" So what color are my eyes?"
they are the color of mine,
Ah yes, but a blue lake reflects my green pines,
"So whats my name?"
a name unworthy,
if not with ****** planet same,
unreachable for all who fain.
taking away the breaths
of all who came.
" So what do you do?"
I do what I did,
no longer, now that I met you.
" Smooth, so whats in my drink?"
Goddesses drink ambrosia I think,
and snapping to attention,
with a 'clink',
is eternal ice serving as your heat sink.
" Such words, sharp as your jawline."
And that is why your beauty I decline,
"Oh"
If you have me you will no longer be divine.

War and peace, no difference to be had,
Slave or private will 'fire the house and the bath.'

And in that Georgian mansion,
with the candalabra dancing,
A kiss upon the lips of the beautiful belle,
one of the flames,
only military torch can sustain,
because life is war, and war is hell.

When a poem hits you, treat it like ***** under the front porch.  Yell " *** out da dere dam *****, ***, ***." And those ***** will scamper, and you'll think they're gone, but they will scurry right back, bebopping right under your pensive stare to the sunset on the front porch.  " ***, ***, dang, *****" and they bebop away, then you'll think it's fate , and you'll wait up all night, to catch the fat mother lollygaggin back, and you'll say " *** undah dat dang porch, ya dang *****," and you'll stare at the moon on that porch, saying" dang moon, *** ***, give me that dang sunsit."

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.

Lounge on Willow bough,
golden savannah below,
and savannah in her hair,
feet swinging in air.
fractioned light from above,
sky seeps 'tween leafy green,
as the eyes of my love,
no 'squito can be seen,
from dragon fly hard at flap,
beautiful wings,
as long lashes of her bat,

I rest on rough bark,
and she rests on my heart,
in the mansion they dine,
but  no where else I want to be,
then on a lover's recline in the Willow Tree.

If I ever devote my love,
to a fellow devotee,
will be my escape of Forest,
where I was her escapee.

I am dying out loud,
from a wound to my hat,
how can I die,
from something like that?
I have her lettuce,
with the lettuce my poem lacks.
my hat needs an E.R,
and a brand new stat.

"So what are your eyes seeing?"
Only deaths of beautiful human beings,
while the hideous pass on by fleeing.
"So, in what do you believe?"
That to the back,
comes the knife from the sleeve.
and with your wife, he will sleep.
"If any, who do you pray to?"
Devil, god, wind--anything that is fatal,
or the unlikely, like a princess in the fable.
"In lieu of these things, there are not many options,
what do you see yourself being?"
A very lonely man, writer and tragedian.

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 many 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 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,
The air above 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 children 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.

I like ink,
and  I like chicks,
and I like ink mixed with skin,
but I also like skin,
with only sweat mixed in.

You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the *******--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)

I stroll through forest, still in slumber
branches sway, as I lumber.
curtain of weeping pavillion,
infinite stars down to million.
I sit in prop root of willow's gurney,
childhood start, I end journey.
back brings hand of icy chill,
head brings hand of fever still.
skin weeps; icy branch to break,
wind's music through willow lace.
finally cared for, and feeling slumbrous,
bedding down forever, in willow umbrage.

My snow laden arborvitae,
lithely bent,
green gowned--
hand you lend,
for me to kiss it,
whence--a suitor's snowfall
you elicit
and return tall,
as best dressed,
in winters ball.

I am tired and want to die,
I am not Atlas, but still
try to hold up the sky.

But it is not your sky I hold up,
it is her heaven, over violent sea.
she needs my help--I need help,
sunset-- I am down to knee.

If my arms weaken--
I lose faith,
my young angel,
will disappear into ocean--
without trace.

Every morn I stand,
somedays refreshed;
when ocean is quiet,
and clouds resemble
sunday dress.

My angel in heaven,
sea spray can lash my face,
wind can howl in my ears--
I will still hold your heaven in place,
from falling in the ocean of tears.

I was in a bar, smiling so,
a beautiful girl looked in my eyes,
and said "let it go",
who she was, I do not know.

speed and burst govern the pond,
the hunting dragon fly the fastest,
but bass swallows up then absconds,
I throw my line under high hawk,
feeling good not to be preyed upon.

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 don't 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.

Go my husband, show the Romans how to die.

Poison will slip thru my lips,
As the gladeus slips your spine.

