Doo Waah Ditties, circa 1995

The dic­tio­nary (that all-too-trust­ed ser­vant of human­i­ty) says that dit­ties are short, sim­ple songs. I have always referred to my short, most­ly four line poems as dit­ties. And although I imag­ine there will be some who will argue that my dit­ties do not qual­i­fy as such since they nei­ther appear to the read­er nor to the lis­ten­er accom­pa­nied by music, I must main­tain that this is in fact exact­ly what they are. (I fig­ure that if I must be forced to accept a mod­ern def­i­n­i­tion of poet­ry which includes mate­r­i­al I con­sid­er to be prose, the rest of the world can accept my par­tic­u­lar def­i­n­i­tion of a dit­ty!).

I would also argue that all poet­ry, whether rhyming or non rhyming, real­ly is song. Song, in fact, at its most basic lev­el. At the very least, poet­ry is a pre­cur­sor or par­ent to song, because its verse, by nature, falls into a met­ri­cal pat­tern which needs only the addi­tion of musi­cal notes to make it into a song. Accept then, these thoughts of mine. These chil­dren of mine which I fond­ly refer to as dit­ties. Read them silent­ly if you will, but also read them aloud. For it is only by read­ing them aloud that you will be able to ful­ly appre­ci­ate them. And it is only when read aloud that they take on the whole­ness they were born for. The emo­tion and into­na­tion that only the liv­ing voice can sup­ply.

– Michael C. Green, Octo­ber 1995

 

Liv­ing for the Gaps in life

com­press­es Expec­ta­tion.

Desire becomes the dri­ving Force –

inspired Hal­lu­ci­na­tion!

I built myself a Wall so high

my ego could not scale it.

Its Mor­tor grew so dif­fi­cult

my Heart could not assail it.

 

 

I do not seek the Rap­ture

when all the saints will soar.

I hes­i­tate to meet that fate

for fear I’ll yearn for more.

 

 

While Strug­gling ‘twixt the two of You

I learned to see both Sides.

You’d think this view would serve me well –

Instead I’m Par­a­lyzed!

 

 

Often when I sit to write

a guilt will over­take me.

Why can I not enjoy the light;

why so mor­bid late­ly?

 

I toy with won­der­ing awhile,

then toss my guilt aside.

For if I wrote of gen­tler things

a child could see I’d lied!

 

 

in my desire for empti­ness

i wished the World away.

and when i called it back to me

i’d noth­ing left to say.

 

My sad attempt at com­ing home

was nev­er worth the price.

But I was lis­ten­ing to my heart,

and took some bad advice.

My brief attempt to make amends

was nev­er worth the pain.

My old Neu­roses haunt­ed me –

encir­cling my brain.

 

 

Ter­ror­ized by Hym­nals

held by fol­low­ers of time.

Trau­ma­tized by chil­dren

and my fear of the sub­lime.

 

 

Night­mares make a wel­come sight

for a mind that needs some fear.

Sur­pris­ing then, that peo­ple wince

when they find them lurk­ing near.

 

 

To taste the herbs of lone­li­ness

is a ter­ri­ble Ordeal.

But fac­ing grim Mor­tal­i­ty

makes them seem a pleas­ant meal.

 

 

 

My life has been so won­der­ful;

my for­tunes so out­ra­geous.

So why am I made mal­con­tent –

My sor­row so con­ta­geous!

 

 

 

The urge to find con­tent­ment

will not often be denied.

Its cat­e­gor­i­cal response

will by dan­ger be sup­plied.

 

 

My heart had found con­vic­tion

Writ in Foam, a sight to see.

Until my Log­ic tripped itself;

Redi­civis­ing me!

 

 

false hope, this state, from bias built –

a prov­ing ground for liars.

no respite found, no sooth­ing sound –

no heroes to admire.

 

 

 

Lan­guish­ing in shad­ows,

you were all my heart could find.

Then I left to seek my own defense

and was drowned by the sub­lime!

 

Here’s my toast to tough­ness –

Made with one dry eye,

and an ice pick!

 

 

 

 

 

Dis­tance seeks a rea­son.

 

Some­times for intro­spec­tion,

some­times for spec­u­la­tion,

or sim­ply for the chance to be alone!

 

 

 

 

Humans are a fun­ny lot:

We like to hear com­mon sense answers.

We just don’t par­tic­u­lar­ly like to heed them.

 

Unimag­i­na­tion dries the soul

and trims away the spir­it

leav­ing skele­tal remains

of those who do not fear it.

 

 

Often when I sit to write

a guilt will over­take me.

Why can I not enjoy the light,

why so mor­bid late­ly?

I toy with won­der­ing awhile

then toss the guilt aside.

For if I wrote of gen­tler things

A child could see I lied.

 

 

 

 

 

I’d like to find a peace­ful mind

and think its thoughts awhile –

 

then leave it to its own device!

 

After the ros­es came the war,

then the heart that mourned the gore.

Trou­ble was after all that pain,

we came full cir­cle to start again!

 

 

 

 

 

Poets tend to talk too much,

would-be poets more.

Seems they’ve just for­got­ten

what their ears are for.

 

 

 

 

 

There are times when giv­ing all

one needs more yet to give,

and if the search prove fruit­less,

it seems absurd to live.

 

Yet often­times absur­di­ty

may be the price we pay,

for find­ing joy in spring­time

and watch­ing chil­dren play.