A poetic lament

You sit alone, contemplating,
your mind pinched Gyrus and Sulcus,
images, words, clouded consciousness,
there it is, that sparkling diamond,
that treasure of thought you sought,
a brief moment of clarity, euphoria,
then a dung ball of interruption arrives,
a question or inconsequential comment,
the pointed needle of deflating conceit,
it is fleeting, this fragile inspiration,
a gossamer thread drifting, swiftly flown,
journeying on winds of distraction,
context lost to bitter miss direction,
the mind adjusts seeking a redemption,
but, the moment is gone, a lost corpse,
and you drift into tomorrow’s challenge.

2015, Donald Harbour

I write because

A poetry prompt group in which I participate, We Write Poems, wants us to write a line poem about: “I write (because).”  There are many reasons why one writes, however the greatest is most likely an inner urge that needs satisfaction and the pure pleasure of putting thought to written word. So here are my thoughts, some of them, the others I will keep to myself. I like to be a little unpredictable.


I write to express my contentious and clamoring inner voice.
I write to better understand humanity, the world, and our place in it, and why emotion becomes an insipid event for those who do not understand poetic verse.
I write to define how life’s emotions impact our relationship with self.
I write to paint a vivid memory upon the wheel of time.
I write to fulfill the artistic side of my nature with creation my canvas,
words my pallet, and poetic form my brush.
I write to leave a lasting evidence of my journey through this moment of existence.
I write so that my words might be a light for others to find their way.
I write to satisfy a natural urge, as one needs food to survive, poetry is the  sustenance to my soul.
I write to say somethings that need to be said and are better said in a poetic verse regardless of where the chips fall.
I write because Gaea and I find it is a spiritual experience that enlightens us together.
I write because there is wonder in the diversity of words and their challenging meanings.
I write because I find camaraderie, and appreciation in the company of poetry and poets.
I write because other than my darling wife Luscious, poetry is my literary mistress full of beauty and gratification.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Write here, now

A simple thing, morning,
The dawn peeks across the horizon,
Purple, orange and grey hued.
Morning clears its throat,
Spitting out the new day,
Its smell carried on a breeze,
Fresh rose scented, moist,
Kissing the open window screen.
Sounds begin to drift in,
The daylight’s foundations:
A baby cries, dogs bark,
An alarm clock speaks, then
A plaintive, “Get up, get up!”
There on my desk,
A cup of coffee steams,
Vapor tails course the air,
I have started my engine,
Waiting for takeoff time.
On the magic carpet monitor,
A poetry blog flickers to life,
Its pixelated prompt challenge,
“Write here, now,” it says.
A simple thing, yet,
There I sit in my underwear,
My left shoulder hurts,
The lower back throbs,
The right knee aches,
The gym free weights call.
My mouth tastes metallic,
Awakening’s first warning savored
I feel anxious…no, I feel compelled.
The table top is strewn with interests,
Pencils, pens, paper, pastel chalk,
An unfinished paper on alien abductions,
Snakes of computer wires writhe,
Books press backs against the wall,
A work area scattered with bills.
They too are simple things, but
Each screams to be noticed,
Demanding,  “write here, immortalize me!”
I am conflicted by choices, responsibilities,
However, they will have to wait,
My bladder has arrived in the “now!”

©2011, Donald Harbour

The Soul’s Poetry seeks Absolution

I once faced this world bound and cast in a pit
of despair.
Words saved me.
I do not claim poetry,
it has claimed me for good
or worse.

The ache with in pounds upon my soul
seeks absolution through its complaint,
those observed moments of life
where truth
meets the lie.

As oil and water separate,
knowing the difference

What I feel is not given to know.

You would not understand.

You would walk along the sandy beach
looking only at the placid surface
of that which is me beneath the waves.

Never knowing the depths.

Never knowing the leviathans there.

My greatest fear is that
there is more.
Something in the dark depths of me
that must be,
should be written.

My greatest fear is that you will never
Reach out and grasp a drop of this water.
These salty tears that would give meaning
to the poetry
I was given to give.

The fear that you will pass by these words and
they will die
as each sunset does,
never to be seen again.

Will you
remember only the sunset?

©2011, Donald Harbour


Have you taken an inventory of your loves?
Which of them comes readily to mind?
Are there those you must ponder to remember?
Our memories are limited
By the moment of desire.
That which seemed love,
A mere channel,
A smokestack.
“I love you.”
I desire you – rather intensely,
I will add.
You churn my butter,
Make my juices flow,
Turn me on.
C’mon, let’s do it,
Preferably to each other.
Does that give you perspective?
Or, what of the real loves,
You know the one sided ones?
Most love is duplicity,
One sided I mean.
Those where you or someone presumed
Couldn’t make the cut.
What’s that line?
“I just don’t think this is going to work!”
Yowsir, yowsir, yowsir, step right up!
You have been dropped.
Or the real prize winner,
“I’ve met someone else.”
Then the codicil,
Wait for it,
“I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Ahhhhh, perfection!
Damn decent of you, don’t you think?
Damn decent.
That’s called constipated reasoning;
Now put a little quiver in your voice.
Here we go one more time (quiver),
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Hell yes you did!
What you mean is you hope you haven’t screwed up.
Then there is the return
Of the prodigal mattress tester.
Most appropriately a month after,
“I’ve met someone else.”
Ring – Ring – Ring: “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s me. Can I see you; I mean can you meet me at Starbucks?”
“Hell no! Come on over now and strap me on.”
That’s real!
“Haven’t had any since last night, you’ll do!”
Why are we creatures of these habits?
Most of our little quips of love
Are learned responses.
We learn them to possess
Excuses for our personal
Deficit gymnastics.
All the psychologists,
All your best friends
Can’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
You’ve cracked the egg,
Baked your tamale,
Plugged the port,
You are toast.
There is always tomorrow.