Mountains Of Guilt

We build our own mountains,
the pinnacles in our strife.
The mountains of guilt
that harbours all our fears.
We fear to talk to friends
in case our failure with them
brings anger and condemnation.

However, some are not like that,
their patience is long and lasting.
They feel no anger only frustration
when someone fails to contact them.
They begin to build their own mountains
fearing they have done something wrong,
but know not what.

Therefore, more mountains
are gathered here and there
because no consultation
takes place anywhere.

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poem by David Harris
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Wallflower

I remember when I was young,
the wallflower I used to be.
I would sit and watch
others gaze into each other’s eyes,
seeing the passion burning there.
All the time I was thinking,
will this ever happen to me?

Many times, I tried to excerpt myself,
and for my effort
received questioning stares.
Who is this weirdo?
Where did he come from?
It was a frustrating time, for this wallflower,
who on the shelf would remain.

I had no chat up lines,
only a pen and pad,
everyone who looked at me,
must have thought that I was mad.

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poem by David Harris
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Boy Racer

Into the maw of darkness,
the boy racer sped
trying the chase the dreams
that spun around his head.
Trying to empress his friends
with the driving skills, he never had.
His three friends yelled
as excitement filled their minds
as they charged into the darkness
all without a care.
The rain came down in torrents
and still he sped on
oblivious to the dangers
if he did not slow down.
As the visibility lowered
the boy racer’s speed increased.
He could out run this
was all that was on his mind.
The wall appeared in front of them,
fear gripped everyone,

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poem by David Harris
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First Loves

Always our first love
is the one we remember most.
That love that seemed beyond our grasp
and always got away.
I remember my first love
and all the things I did to woo her.
The love letters that took
half a dozen envelopes to send,
and the things I bought her
that were all in vain.
We talked to one another
and that’s as far as it got,
no hugs and kisses there.
Then as fast as she entered my life,
she was gone from it.
I heard a few stories,
but never saw her again.
She alone has inspired
so many writings in my life
that I would dearly love to meet her just once again.

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poem by David Harris
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Hidden Roots

In Memory Of My Late Brother
William Verdun Harris
1941 - 2003

Today my mind seemed everywhere,
but on the job, I was doing.
It started in my childhood
and moved into my teenage years
and finally into my adulthood.
Along the way examining the roots
I had laid down all those years ago.
Unfortunately, they were not firm roots
and I drifted from here to there,
my heart never settling in any place I wanted as a home.
Within me, there was a struggle
and I knew not why, then it surfaced
in between the pages of a letter that came from far away.
It told me something
that at first I could not believe,
of how part of my past had been closeted from me.

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poem by David Harris
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A Strand Of Hair

Hills and mountains are dotted
across our landscape fair,
at the top of either
you are at the roof of the world
looking down upon
all who live below.
You stand and gaze at the world
an all the riches it bestows.
Seeing everyone’s destiny
in a strand of hair.

Loves maybe invisible to the naked eye,
but you have to be blind
not to see it in someone else’s eyes.
Strangers pass on a street
neither ever seen the other before.
There is an attraction
that makes them stop and look around;
soon they are together
melting into one another’s arms.

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poem by David Harris
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One-Finger Typist (Fun Poem 122)

I used to be a one-finger typist
and as the one finger wore down,
I discovered how to use two.
Finding that easy to score
and with the added bonus
of being able to play
chopsticks on the piano as well,
I decided to add a little bonus
and increased my fingers to three
and then on to four.
All on the same hand, I might add.
One day my left hand
feeling left in the lurch
decided it was going to join in
and my fingers typing doubled
to the number eight.
The thumbs then got jealous
and came into play.
Now both hands of fingers and thumbs
dance merrily across the keys,

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poem by David Harris
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A Stranger

Sometimes we feel defeated,
we’ve lost the will to fight,
we are about to give up,
and never make a stand.
We think there is no point,
no reason why we should.
All hope is lost now,
like knocking our head on wood.
We’ve been driven down,
by forces of which we have no control.
Our world is spiralling down,
into a murky whirlpool.
Where is that guardian angel,
which is supposed to help us,
in our darkest need?
Have they forgotten about us,
as into the whirlpool we speed?
Just as we are about to reach it,
comes a welcoming outstretched hand,
to drag us away from the water,

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poem by David Harris
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Numbers

Its stranger how some numbers
keep recurring in our lives.
At first, we do not notice it
until one day we think of them.
Our date of birth, houses numbers we have lived in,
our children’s birth date
and our brother or sister’s date of birth.
When you look at them
and one number seems to readily appear,
you begin to wonder if that number
has some bearing on our lives.
The number linked to my life is number 8.
I was born on the 18th,
in Canada the house I grew up in was 28
and my sister was born on the 18th.
Moving to England our house number was 62.
When my wife and I got married,
our first house was 24,
our second house was 18
and our present house number is 107.

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poem by David Harris
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A Modicum Of Madness

The swirl of emptiness threatens me
with its cobweb opponents as they gather
near the tentacles of darkness
crouching in the corners of my mind.
Flights of fantasy jostle me
for prime positions at the show
where the gladiators of life
gather to do battle with some lost soul.
Life portrayed on a large plasma screen
delivers struggles of futility
forever captured on its screen
in the land full of holes,
not those from which we’re born,
but those where discarded husks are thrown.
The madness of a demented mind
trapped forever within a child of rage,
a kaleidoscope of colours pale
dance around the padded cell
where bloodied fingernails
tell the gruesome tale.

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poem by David Harris
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