Dark Stars


Like the collapse of galaxies, upon their shoulders,

Mantle and shroud placed around,

Binding the illumination.

So heavy, the hearts of these heavenly bodies,

Burning matters dark.

The distance only speaks traces of heat,

Signatures our eyes fail to see…

Poor human sight.

Blind, blind, bitter,

Unable, unwilling, to behold another kind of brilliance

Through such a fractured lens.

Dark stars shine on regardless,

Requiring no witness to validate their light.

–C. Green

(For a friend…)



“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.)


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

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