Go my love, give the Romans something to write,
Inhale the smoke, from the sacred Athenian grove,
The invaders burn where we were vowed man and wife.

Go my husband, show their might ~love is Etruscan,
That once ruled their tribe,
Look, the Roman General already wants a Greek wife.
And wants to spare your life,

Go,
Our love will make their spears sigh,
After defeat,
They run into their own swords, held by their trusted centurion chest high.
After defeat,
We run into each others arms,
For the last kiss on this side,
The enemy can know,
We gaze forever into each-other with death's unblinking eyes,
Go my love, show them what we value in life,
Preparing for the last tragic nuptial,  
To find each other through the dark death night.

A dragon fly, sits on a low wire,
with cross swords on his back,
looking like a gymanst,
  on the pommel horse,
balanced for the attack.
I drag my ciqerette, then give it a tap,
as fast as a gas fire,
the dragon gobbles up all my ash.

I used to sing that song " Im the man,Im the man ,Im the man."

But then my girl would hit me with a frying pan, frying pan, frying pan.

Now i lip sync so she cant understand, understand, understand.

For all she knows im saying yes m'am yes m'am yes m'am...but under my breath im the man im the man im the man.

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.

I shall put the ' meaning of life"
at the center of my poems,
protected by paragraphs,
it shall be safe, unread,
and never known.

A man adrift out at sea.
A plan to drift to the shipping lane,
hoping to be the merchant's gain,
He speared a dorado with his gaff,
broke and stuck in ,she almost sliced his raft in half.
The solar stills not working, dehydration pain,
now have to keep pumping up raft, 30 days insane.
Almost to the shipping lane.

Patch the raft, just in time,
at night it is a waterbed of prodding sharks,
the rubber rubs your wounds with added salt.
You fall asleep then are rammed in the dark.
Looking to "throw a brick at the temple"*,
But there is no brick, night ocean resembles,
And there is no Diane on the moon in wane,
Only drifting to the shipping lane.

Sun and storm, random waves,
Reptilian blinking, forty days.
You have reached the shipping lane,
your flare goes out, their massive hulls cruise by,
accepting death with the starry sky,
Seeing lost souls in moonlit streaks,
wrecked catamarans, submarines, and fishing fleets.

Drift and drift, days and days,
Like Homer Winslow's '"Turtle Pond"
"Hey Mon"
You have found the colors of the Caribbean.
A young poor fisherman's face--
and though you have nothing valuable to trade--
saved by a small poor boat outside the shipping lane.

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.

Funny thing 'bout dreams,
From whence they come?
And when they go?,
golfing with Jackie,
did not speak did not joke,
An eerie sunlight,
in the golf cart, as he drove.

Then it was night,
Where did he come from?
Now his brother and I in snow,
car broke down,
Jackie shows up to do the tow,
He did not speak, he did not joke,
Realized,
" Jackie you over-dosed."
He proceeded on,
So he would not leave I did not come close,
When he came I did not know,
Amid the boundless night and endless snow.
Funny thing dreams--
" ****** Jackie say something--please!"

Then I awoke,
Only empty night and lonely snow.

Now it is just this old house and I,
for the most part, we see eye to eye,
I keep the house spare and tidy,
and the hallways perhaps are clear,
I still set her plate,
as when we had our first dinner here,
it was a summer night,
and she made my favorite in the Navy,
cranberry, meatloaf and gravy.

I need to pack, only a week's worth,
sitting on the floor,
because my knees begin to hurt,
I can reach a bottom draw,
long forgotten it was there,
but as I begin to search,
some crickets loudly chirp.
I am sitting on the kitchen tile,
on the stove's metal I don't recognize my face,
my panic subsides to sorrow,
as I see her empty plate.

The hallways are spare,
and no photos on the wall,
paint or wallpaper I am unaware,
and in the staircase I can never recall.

They are picking me up 0700,
it is a calm cool night,
all is quiet on the street,
all the kids are out of sight,
I cannot get this hose on this rusty spigot,
the night produces a lonely cricket,
her garden is fallow,
and rotting from last year,
she is gone,
the cricket chorus is all I hear.

I fold my clothes nice and tight,
my thin bones in slim Navy whites,
chirping coming from the draw,
a knock at the front door,
" We found him folded
over his suitcase on the bedroom floor."

Darling global warming is true of course,
Just read the graphs and watch the tv reports,
Honey you are acting strange?
Stay home today and we'll go to the firing range.

