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Keith Collard Jul 2019
The utmost beauty, I ever espied,
a river *******--
overtaken by a saltwater tide.
The sun bleached pebbles "Ka-ching"
Climbing down an ocean wall of railroad ties,
I see the ******* from this L-shaped cove,
I do not tarry for my burning soles,
the cooling sand then ankle cold.

My foot feels the soft murky grass,
A crab's tickles across my foot,
then I trip over line of a derelict trap,
I quickly recover after chilling splash,
And search a more clear and sandy path,

The horseshoe crab retreating to waist high deep,
Where forlorn buoys and rowboats rock to sleep,
Like a helmet with many mechanical legs,
She disappears into the darkness with her eggs,
I turn to look back at the cottage I left behind,
Like a cat-o; nine tail the flag whips the sky,

I reach the clean and purest sand,
Of this island not made by man,
My steps bring me up amidst this river,
unlike the coming current that makes me shiver,
the water is in no rush, so a nice warming touch,
I find a hollow and recline as if in a tub,
and watch the seagulls battle the wind above,
The cottages looks so distant fleeting,
With the air above their shingles distorted from super heating.

The wind intercepts all shouts from shore,
like an osprey swooping down then back to soar,
It is alittle lonely, and beyond the ******* scares me,
I think a jellyfish--
when my foot touches something hairy,
Things cruise by in the current,
Then I start to notice my ******* fading,
I must leave or soon be wading.

Back at the cottage,
With childrens laughing, calling sand castle making,
Through itchy dune grass and hot sand traipsing,
I look back at the river in full high tide,
Waiting for my island to rise.
Humahrock Massachusetts, brief glimpses of my obscure childhood.  Like the *******, town and coast gone and developed.  I stand by it, the most beautiful vista of a lonely boy ever in the universe.
Keith Collard Jun 2019
I do not need a grand sepulchre,
Nor be remembered in bronze,
Dont need a sculpted beauty,
To tend me after I'm gone.
No reflecting fount,
Or grand account,
No Angels of death,
No Angel's of peace,
No greek god in bas relief,
Leave me be, let me not be still,
Let the mettalic wings flutter from winter chill,
Let the past be dead,
And my memory make you friends,
Let my memory conjure love,
And not cold to touch,
Let it rival the sunset,
With the dawning wings of the Oriole above.

Bury all our woes from household ills,
Without maintenance--
Without upkeep,
Overgrown on our stroll through the Forest Hills.
Forest Hills cemetery,  Boston MA
" He will not slumber nor sleep...." On the entry arch.
Keith Collard Jun 2019
She is thirty five,
But I see twelve,
" I love you mommy"
After being flip and raised by hell,
It's too late for love,
" get the hell out of my house."

She told a memory,
Once,
About her Dad and herself,
" Daddy please dont go behind there with her."
She doesn't tell her mother, but the truth comes out,

" He took me to see the fireworks."
In an innocent voice of twelve.
Keith Collard Mar 2019
A thought from Frost*
"Fire or ice in the end?"
Fire is revenge,
Ice is cruel deep and dark,
both will come,
Like icy comets,
That heat up when breaking apart,
Not from the heavens,
But from the human heart.
*Robert Frost's poem
Keith Collard Feb 2019
Funny thing about dreams,
From whence they come
Or where they go,
I was golfing with Jackie,
He did not speak, He did not joke,
Then it was night,
His older brother and I in the snow,
The car broke down,
Jackie showed up to do the tow,
He did not speak, he did not joke,
Then the sadness, " Jackie you over-dosed."
He just stared his eyes down low,
Proceeded on, to do the tow,
Like a warning,
he did not speak, he did not joke,
Like an angel in a ghost.
Keith Collard Feb 2019
At a bus stop,
Town well to do,
A summer so green,
And an ocean so blue,
A mere speck the battered lonely kite,
Approaching is a retired gent and wife,
The well to do, the battered kite aloft,
did not say hi, did not stop,
instead had something to hand-off,
"  For smiling"
and in my palm-- a butterscotch.
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