The Holy Grail

by Keith Collard    0 followers
"this quest is not for thee...."
Keith Collard
  Aug 5, 2012
Keith Collard · Jul 25, 2012

Bed of sandcrystal,
warm, in north stream,
the demi-goddess,
Blue Crystalline.

paling boys,
in her eddies,
The Courtesan,
submerging pennies.

Breathless blue hair,
water up to thighs,
fine powder skin,
makes pins of eyes.

Such bliss,
such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

hushes you on,
to sandy shoal,
her island,
cindering blue coal.

river bed turns brown,
swim out of fear,
gurgling lows of pain,
but returns her chandelier

water level caresses,
down to knees,
reaching nympth,
hot bath in winter breeze.

corsette of diamonds,
sparkles in night air,
middle of river--
isolation--her lair.

unalone now, warm,
your arms she is wrapt,
go to kiss her,
only gives neck and back.

try to turn her chin
to give her a kiss,
but snowflakes,
melt with fingertips.

island diminishing,
grip her tight,
nymph in arms,
sliver of moon-light.

dissolving island,
is blue hour-glass,
cold forest speaks,
"son come back"

you huddle to the,
last cinder that's dry,
she is reflection now,
inviting you inside.


a look back to forest,
is a look up as if--
you were descending,
fathoms to an ice cold abyss.

sky and forest are gone,
veil and hearse have met,
family frames twinkle,
down to you in her depth.

such bliss,
in such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

this poem is about painkiller addiction(blue perc 30's) "no coat in winter time, pins of eyes" is someone who is not living naturally, when she wears off, the cold comes for you.  If you meet her, you probably won't make it, " she is reflexion now inviting you inside" to the depths of heroin, her master.
  Feb 26, 2012
Ida Werrett · Dec 19, 2011

Brave Knights have searched in vain
for this greatest prize.
Suffered many a perilous journey
when they had to but lift their eyes
and gaze upon the seed of God's,
sewn and nurtured on this earth
to be given flower...
through mortal birth.

                                     Ida Werrett

  Feb 18, 2012
Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough; although

He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.

 
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