There it is

There it is, that moment,
That gut felt knot, a pause,
Neither person speaks, then,
You think: “I feel so wooden”,
Dancing violates private space,
You both strain to be held,
But, there it is, uncomfortable,
A suppressed panic attack rises,
The dance floor a grassy plain,
Tugging at your feet, entangling,
No more gliding step, stumbling,
Arms, legs, every joint, hinged,
A tenuous relationship, splintered,
Your emotionless faces, blank,
Carved representations of dance,
Yet, there is something in touch,
A gentle palm resting on the back,
A brush of chest to chest,
A skirted thigh caressing thigh,
Cheeks that bear a slight blush,
Quickened breathing, parted lips,
Body heat mixing aftershave, perfume,
In an instant, its just you two,
You both know, you feel, together,
Neither person speaks, then,
That burning sense, pleasure,
There it is, that beginning moment,
Love.

©2019, Donald Harbour

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Etymology of the Heart

Deep down inside of me,
a question lingers, languishing.
Which heart will I have today?
That muscle that contracts,
The one that pumps life, or
The one that aches, and waits.
Playing the jester to hearten
these heartless hours, comically
synchronizing each heartbeat.
Ticktock of this life’s clock,
it is folly to believe the song of heartstrings
could capture the fire of desire.
So I wait for the masters’ decision,
its heart-to-heart prognostication,

©2019, Donald Harbour

Testimony

I have watched, listened, experienced,
Pondered to learn from contradictions,
Those gaps, the teachers in a man’s life .

There are glaring misconceptions,
The folly of blatant mental posturing,
Delusional justifications trying to define a man.

They are misguided, shortsighted,
Easily manipulated, injected,
The vinegar of male inoculation.

These vocal dystopian needlers,
Miserable knife wielding neuters,
Harpies ingesting the food of manhood.

Some would saddle the horse, ride him,
Use the crop until his strength stumbles,
But, no man is anyone’s beast of burden.

Some may think this folly of conjecture,
But, it bears the soul of Occam,
Simply put, we are what we are.

Acceptance is a harsh reality, truth,
The granite laid by life’s history,
It is the blame game between sexes.

Wasted posturing, justifying microniches,
The piddling prattling of want-a-be’s,
Never reaching the stature of a man.

Even a male praying mantis, comfortable,
Feeling safe in his exoskeleton,
Until an unsatisfied female mantis devours him.

Damned to live

It is oh, so subtle,
No remark, no words said,
A slight shifting of the eyes,
A movement of the shoulders,
An unfinished breathe,
These slight adjustments change us.
I know you, I can see you,
I am drawn into your aura,
A quirk of conversation,
The words drift aimlessly.
No connection to the moment,
It is miss direction, a slight of hand,
This is all a magic show, nothing,
Nothing in our future,
Will over come this passing.
The bond between becomes broken,
Memories crumble,
They are foundations built on sand,
Yet you persist,
Always the fanatical true believer,
And I, a skeptic lover knowing that,
I am damned to live in your lies.

©2018, Donald C. Harbour

I am crowing for you

Morning is prying at my eyelids,
a nagging beggar demanding my attention.
It’s begging bowl gray clouds scudding,
held in the palm of a chilly autumn wind,
the rim loudly banging on the front door.
Somewhere a rooster offered a raspy croak,
a half hearted cock-a-doodle-do,
not a pleasant prospect of events.
You were buried in the cotton covers,
a wall of bricks plastered with blankets,
I feeling a conjugal urge to merge.
The rooster rules the rooster’s roust, but
there is a barnyard hierarchy, pecking order,
one’s order deduced by the clucking hens,
the mares nips at the stud, sows
nudge the boar away from the tough,
the bull levies his interest subtly,
modulated to the cows seasonal expectation.
You are not that tolerant, judgmental,
you are a woman ruled by the unknown.
I a furnace of heat, you a chasm of ice,
would, that you would thaw, melt into me,
then, hear my full throat cock-a-doodle-do.

©2015, Donald Harbour

A guest in lavender

Someone has arrived with spring,
A gangly girl cast in a lavender hue,
She sojourns at the garden gate,
Positioning her whimsy there,
Her want to protect the portal,
My wife has unfounded jealousy,
She says this spindly guest mocks,
Though she has not spoken, she clings,
Rearranging the wooden fence tactfully,
I find her a rather refreshing temptress,
Sliding beneath the crocus and rose,
Her gown of green lifted, baring,
Leggy female of Mother Earth,
You have interrupted my plans,
How can I but love you, my sweet,
Unwelcome beauty, euphonious Wisteria.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

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