Michael Carroll Green

                     The Party Line
                     says innocent - 

                 The dead can't disagree.

              Perhaps we'll leave them flowers...
                     our rote apology.

This here’s not Brain Surgery!
But for certain, success weighs itself
in near the same measure.

Successful dissection, after all,
still brings pleasure - 
Whether the knife is built for breaking skin,
or the clean white lines of paper!

One stroke! One thought!
Cleanly cut and clearly read!

Knead.

Dis­tur­bance.

Shift­ing uneasi­ly in our seats,

we bow our heads and search for spir­its float­ing by.

We lis­ten, urgent­ly seek­ing some break in the dron­ing famil­iar­i­ty of the pro­gram we hold tight­ly in sweaty palms.

This is real.

More real for sure than we would wish,

more real than our spir­it selves would hope for!

Anchored by heavy hymns and rote prayer.

By stiff suits and wood­en pews!

We wish for fales­hood!

But draw back to real­i­ty when a splin­ter

brings unwant­ed atten­tion to our back­side!

Always here!

The crow caws, a dog barks,

and the win­dows begin to glow

with the pale­ness of a dawn still damp.

I grow rest­less beneath the cov­ers.

I am awake.

Here in the almost light of morn­ing

are shad­ows built from pos­si­bil­i­ty.

But with­out eyes to dis­cern the truth,

the room might as well be bare.

I open the win­dow,

Try for flight.

But before launch­ing myself

I pause and back away -

Hov­er­ing, at the end,

near rem­nants of moon­light, and the dark.

Here stands the World.

Full to over­flow­ing with Spir­it words and watch­fires.

Full and bright with the under­stand­ing that lights the path

to adven­tures and lost inno­cence.

It Stands, ready with answers.

While I stand back,

Frozen -

Con­vinced that dawn must break for a rea­son

and not sim­ply out of chance.

I stand back.

Pet­ri­fied like the wood around me

but not sat­is­fied to stay with­in the rings of its warm caress.

I cast forth with wish­es and day­dreams,

Seek some­thing more than what I made me when I had the chance.

I wait in shad­ows with my eyes closed.

Dream­ing not dreams, but day­dreams!

Not liv­ing –

Long­ing!

I long for Sun­light.

For a vista filled with the kinds of light and view­points

that can’t be seen any­more,

except in the mind’s eye!

In my eye, if I still had it,

or if by pawn­ing some­thing else could buy some sight from women

who were witch­es when my dawn was still but dream.

Fam­i­ly resem­blance.

You look like your moth­er.

And I, despite my sex,

seem des­tined to join you there.

I see us some­times, as if from some­where else.

We are like can­dle­sticks from dif­fer­ent house­holds -

Imper­fect­ly matched, but still stand­ing side by side.

We laugh into the same sound­track.

Sing the same song most days, although in dif­fer­ent pitch.

We look the same,

but with out­looks less like each oth­er

than either of us might have wished.

Wished at least, if the choice was ours to make.

At least until the box comes,

and I open it, look­ing deep­er inside than you could have –

Look­ing, for all the world then,

more like my father!

Look­ing into his eyes now, and like them.

I think some­times that there are dreams left over from oth­er lives!

Oth­er songs, left unsung by their authors,

but insis­tent that some­one sing them!

Some­one!

Some new spir­it, some sweet link to that oth­er world

when the song was sung, almost –

When there was still some­thing left worth singing,

and the answer to why I came here was worth more than the life I left behind!

Worth more than the song. More than the mir­ror!

More than the dreams we had

when the mir­ror looked like some­thing more like you.

I look like…

Who?

We look into sun­shine,

and the light we see reminds us of anoth­er time.

We stand singing to the sounds of Sun­shine!

Singing.

There are more mir­rors left

than we might have dreamed there’d be.

More mir­rors.

More mad­ness in the look that looks like me!

More mir­rors!

Do I look like you then?

Or like some friend­ly fiend that lurks beneath both our real­i­ties!

Nev­er here! Not here. Not in the mir­ror,

no less in a dream!

Those left behind…

Stone steps -

An incline unre­lent­ing.

I fal­ter,

scram­ble,

take my cane,

then wish for even foot­ing –

Or for legs

more young than these.

I pause –

Find a seat

and hope for brighter eyes.

Is this the place?

I pray now, count­ing steps!

Then won­der, is this my turn?

Con­fu­sion takes me for an instant,

inspir­ing ter­ror

and a need for con­trol.

I Will myself back to still­ness

Sight returns.

I see now,

here’s the way!

I look up,

See that stone sur­rounds me.

I run my hand over the near­est face,

feel­ing fear,

then fear­ing envy.

I am alone.

Unsure of both this jour­ney,

and of my own abil­i­ty to take it.

I lean for­ward,

half insane now.

I take a breath, catch myself,

then wipe my face

to keep the tears away.

Breath of air,

a minute’s rest, per­haps two.

Feel­ing bet­ter,

I move for­ward.

Turn here,

breathe,

Rest.

Anoth­er turn and I feel bet­ter,

now in sight of you.

Embar­rass­ment makes me pause,

push back my hair.

