Comfort in your company

I am strolling through a cemetery,
you may wonder at that, but,
here is an abundance of friends and family.
The stone marked place of resting souls,
their’s is the period at the end of life,
yours,
mine,
his,
hers,
they,
them.
The composite does not matter,
it is finis,
disambiguation.
You may believe there is a return,
but there is not.
It does not matter if you are fried,
or, have your fluids replaced,
it is all the same.
You are the past,
gone,
soon forgotten,
planted,
fodder for worms,
a printed obituary,
person non-grata.
It does not matter
to which god you pray,
you are dead, and
that its why cemeteries are exquisite.
That is why there is peace,
calm,
quietude,
no political compromise,
no blind eye discrimination,
no right,
no left,
no war,
not gay,
not straight,
not polygamous,
not monogamous,
only a dessicated,
rotted corpse,
decomposing,
in an over priced coffin,
that no one can appreciate,
including the corpse,
though I do love the plastic flowers,
and, the riding mower treads
that play tic-tat-toe
across the grassy green
of each slightly mounded grave.
I know who is there, and
I am not, yet.
There is solace in that, and
knowing they are there and I am here,
I find I am comforted in their company.

2013, Donald Harbour

Dim wits

Who knew we could fly?
Personal hygiene disregarded
a trans Atlantic flight ballistic
canard of contemporary constipation.
Bowels squeezed into corseted
over priced buckets of insanity.
There are no complaints,
the man is in cahoots with airlines,
you have paid to become a victim,
Undressed by over paid nematodes,
parasites of society dignified.
The jihadist have won and you do not
know it, their torture, confinement.
Searing the skies in aluminum tubes,
rebreathing your neighbors exhalent,
gimbiled by the rules, land of the free,
home of the brave, bullshit.
You are cattle giving in to the
Gestapo of democracy’s bureaucratizes,
it’s their job, you damn dim wits.
You have been sold a patriotic
bill of goods, and we are less for it.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A letter to the U.S. Congress, you bunch of dimwits

Dear Congress of the United States of America,
Yeah, you who begged for money to be hired,
What happened on your self-righteous trip to DC,
In what lobbyist cesspool are you now mired?

Is it just that you are lazy self-indulgent egotists,
Or a bunch of incompetent party hack tools,
Do you think you’re at a Halloween masquerade ,
Dressed as monied special interest banker ghouls?

Hey, I’m talking to you mob of politico dodos,
You’re burning up my hard earned tax cash,
People and families are suffering in our country,
Get to work, get off your partisan fat…er, ah, ash.

Does plutocracy ring your green back bells,
Or, have you forgotten about your nation’s need,
Does political party-line mean more than the voter,
Well then, we know from which slop trough you feed.

Where is your brain, what are you doing to us,
Has power, greed, and emotion taken our place,
Does the one percent now represent America,
Their campaign contribution the smile on your face.

When it comes down to your bottom-line,
There is only one thing that really rings true,
All those big dogs in this greedy indifferent world,
Have bought and paid for our congress, that’s you.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Limits

When I was but a child,
I was told: “Do not go pass the fence.”
When I was a young adult,
I was told: “Failure is an F.”
When I was middle aged,
I was told: “Value is your bank account.”
When I was sixty,
I was told: “You are over the hill.”
Limits.

© 2011, Donald Harbour

Developing mad cow mentality

My jaws are tired of chewing
the fat and gristle of lies.
The denominator of civil thought,
consequences confounded by opinion.
The meat of the world sliced
into mind choking proportion.
Groups of organized conflagrations
screaming their venom.
They are totally oblivious
of the destructive choice made.
The Russ Limbaugh putrid rotting,
of the soul and heart of a nation.
Pitiless distortion of humanity
all for the god forsaken dollar.
The scripted spewing: “Listen to me,
I know what I am talking about!”
Contaminating the social fabric,
the pristine democracy of America.
The masses of cattle, swallowing manure
developing mad cow mentality, elected
intellects of freedom exercising
a distorted party line propaganda.
All this, all that is at stake,
all that can be taken and never forgiven,
for a fruitless insanity way of life.
The me, mine, not yours, selfishness,
condemnation of human dignity,
blurred by thoughtless obedience
to religion, political craftiness,
the splurging, and purging pious thinking.
The rabid radical right beliefs are
contrite willful destruction of the good,
without consideration or contemplation
of that shining city upon a hill.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

Who Will Kill Freedom

When a young man stood still,
To stop a tank on Tienanmen Square,
Did you stand up and cheer,
Did you protest with him – did you care?

When a young girl is gang raped,
In the silent violent Darfur night,
Do you feel her pain – her shame,
Do you shout at your leaders this is not right?

When a nation values truth and justice,
Then tortures a captive in a concrete cell,
Where were your values of honor,
Where were they as the nation descends into hell?

When you look at your image in the mirror,
What is reflected there that grasps your mind,
In the light of reason – the path of light,
Has it so dimmed that to reality you are blind?

When the newspaper white washes wrong,
Casting half truths on pages printed with soy ink,
Must you use it to wrap odious fish offal,
Or does the smell of their craft already stink?

When your leaders carp about their party,
The same words that Stalin and Mao once used,
And the Constitution is cast aside,
Are you with patriotic indignation infused?

When we become the animals in the chute,
Stumbling to a slaughter house Democracy,
We will draw the knife across freedom’s throat,
Held in the hands of our own hypocrisy.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour