Boston    1982 -    
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.














.
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.














.

A charred , blackened, frozen thing,
a sunflower in the early spring,
bigger flower heads staring down,
at younger ones staring at frozen ground,
I so wanted this plant to animate,
like a carousel on a summer day,
but they only offered a paltry shiver,
these faces that have lasted all of winter,
a charred, blackened, frozen stalk,
a carousel in an abandoned lot,
so sad how those heads hung,
no longer turning to the warming sun.

I met my best friend where I lost him,
A better soldier was he,
More medals than me,
With honour extended,
Where my memories ended,
he is buried in the Philippines,
Yet I survived the infantry.

"Man not the less, but nature more,"
saith not the lowly, but the Lord°,
and I, not at all, my nature only,
rather shake with thorn of poison forb,
then remain on path, remain lonely,
prefer their canine tooth to absorb,
Than the leash that walketh,
Rather receive Belladonna's nightshade  kiss,
Than receive gifts from their poisoned pocket.

Rather stroll by ticks and toxin in hemlock forest,
Where venomous diamonds molt to keep them flawless,
And only those diamonds will command my  silence,
Only from those blue bloods will I be dying.

Even if my defiance wears me thin,
Climbing away from man-made pathogen,
Last breath atop glaical till--
will inbreath nature--exhale ill.

Quotations from  Lord Byron's poem
Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Dec 22, 2015

I'm almost one with darkness,
So close this shadow thug,
I await the jerking tug,
Into its onyx sharpness,

And such a nightshade blade,
When returns the moon in wane,
The grabber and the stabber,
Are not one of the same.
And I skirt this darkness madly,
Because I am already bleeding badly,
Like the torment of a dream,
For a kiss you go to lean,
And you are lip locked with a scream,
The only way to end,
Is to rip yourself to shreds,
Then the only way to go,
Is hold your head so low,
So your love is never seen,
But you see you made a fist,
By trying not to exist,
Skirting nearer to darkness,
Your only parental kiss.
And it is when darkness is not doom,
Like the bright bullies of high noon,
You have hope in hooded darkness,
To stab yourself,
With the crescent dagger of the moon.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Dec 14, 2015

There is something about the cute brunette,
With long lustrous brown hair over one shoulder,
It is like the common brown sparrow that winters over,
So rare and so mundane,
Like the surviving American chestnut tree Dutch disease has not slain.
And in the branches I look closer, in weather that numbs me,
The sparrow, Fine face, elegant and comely,
The hawks would not feud with her
Lips, glossed with deadly berry of winter-juniper.
I want to  kiss her ,as if a hungry chick in winter,
And such bliss, watching talons miss,
Brown hair parted mid air chasing off hawk as she babysits.

With long boots, and chestnut hair over the shoulder,
Such a vixen, a rarity--as I look closer,
this brunette beauty that winters over.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Nov 11, 2015

Hard ground,
shoulder numb,
Or  screams,
From top bunk,
"Why does he do that?"
"  killed wife and kids
" Driving drunk."

flashlight glow,
The inside alarm,
A Taunting dawn,
Strutting slow,
" GENTLEMEN,
" it is getting cold."
Happiness
In dreams of long ago--
Hunted and destroyed
By flashlight on night patrol,

  And self pity,
Is the only talk,
Creating alarms,
Of a horrid cough,
And only exhaustion
Turns it off.
And when my eyes
Finally open,
Alarmed by
Everything stolen,
Another alarm,
Is preparing,
For the ceo,
Scrubbing hi and low,
Those tall white men,
"Hi Sir"
Where does the money go?

"Gentlemen,
it's cold outside"
Reaching for the light,
How a man,
Died last night,
"The pic of death"
common dying sight,
Finger to finger as
painted ceilings
in Vatican height*

I will not go,
Reaching for
flashlight glow,
I will reach for
true dawn I know,
I'll awake to caws
Of crow I sleep below,

I'll awake by recluse,
With venom truth,
Tickling across my face,
To close for view,

I'll awake to frost,
In the Forrest dark,
Watch
As it swallows up,
My heated evil cough,
Finger to gloom
As I am consumed.

*God reaching from heavens , finger to finger with Man on Vatican ceiling , by Michelangelo,
Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Nov 7, 2015

How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover or the philosopher's stone.

How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose,   I view  blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling truimph of my surface's relief, is from breathless standing ovation beneath. And they applaud in precious sand, a solar gift robbed in my barren lands.

Now is my region of my silver repose,  no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power,  the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood,  and on my stare, intense solar flare,  watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,

I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause  can't bear to sit, , to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit, that you can only read in with my message of eclipse, my message is mercurial, it is theater caused by applause, the temple's pale light of long dead stars, in my eclipse, see what's hidden in movement, when my cold dark temple blinds from its entombment, learn the inner ways of my temples outer gaze, and you will be few like me--the mystical Gnostic--
that can marvel at oncoming inferno that is soul painfully caustic.

Mercury eclipses the sun may 9th 2016
 
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