Darling, darling, you have depression,
Look at the snowflake that you are clutching,
Sweden's snow disappearing down to nothing,
honey, your nervous twitching unrelenting,
Look! a dark eyed Junco, fleeing, flitting,
No need to fly south and so is sitting,
and not to mention--
They robbed you dear, of your youthful spring,
And so the junco in your winter will not sing,
Honey, hurry, watch this news,
Melting slurry during the winter moon.

"You robbed me of my youth."
Oh how the winter's cruel,
Honey, its true of course--
Look! a summer hawk in winter's morph.
Look, honey!  all the people are in flames,
spinning like the weather-vanes.

They are defeated, crushed in a rout,
But let them not die out,
Let us lift this quarantine,
So this sad looking boy will dream,
For when the girls dance to the new moon,
Let them jump out and capture wives,
For who will we rule when the moon resumes?
Depressed lads?
Warriors remembering the killing fields?
lying about as if carried home on shields.

Let the men see the maidens dance,
caressing the night with their hands,
barefoot over calm cool dirt,
swirling their home spun skirt,
singing in octaves we have not,
commemorating how hard we fought.

But Sir, the boy won't go,
His father vanished before the war took hold,
His mother lost her beauty from a soul ice cold,
She dances alone and only to revenge,
In her eyes are the killing fields of men.

Nay, you princes in charge of this city--
Apprentice the lad close to our maidens!
Let him see the beauty of our ladies-in-waiting,
And let the most beautiful young girl see--
How this lad does in order taking,
For I think she will be well pleased,
and he with her.

Sir we have done as you commanded,
Our defeated foes are happy and candid,
And the boy's countenance has changed,
Nervous aloofness  is all it contains.

Very good, he has seen her--
The fellow orphan I presume,
Who amongst dancing
Somberly walks to the new moon.
It is good, for she is tough,
And has seen he is not rude.

Sir, tis the night,
All the men but the boy--
Look forward to this fight,
For the girl and boy are of the same size,
And to carry her off will be a feat of might.

Nonsense, my paige carries double his weight,
As long as one carries love and faith.

Look! the maidens are arm and arm,
The girl walks alone,
Look, the boy has seen how the moonlight on her face has shown,
All have lustrous sheen with olive oil,
But her natural brown hair is his native soil.

Blow the trump, let the men surprise their wives,
But let us watch the lad, he is smitten
Even though she is wan,
All dance barefoot, she trods on.

The men run off under the moon and in laugh,
While the women either laugh or slap.

The boy approaches, the maiden awaits,
Then she grabs him by the throat and kisses his face,
He tries to carry her
Fumblin with nervous touching,
In pale moonlight highly blushing,
He tries to carry her, she tries to carry him,
They fall down a hill when the moon goes dim,

Dedication from him, laughter from her,
Cheers from the knights, " Well done Sir."

This prison is mighty, and mightily made,
Not even a wave of light is allowed,
Nor can the inmates have sound,
And a telescope is too close to this place.

But here is a man of science,
  A safe distance he thinks he is relying,
But no data is allowed from this prison,
Soon as he stepped close an inmate went missing,
Like being ankle deep in a pre- tsunami sea,
Immobilized,
One step, two step, three,
Too bad, the shore is so close,
With all the people he knows,
Pure pity in their eyes,
Even if he could escape the prison
his own newborn babe would slay him at range.
Now the descent,
Locomotive strength drawn into a drain,
Like a towering tidal wave of oblivion-
the door to this prison.

The tide slowly recedes,
shore running away fast,
The sound of a scream
ripped into the doom
and broke apart like glass.

I wouldn't resist the tide,
Nor close the eyes,
Give respect to the Mighty One,
Who made the prison and the inmates inside.

Ah, only to be an artic squirrel,
To sleep till the cold sword past,
Dreaming of green--
Below that cold artic slash.

Only rousing self when the sword hits my sleep,
It pierces my burrow,
Slaying the colors and the maiden,
With its merciless degree.

Ah, to awake to darkness, but with light coming from the door,
The cold sword is sheathed,
And my dreams are restored.

