Keith Collard Sep 2017
Slipping through the cracks is not necessarily a bad thing,
When all were ordered to register for taxes, I did not know where to check in,
I thought i found it but a wilderness I was in,
I got angry at taxes, but then a bird began to sing,
I returned and from the taxes everybody was on the brink,
I was hated for smiling hearing the songbird still sing,
And from the taxes, they smiled only when i began to sink,
They say i am at fault from the newspapers I get the hint,
Slipping through the cracks is not necessarily bad I think.
Keith Collard Jun 2017
Whatever abandoned chick I dropped at the sparrow's feet,
it flew off--and returned with a worm in his beak.
And she doesn't eat first at the feeder--no, not with my overweight chickens beneath her.
Those tiny heads getting hit with seed never know--no, the seed comes from the sparrow they're below.  
And when I think back, think back as far I can go, my Nana whistled and drew the sparrow, " Come Nana, let me try--- I can't draw or whistle but I can write."
Watching those sparrows mid flight--No, mid fight--chasing the hawk from a robin's nest with the mother out of sight. Those sparrows still on the sill with my Nana under hospital light, what--what a fight!
And we laughed until she became still, and the sparrows flew from her windows sill,
Then I remember--I remember the words of Paul, my grandmothers faith did not die, did not die at all,  these sparrows traveled far, from Jerusalem, through England, and now, now in my yard.
And when the bright birds flee winter, the sparrows stay, reinforcing my faith, and when come summer, and they are lying dead like a penny,I remember her faith brought us to to the land of plenty.  " Come Nana, let us sing,
' Two sparrows for a penny...two sparrows for a penny" and we laughed until-- laughed until those sparrows flew from the window sill.
Keith Collard Feb 2017
Hard ground,
shoulder numb,
Or  screams,
From top bunk,
"Why does he do that?"
"  killed wife and kids
" Driving drunk."
and the bed bugs,
hatching out her head,
luckily none in my bed.
and the staff's flashlight glow,
The inside alarm,
A Taunting dawn,
Strutting slow,
" it is getting cold."
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,

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 reach for the flashlight glow,
I will sleep in the woods as long as I can go,
Defying "Gentlemen it's getting cold."

I will make the crows alight,
From my canopy of spiritual night,
They thought I--a corpse but I am not,
they woke me with their caw,
and I dispersed them with my cough,
laying on my back in the lonely wood I saw,
my perch of depression since youth aloft--

they are not dark prophets now that I hear them ,
venom produces the coma and the serum,
In my lonely distance, I gained wisdom,
It's the past,  and I forgive them.

Awaiting death's canopy thankfully glad,
God bless the truly mad,
God bless the slow and limping,
It was meant for me --
that cup from which they are drinking,
For they are lost to keep it missing,

And my alarm clock was not set to eat--
The pill that makes them go back to sleep,
Mine told me to be brave,
*God reaching from heavens , finger to finger with Man on Vatican ceiling , by Michelangelo
Keith Collard Nov 2016
I am your liar and thief,
now those older brutal bullies,
bow at your feet.
Those brutal mountains,
" can I get one on the cheap?"
surely, serve me,
and tell a mountain to leap,
and it will leap.
I am your liar and your thief,
remember when you closed your eyes,
and still you could see--
those mountains slumped,
when you served them me,
inside my tent-heavenly ecstasy,
I can get you past the thorny gate,
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed,
I am your liar, and your thief,
buy four, get the fifth for cheap,
you entered my tent--
now I enter your dreams,
you ran out of me,
hurricane season in Charlestown it seems,
one step outside my eye,
and you lose my golden beams,
remember that one time in my tent,
you closed your eyes and still you could see,
now tonight you go to sleep,
and you ran out of my golden beam,
the doctor in your dream,
was feeding you to lobsters,
and she was Chinese,
come back to me,
to your liar and your thief,
this time, they don't get the fifth for cheap,
and now you not the mountains must leap,
remember how pathetic you felt,
fed alive to lobsters,
by the female Doctor in your dreams,
stick to my dwindling golden beam,
mountains of wreckage on this Charleston street,
its just you and me,
remember when you closed your eyes and still could see?
surely if you have enough faith,
those mountains again can get the fifth for cheap,
but for now I will help you sleep,
its just you and me now on this Charleston street,
mountains sure will look like they jump,
when you are crumbling debris,

I am forever your Liar,
I am forever your thief,
I can get you past that thorny gate--
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed. ;)
My poems are authenticated by my typos ;)
Keith Collard Jun 2016
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.
Keith Collard Jan 2016
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.
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