“Do you think it’s over?”

The question stood silent in the once overly bright workroom, like a meerkat. Except, the den was a turn of tunneled hallways.

Teacher one turned to teacher two, who held her gaze on teacher three. Of the trio, he seemed to be the one broadcasting the question loudest. Stress had made his face haggard, but it was fear that now made it also look sick.

Teacher two shook her head. He seemed like he was going to say it aloud, but they needed absolute silence. The door was locked, the lights out, and they would stay huddled in the corner away from the windows until they were released per established procedure.

This wasn’t an announced lockdown drill. It wasn’t unheard of, but unease settled, prickling between her shoulder blades. She was thankful there weren’t any students at school today. If it weren’t for their scheduled professional development, the stress would have been much greater. It was enough now, already too much.

Teacher one had her phone out, searching for area crime reports, any information, as she also texted their peers. She was the only one who had her cell at the time of the alarm, making the others envious. She had something to do, instead of simply waiting.

Noise. Footfall. The door handle jangled… Finally.


(I can’t even give names to my imaginary peers in this vignette; it’s that kind of scene for me… But it is written, and so it will remain unchanged. What will I do in 2018? I will continue to face my discomforts and fears, acknowledge anxiety, and build myself up. Creative writing will continue to be my therapy and releif.)

From the Bottom

If I could but be drunk 

On ferver and on bliss…

But, alas, could my days be spent

In such a creative haze?

Would not my life be spent,

The word turned as does the world–

On its end?

I fear for those left behind.


My behind…

For it would couch 

The fall.

–C. Green

(There’s definitely no hard partying happening for me this New Year’s Eve, making this poem funnier. I wish this newest year to be one of constructive creation and catharsis. Let good will and good sense prevail.)


Adrift on sorrows born of fretful sleep,

The house gives breath to shutter and to board.

Its beams give way to moaning and to creaks,

As whistles call through window and through door.

While ghostly footfalls echo from its floors,

It longs for sails and anchors logged aweigh.

It dreams of pulling past the static shore,

Foundation stones that lay as ballast weight,

To free its eaves from hammer-driven fate,

No lightening rod to tie it down… A mast!

Instead of tile, let rigging inundate.

Let canvas catch the wayward wind at last.

From doldrums and from fathomed deep releived,

This house would be as man-of-war released.

–C. Green

(Sonnet completed today, started on the car ride to visit family day before yesterday. Purposeful exercise on my part as Eric reads Shakespeare’s sonnets, I wanted to write my own with Frost’s The Silken Tent in my ear… Definitely not as smoothly crafted, but it’ll do.)


A conflagration, a baptismal fire,

It burns, the likes of which all creation

Will come to know. The heat of righteous ire,

It will raze and roar in exhultation.

Bring me sins, and I will name them kindling.

Bring me blame, and I will name it but fuel.

Usurper and fool will find space dwindling.

Distance is not given to the cruel.

These flames will bind them tightly. Like a kiss,

They will singe with care and remain unmissed…

Each point of contact, a solemn promise:

Embers may grow; I will not be dismissed.

Though I am but small and my bearing plain,

If harm comes to me, you will feel my pain.

–C. Green

(Another sonnet written on Christmas Eve… Not related to anything, actually, just an exercise in change of voice. The rhymes were going well. So I went with it.)

Verdi and Wine

Rose, Merlot, Malbec, Moscato, Porte…

As Shakespeare’s sonnets make me think of wine,

So too does another creative sport.

Can you guess that which occupies my time?

Aida, Rigoletto, then Macbeth,

Nabucco, and his Il Travatore,

Otello, Don Carlos, and then Falstaff–

The operas of Giussepe Verdi!

Today was spent in search of all these things,

A token of my love and affection,

A gathering of energy and gifts,

So that your eyes might glance my direction

And know… Though skipped and rushed, my heart still beats

For you, my dearest and sweetest of sweets.

–C. Green

(A sonnet for Eric while goofing off on Christmas Eve)

Silent Songs

While in the hibernation of the deep,  

Abiding frost of Winter’s deathless sleep,

My holly red and feathered friends still keep

Me close as though I were not yet adream.

And one among my sentinals draws near,

A warmly robed and quiet specimen.

It’s he, alone, who holds my heart most dear–

Possessed of rare and special accumen.

There, perched to watch my ever-shifting thoughts,

He preens with nothing more than careful eyes.

When he could spread his wings to fly aloft,

This cardinal directs my lullaby.

Though trained for tones perfectly pitched and clear,

It is his silent songs I wish to hear.

-C. Green

(A Christmas sonnet for Eric)


The mast, the spire, the minaret,

The tower, the point of focused regret…

It climbs–the ire–conspires to bind

The lungs, the heart, the womb, the mind.

Beastly, burdened, some still care to dream.

Unseemly and freely, they dance and scream

Below–below where only the dirt could know–

And laugh into the air,


-C. Green