Dearest, a fire warning just came out,
And the hills have columns of clouds,
The breeze does slightly sparkle,
And the curtains do twist in pain
Like before a thunderstorm with only lightning and no rain.
The pendants dim to nothing,
No matter that fluorescence,
Cause your neighbors shed is aflame,
It illuminates the odd decor,
But it is slightly not the same.
Especially the paintings on the wall,
The wind now is streaking,
And there is nobody to call,
The dry fronds light aloft, and send out to the brush,
In turn they send to more,
Stroking more exhaust,
The ambience inside flows and moltens,
And lightens up the paintings,
As if now the meaning is open,
And have been long in waiting.
The wind outside now streaks,
To a burning blur,
The rabbit in the yard, runs in circles,
From the fire in her fur,
How can this be, a painting of a future fever dream?
Activated by the wind,
That streaks so emberly,
And what is this, a man in a valley with skis,
Wrapped head to toe,
As the sunset burns the trees,
And he coughs on snow,
Now a man with a bycicyle,
Next to an unsaddled horse,
Who now looks in haste,
The mare frightened by reports,
This! a drink on the patio with my dearest  love,
At once it looks,
As if Im reclined and they eulogize from above,
Now a man trudging in a blizzard,
And disappearing so,
It's time,  it's time to go,

Looking at the street's burning palms,
Now so intensely a'glow,
The streaking, ever increasing embers,
Canvassing the soul.

My room overlooks snowy hills,
On a house sky high,
I hear my father descending stone stairs,
my mother creaking up attic pine,
My father coming to pick me up saturday morning,
My mother in the attic on a saturday night.

I once saw a mans foot dangle from the clouds,
The roofer above my room outside
A discounted price no doubt,
Tho the roof is above the pines,
The front door is below the stone,
Cant build like that anymore, due to code.

Barely remember anything below 8,
I guess my father used to stay out late,
Sometimes i  would awake to the summer day,
With knocks at the door for brunch,
Down the stairs flying i would go,
Only opening to the night, the stone and the cold.
The meanest dreams I know.

The snowy hills can play tricks,
Like the day I saw a fox,
Outside looking over the pines,
Something distant, rubbing my eyes,
Coming so close I see it trot.

I know she is carrying memories,
When I hear those creaking stairs,
I snuck up to the attic once,
And those windows rattled in that jetstream air.
I found a photo, diagonally ripped in half,
A hand on the shoulder of a boy about to laugh,
It looked like the boy was smiling to the darkness,
Due to the album being black.

These snowy hills can be cruel,
From the attic I can see that fox,
It comes so close, in that leafless distance,
then it suddenly stops.

I missed a spot shaving,
So I had to shave my head,
Blake failed the tape again,
A diet of insults everywhere he went,
Shelley didnt shine his boots,
Off to the mud was led,
Byron was late,
So they gave him a fifty pound concrete  watch instead.
First squad in the front,
Is always squared away,
In front of them is the platoon leader ,
who talks of " his sacred duty,"
All the frigging day,
I'm in third squad, with weapons squad to my rear,
They always smell of minty tobacco,
With a hint of beer,
They always win worst uniform,
And Today it's Poe who wears the badge,
1st squad threw his cap in the dumpster,
And he's swimming in the trash.

Now they have changed the regs,
But only if your dog tags say,
If you like turbins or small hats,
Instead of black berets,
" later suckah" says my squad member Frost,
Before he boards his plane,
They all take religious leave on Maui,
Where they drink and smoke all day,
Now we have girls in our formation,
Previously we had none,
Now Tennyson in 2nd can go goth with eyeliner,
And Keats can grow his hair in a viking bun,
The P.L keeps talking of his sacred duty,
As weapons squad vomits up the chow hall lunch.
Then one day we have a new PL
She only calls us numbers,
And rotates us like a clock,
All family and  religious leave,
She dutifully put a stop,
Said no one can marry,
And for the greater good we are a part,
She had the apes in first squad,
Inspect our barracks room,
And took down all illicit art,
In it's place she put up posters,
Of the President, or Chief of Staff?
But when she took the *****,
Poe took that very hard,
So he shot the posters through,
With his bar room darts,
She found Keat's ***** pump,
In the ceiling tiles with ***** tapes,
We were starting not to fear the muscle,
Of her 1st squad recon apes,
Then spoke Byron,
Still dragging his heavy block,
"My team- mates, we must fight,
Or they will never stop,
They are making me write an essay,
On the Farah Fawcett poster I bought."
So we started to act,
Like a shining brand new clock,
But assembled on a Saturday night,
by a drunken ******, at the navy docks,
When they said turn left,
We turned right,
Sing this, we sang that,
We whispered as the bishop,
And weapons squad farted as the rook,
We harranged first squad,
For all our property they took,
And they did smoke us,
Like fat and skinny fish,
Push ups and low crawls,
But our formation was tight knit,
Then, it was them, who caved,
religious and family leave was saved,
And much to their dismay,
We drank and smoked for the lesser part of the day.

