Upon the Brookdale walk,
My Husky sniffed a dead thing,
"Ah the Yellow Browed Sparrow"
Returning in the spring,
Feathered in the mundane,
Like his local cousin
With an expression most absurd,
Though the " White Throated Sparrow"
Was the proper word,
Now with that help of textbook,
And techno society,
Amongst the mean mugged house sparrows,
I can spot him in his slight degrees,
But if we lose our civilization,
And its lasered blazonry,
I will spot him by his big Ol Yellow Brows,
And that's what his name will be.

A walk nowither in winter's wasted wood,
Finding a deep quarried chasm,
From whence I stood,
A raven suddenly alights from a stunted tree,
Over breathless edge, eye level with me,
Like a pyschopomp with much ensiled underneath,
***** the raven over a quarry that has long since ceased,
And as if those wings flapped off the dust,
Of the ensiled toy size trucks,
I began to look around, in the wasted wood surround,
Everything matched the chasm, in its strangled hue,
Even a derelict station wagon, and through its cracked rear view,
A television set, cooking wares--
Far from any path but perhaps are overgrown,
All reflected the sides of the chasm, even in their ghastly chrome,
Even the Knickerbockers in their amber glass of old.
This site had no Rhodenite,  that much sought Stone of Love,
No Roxbury Pudding nor Chocolate Garnet were among,
Only the Granite Moonlit Rose,
And all her blushing has succumbed.
So I took the lightless amber,
And threw it into the blank dumb deep,
" Who are you, what you cannot speak?"
I impugned and laughed off the quarry,
And continued on to leave,
And when I would have thought the glass hit bottom,
I felt tracked and not alone,
In the corner of my view,
With amber eyes now sunlit gold,
A fox, furred in granite, of the silver blue Breathless Rose.

Now I'm only happy when I'm leaving,
Like this tide going out to ebb,
For it was the beginning of our retreating,
Amidst the laughing gulls,
And her slow braceletted steps,
We retreated so much further in,
As her sarong wraps her waist,
Her hair styled by the wind,
With loose strands over her face,
The gulls calmly floating, watching,
Undulating with the waves,
" That's a sand piper," I reply,
As I watch her squinting gaze,
Her anklet glimmering in the silver tide--
Of dying curls that gently fade,
Now I am only happy when I am receding,
For we were split apart returning to the extended beach,
And cleaved on the rocky purple jade,
As if I were only dreaming,
A cottage owns over the path we made,
Oh how I wish we could enjoy how the plovers run,
"Look at their little legs,"
But high tide must darken things,
When the ebb is done,
Far out we kissed as the sun was dimmed,
Now sand sharks and spider *****,
Patrol where we stood above,
Her anklet would be far submerged,
And sand pipers there are none,
Dam these petty but powerful purple jade rocks,
And that expanding cottage that cordoned off,
Now I am only happy when the tide is retreating,
And wish it to never return again,
With this jagged shore fleeing
We would walk out forever without an end.
Those lovely sky blue eyes, over sun burnt cheeks,
If only for eternity in low tide we could spend,
But now I pray for dreamless sleep,
When the moon is a silver bracelet upon the deep,
And over a purple jade the waves ascend.

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

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.

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.