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


Spare Thoughts…

Sometimes errant,
They tightly bind
Truth and meaning
Through rhythm and rhyme.
Weighted, yet waiting
To lift from the page,
Some thoughts trifle like jesters
Or evoke like the sage.
A poetic line may unwind,
Unravel and cynch
The deepest emotions,
Yet remain on the brink…
Of song.
-C. Green

(Happy World Poetry Day!)



Sometimes, the highest height I may climb is simply above the pile atop my desk. I can’t see beyond my datebook. The horizon is outlined by pencil and dotted with sticky notes. 

Happy to have a clear spot. It may be small, but I claim it for my own.


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



It shadows me,

This winding trail–

A path paved over

Great travail.

Its stones are weary,

As are my feet,

Too worn for comfort

And defeat.

It goes onward,

A dogged kind

Of forward motion

On paths gone blind.

Their briars heavy,

Brush grown thick,

Only liars would say

This way was quick.

What might lead forward

Is now behind

As I step toward

A grail to find.

-C. Green



Is a bit of charm,
A prayer, incantation,
Against evil, ill, and harm.

A parent’s wish…
For fortune, love and health,
Happiness and well-being
Beyond that of worldly wealth.

Bold, winsome stroke…
A man, it might be.
But intuition lingers, saying,
“Luck be a lady, indeed!”
-C. Green



Massive… Maybe,

In the way of sieves.

Straining, strained, stained

By the presence of pulp…

Fiction fixated.

Are heroes​ so cheap

When super-sized?

Inflated… Perhaps.

Weighted, but not by air.

It’s hard to breathe

In the presence of greatness.

C. Green


My Turtle Self Says…

My turtle self says,

“Habits are harder than shell.”

Hide, peek out, hello.

-C. Green

(It’s been a long while away. This haiku is a little yawn as I awaken from my hibernation. Although, I am more turtle than bear. A kind reader gently poked fun at my shell, and it was the push I needed to come out to play again. Thank you, Abrie Joubert.)