"Retired at 59, what now?"
Once you drive back my rv,
I will travel.
"Fort Myers Beach looks nice,
if only you could wake up before 3pm,
But we made the sunset, and some girls--can't get over facing the ocean on the other side,
different from Mass."
I know, my brother said the same thing.
"I forgot you had a brother."
He drowned in Aruba, his wife waived his autopsy.
"When do we have to be back by?"
I have a doctors appointment on Tuesday.
" Nice you can get some action getting naked for your Doc."
She won't even touch me, but always schedules me for checkups.
But everything checks out okay.
" Anything run in your family?"
Aside from being boozebags nothing.
" yeah you said your father died at 82 that's old."
My sister got him killed.
" What , ha, what the ******* talking about?"
She was his hospice nurse, and didn't bathe him.
He got an infection, and sent him to the hospital,
Listen the hospitals will only **** you, they drugged him up and sent him home, and he died.
She had one job.
Same thing with my mother, throat cancer, then the nurse gets paid to watch you die.
"Ah,  Check out these girls, thongs."
You should go talk to them, girls love you.
" yeah right, I don't need their love."
Jen loves you.
" Ha yeah Ok, she loves everyone."
Did you text your mother you landed safe?
" Ha, no, why?"
She doesn't get concerned?
" It's a plane ride."
You don't think that roof is little dangerous to do by yourself?
" ****, killed many an irishman."
I'm serious, that house and hill is nuts.
" Eh it's fine."
If you fell, who would see you?
" The sunset."
What if you died, what about your mother?
" She would see the sunset on the other side."
Alright, let's get some beers and watch the bruins.
" I wish you could wake up earlier,
it's already dark, cant get over the ocean being on that side, i keep thinking its east."
Stop complaining, it will be bright in the bar, try to have a good time.

Chica Baca laca maca....et cetera,
Where the lady sunfish are gold,
And  are truth tellers,
And the chain pickerals are bold,
And truth be told,
Those chains could not hold,
For Chaca Baca laca maca... whatever,
As Lake Unabash is known,
Was more humble when it was cold.

Baca daca lacka Baca Goo,
In the native or Lake Unabash will do,
The green male sunfish had electric gills,
Like neon lightning went up through,
But now wear a pumpkinseed coat,
So fall color is always new,
And the lady bass jump in the boat,
To tell the skipper where to go.

Shooka booka lacha nooka....
Or just Lake Trudeau,
The old catfish still fly their whiskers,
But only at night in bubble whispers,
For all the show is during day,
When a mother musky eats a duckling on its way,
Then to a fisherman turns to say,
I am a truth teller,
And you men have had your time!

Chaka ooka alla moola,
Or just Lake ****** truth be told,
Was more humble when it was cold,
Now the water recedes the lake,
And with summer lasting later,
"Hey how ya doing" from a stranger,"
And now new to Lake Annoy,
The alligator fills the void.

Man not the less, but nature more,
Saithe not the lowly but a lord^,
And I not at all, and nature only,
Rather clutchest thorn of poison forb,
Then remain on path, and remain lonely,
And rather their canine tooth to absorb,
Prefer to stroll through ticks and toxin of
     hemlock forest,
And only the rat snake's diamonds I consider flawless,
Then their brownstones filled with horror,
Even the grey she wolf looks in scorn,
And with all creation wish their cities unborn,
Their mighty towers that mirror sky,
Only the lightning can afford,
Or the golden eagle flying by,
So let them mirror storm,
For their rallies are like rats under a hovering rough legged hawk,
Provoking much,
Or the swift^lawyer lecturing the rocks he stands atop,
Carving them away, until they split and gush,
Write a script, to heal thyself,
Better yet write a script for those you hurt,
Better to be a black bear licking your own wounds of dirt at least,
Than to listen to honking well fed geese,
And why do you boast on high, just because you can?
Look to the blue hills,
They will remain and you will never be again.

To think, this was once glacial till,
A million sabbaths to cure this ill.

