaves
are decorated with shining pearls,
sunlight caresses each watery crystal
gently nudging them to the ground,
the autumn air carries a heavy scent,
primal, cool, humid, earthy,
it is the aphrodisiac of nature,
exciting Gaea to birth the season
slithering creatures move slower,
pest of the air hide, finally satisfied,
the forest is yawning, desiring rest,
it’s stained glass pristine cathedral
a montage of red, yellow, purple and brown,
giving life to this wondrous symphony
it is time to reflect on the past,
a time to cloak in this quilted moment,
a time to look forward to renewing,
a time to curl up in the crib of creation.
@2012, Donald Harbour
Time is the decomposition
Of life between birth and death.
Measured not in seconds or minutes,
Not by days and nights nor seasons,
It is known by how we see it,
A calculated mechanical representation,
Time is those special instances,
Those cairns we leave behind,
Milestones that mark our progress,
Memory’s points of reference,
Their panorama is so vast,
An overwhelming joy to behold,
Yet it seems in an instant,
They are gone forever, and ever,
For this brief flicker of consciousness,
We hold the cosmos in our hearts,
Never realizing that it is there,
We float on the bubble of eternity,
Every particle connected,
Every atom related to creation,
To accept this absolute truth,
To be aware of it,
Is to know thyself,
To know and love your time,
Your eternal instant.
©2011, Donald Harbour
There is no beginning, there is no ending, there is only existance.
that which is unknown
that which cannot be known
gathered up the ends of eternity
binding the path of spirituality
with the undulations of time
capturing its changing movement
gathered it all together
interweaving with serenity
into the endless knot of infinity
the knot had no beginning
nor did it have an ending
there laid it upon the divine
that which is infinite wisdom
became the matter of creation
in the emptiness of existence
began the endless cycle
suffering birth death re-birth
inseparable from its ritual of being
that became compassion
giving light and meaning to the void
© 2011, Donald Harbour
i clasped it to my breast
this yesterday
this today
this tomorrow
then watched it soar
on wings bigger than the sky
soar out of sight
this thing called time
© 2010, Donald Harbour
Time is the trickster,
always prancing, dancing
along the moment.
We seem not to notice
the direction as we hurry
listening to the jester’s
tinkling, twinkling bells.
Lulled by their charm
we are lost in their magic.
There is a longing, to stop,
to correct the missteps,
each stumped toe trip,
pain from life’s paving stones .
We all lay them along the
path, not perfectly
for it takes practice.
Regret is the mortar holding
them in place, time the teacher.
There are so many of them,
thus we continue to stumble
toward the a fool’s celebration.
© 2010, Donald Harbour
Lying on my back
I am looking up through a skylight,
its cracked panes trace paths
between the stars and planets.
The music of the night
twinkling notes on the tapestry
of infinity, creations fabric.
Filled with its glorious melody
the voyage beyond this place
is a rhapsody of movement,
a joyous trip into the unknown,
an anticipation of being,
of becoming part of the night sky,
coursing at the speed of light
that realm where gods and comets,
tug at the blanket of time.
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 