A Question…

A question:

For the one(s)

Who name heroes of men

Whose pedestals mock,

Which culture is cast

In battle and bronze?

Citing disregard for history,

Incomparable beauty,

The rending of a nation…

Casting blame and shame

Upon those who would see

Veneration placed

More appropriately.

Perhaps the speaker’s

View is skewed?

A rhetorical question.

Even yellow fever and polio

Look beautiful

Under powerful magnification.

–C. Green

If monuments are to be historical lessons, then let us place an accurate accounting.





Were I But…

Were I but…



A shimmering pestilence–

The gossamer utterances

Of a fly.

Its organic swelling,

At the close,


A hostile focus.

Before you die,

I will immortalize


–C. Green

(I was very much trying to enjoy a movie. The promise of a fantastic poem teased at the beginning… but then there was a fly, alight in every bit of its glorious irritation. So, there went my soaring verse. Instead, I write of this fly.)




Wonder, worry, want:

A grinding of gears

Until dust…

Bone into ashes,

Blood into rust,

The yearning from turning–

Decay from distrust.

A cycle of flurry,

Of winter-spun lace,

Ice-melted years

Like sleep-induced fears

In tatters…

The winds blow it ’round.

–C. Green



I am at all angles–

Acutely distressed

By those in the “right”

When clearly,

They are being obtuse.

To what degree 

Must I speak

To be plainly heard?

Turning circles,

Those round-a-bout hurdles,

Is just as frustrating

As miscalculations

And ill-derived math.

This type of revolution 

Was not the revelation I sought.


–C. Green

Though Distant…

Dig you a trench,

And bury your brothers in war.

Decimate climates of peace;

Call every innocent, whore.

Wage every day

What your ravenous soul craves,

And watch fools become martyrs,

Kings crowned from jesters and knaves.

Squander their time,

Should our children survive.

Sell their inheritance and health

Before they’re of mind…

To know what you have taken.

Beware, the rustling

Of defiant stares.

The whisper of leaves

Grows louder than bombs in the air.

Do you hear it?

Though distant,

It is the sound of elections

With inflections of hope.

–C. Green


Give Me a Reprieve

Give me a reprieve

From the depths of extremes.

Death is too great a price…

Render payment as children bleed?

What belief would take so deep a cut,

Wreak chaos from concert, turn lyrics to loss?

What landlord would consign

His tenants to grave and shallow plots?

Not mine, not mine.

I cannot sign this contract.

C. Green


(Acts of terrorism weigh heavily on our collective minds, again… Manchester. Let us teach our children empathy. Educate, not indoctrinate, the masses so that citizens grow into adulthood knowing how to articulate disagreements and philosophical arguments through rational communication… not violent outbursts and displays of disregard for life.)

I Ache…

I ache.
This fever sits in the marrow,
Claims space between bones–
Even ligaments lament.

I ache.
Every breath a labor,
My ribs protest
The abuse of inhalation.

I ache.
To the very core,
Weary of beating
Because heart’s blood burns.

I ache…
What ailment plagues
Such that this symptom
Never subsides?
-C. Green


I Love Me. I Love Me Not.

I love me. 

I love me not.

I accept what I’ve been given

And covet what they have got.

I internalize

The kindest lies–

Compliments, sentiments–

Compromise and despise.

Take my shattered mirror;

Fuse its broken glass.

Collect discarded pieces;

Throw them all into the trash.

Another petal, 
Another day…

Picked to bear some meaning

When I have none to say.

I love me.

I love me not.

I accept what I’ve been given

And covet what they have got.

-C. Green


What Name Did They Give…

What name did they give…

To the child,

Not the screaming babe newly born,

But the one wearing skin so like your own?

Beautiful, biased, backhanded, brave?

Complex and colored,

There’s much in a name.

What did your mother call you?

Naive… Knave… Knowing… Nuisance… Ingenue…Serious… Silent…Shy… 

(And other words filled with hurt, hate or pride.)

There are so many

Labels. Laments. Curses. Slurs. 

Titles. Traps.

Bestowed and hurled.

First, middle and last.

What name did they give…

To the child,

Not the infant of blood and bone,

But the one wearing skin so unlike your own?

-C. Green