Excuse me, its the law,
And it is on the sign,
As water flows uphill,
And your kayak is in my eyes,
I dial 9 1_1- just fine,
For what I cant stand,
Is lawbreakers in my land,
For my eyes are chimes,
Swaying to my closeted crimes,
If you ring my bell and run,
Dont think that you have won,
I will wait for the slight breeze,
And for a petty-crime you will be hung,
For upon the law, and to wit, I do tell you a truth,
I peer out a vertical slit,
But it is my chimes that gather my proof.

If your happy hide it,
Like a rabbit from the hawk,
Smiling as you confide it,
On taloned stilts on a friendly walk,
Smile when they smile,
But don't let them take you far from home,
The vulture will self pity,
If he can't swallow an entire bone,
Don't let them guilt you,
That they and you are in league,
Don't let them blind you,
With a shining sea,
For that purpose,
The osprey's eyes have dark streaks,
But smile truly,
For the city above the pines,
That forms in the mist,
In the calm cool summer night,
Where every citizen is king,
And queen,
As it ever sparkles before the dawn,
Like many fireflies, with no dragonflies to prey upon.

-- Keith Joseph Collard
Godbless

Kevlar plates much lead,
  Night vision sharks,
And a ladder to ascend,
The raft pulls on a cargo ship,
The night sea rips a hand away,
In the flash-lit night sea spray,
The prowler finishes what it begun,
He disappears grasping bottom rung,
And not satisfied with only one,
His helper sinks forever to the ocean bed,
With much kevlar, and Navy lead.

                            *
Three stare at a tidal pool,
A sighing then dying foamy gown,
Two in thongs,
That the foamy dress wants to wrap around,
Like champagne off the rocks,
The sea toasts aloft,
He let's her jump in,
Why not they are quite fit?
Tho the surging waves beg to differ,
They press, dress, and grip her,
Finally locking her in it's awful room,
To his credit he jumps in,
The pool lowers,
Revealing him on a rock trying to cling,
They disappear forever with her hand in his.

                            *
A cruise ship in Bahama green blue,
If there parents only knew,
That blacktips love their children more,
When pushed off from shore,
Much drink, much youthful pride,
Scheming hearts when it's girls and guys,
Someone takes up a night time dare,
Being followed unaware,
A splash and the night green blue,
" Bye Bye"
Forever separated from party in view,
Then gliding forms, like ghosts,
Almost spectral,
Tries to swim back, disappears,
trying to board a vessel.
                 *
85 on a winters day,
With a price in Waimea Bay,
The surfers are out there,
So it's safe?,
Surfers are ****** brave!
Only up to knees,
girls stay on the beach,
Every six foot wave,
the surfer takes,
Crashes 30 feet high shore break,
A separated shoulder,
A crowd and"no swimming" tape
out of breath from sets of 5,
Once shallow,
Now a chasm to the other side,
lay behind,  float way out,
want to die without a shout,
No father on earth,
and no brethren beyond the tape,
Without love without hate,
Then something in the water,
something spectral,
" Hey bra ya alright?"
A pyscho surfer aboard his vessel.

Under the Georgian pines,
Outside a Georgian fort,
We throw our bayonets to make them stick,
Like the Downy Woodpecker on her course,
We also bayonet our feet,
And slice off blistered skin,
We hear the Tufted Titmouse peep,
Whenever we begin,
A Pewee grabs a fly,
Where those apical trunks column above,
As we stand in the chowline,
And pick the ticks off the men in front,
We can no longer smell,
Thank God,
And blend in with the clay,
If a scented woman came by,
We would worship her like the Yellow Warbler,
In this shadow glade,
Oh how we long for something sweet,
Taunted by the liquorice of Nuthatch and Chickadee,
For all our ****** meals are doused,
With the ****** juice of beats,
Now all night under the pines,
I know the Saw-Whet does not screech,
It sounds like an alarm,
Beckoning the Georgian heat,
And from on high those eyes,
Laughing at the night vision we have made,
As we stumble into our latrine,
That we didn't cover with the *****,
Oh how we miss some music,
As we endlessly gather,
We swoon all day from heatstroke,
And our gloomy cadence is mimicked by the Thrasher,
Under the Georgian yellow pines,
In the setting reddish glow,
From the color of her blue sky,
And the clay around her blue throat,
Walks a fellow Bluebird,
In official infantry color we now know.