I smooth my skirts, take ungain­ly steps

toward your rest­ing place,

your qui­et place.

I find you,

touch your stone reminder.

I sit myself beside you,

and wish, despite myself, and all I might believe,

for a hand to help me home.

Here’s my toast to toughness – 
        Made with one dry eye, 
and an ice pick!

Fighting every fiber . . .

Struggling.
	Clawing.
		Scratching –
Beating . . .
	First the pavement,
then myself –
	all in the face of who I am,
or who I think I am, 
	and what I have to be.

Is this the course of least resistance,
	Or the course of my desire?

I made these choices, after all. 
		Still do!

And every day when I wake up,
	I make them all over again.

While I rub the sleep from my eyes,
	while I stumble, half-asleep, 
through the veil of early morning.

		While I get me ready.

I’m ready now.

Ready to go out there!
	There, where i’ll make me walk some more.

Where I’ll smile,
	More often than I’d like, for sure, 
and at people whose faces look to me
	to be misshapen –

Misformed.

Malformed, not from birth I think,
	but by all the pressure
their egos are placing on their brains.

I’m ready now. Ready for a fight..
	Ready to run, to fight for my place in the pack.
Fighting, then. 
	Running with the pack,
		and beating my chest!
Fighting!
	Struggling.
		Clawing.
Scratching –
	Like we did before our brains 
could call us humans.

Before we changed for the . . .

We did change, didn’t we?
	I know I did. or wanted to! 
I made my way, so I could be this way.

I made my choices, after all, on purpose,
	With purpose. Still do!

I changed myself,
	so my world could change.

	And now and again I wonder . . . 
Was the change mostly for change’s sake or was it 
	for the better?

So what remains?

Nothing but Charred remains, 
	Blackened embers that ask for nothing more
than to move themselves back into the earth.

These are the leavings of Great Trees! 

Felled first by the farmer’s blade,
	then by the wood wrenched afterthought of some more careless make of man.

Big Picture.

How did we get here?

Who decided we should be included 
when the wires got wired!

When what was once the sweet sound of Nashville, old opry,
found itself a new sound in the sound of electric guitars.

We heard it, sure as shit!

But we never saw it coming!

Not even when the Evening News 
sat the Woes of the World down right beside us.

They were Close then! All those Places where we weren’t.
All those people we didn’t know. Couldn’t know. They were close. Wired.

And then the guns fired... 

...and we, mesmerized by the fact that it was there and we could see it, thought only that the sound must just be grannie’s bare leg making contact with the vinyl cover on the new couch.

Fascination. 

When I was younger, You found a way to fascination in the Sound that rain makes when it comes tap, tap, tapping into the grooves of a tin roof.
	You heard it, 
Heard me, although I’m sure I never made a sound!

	Can you hear me now?
Can you tell that there are other things I love now, 
	other ways I make me whole!
	And do you know, that for all of them, 
there is nothing I love with more fervor than that which put me 		
	to sleep at night when the rain came.

When I was younger,
	When you knew to come tiptoeing into my room to find me wakeful, 
wondering and afraid. 
	But knew the rain could turn my mind and make me whole, or at least grant me respite for the brief space of night.

	And I wonder? Who tapped out time for you?
Or, if you never needed such, who told you I would be there 					waiting in the dark for some sweet way to pass the time.

Tell me, then. 
	Is this Motherhood? 
Innate knowledge gained when we shared the same body?

Or is it memory? 

Haunted re-creation of another night, and another time, when the rains came. 
	When the tin roof tapped out music, and a rhythm we both hear.

Tell me, then. 
	Is this Motherhood? 
Innate knowledge gained when we shared the same body?

Or is it memory? 

Haunted re-creation of another night, and another time, when the rains came. 
	When the tin roof tapped out music, and a rhythm we both hear.

Barn burning.

Dry logs, creosote soaked, for protection, at least from insects,
	turn into firebrands when faced with a flipped-off match.

Destruction is such a Simple thing.

The time it takes to build is slow,
	but the burning of it goes up in the space of a heartbeat.
No great feat.

The difference between a memory and nostalgia 
		is that nostalgia gets burned in with emotions,
	some of growing, some of fear,
but more of eagerness and wonderment; sense of history...
	Accomplishment.

Ownership.
	That, and the faces of lost fathers, uncles and brothers.

Chicken
   Scratch...

June 2001

Blood.

Blood may be thick,

but sometimes it takes a quick splash of water to purify the Soul,

and give air back the breathability that life needs

to keep all its players standing.

Water is simple.
You take it for face value,
then drink it down.
Easy.
You take it, Drink it, Relax.

Blood, on the other hand, is thick!
It’s Complicated.
It clots. Creates blocks!
The sort of blocked emotions
that can fray even the most resilient
set of nerves!

It’s Trouble! And the Very trouble with blood is that, 

being built from it, we can’t escape its Relations. 

We’re bound by it in ways that make it
difficult to see beyond its viscous haze.

So what’s the answer? You want to know?

Draw some water. Drench yourself!

Early on.

Moon landings have a way
of breaking in on even the most
	thoughtless states of consciousness.

Something of less importance
	may not do so well...
especially when there are flowers
	blooming outside, and baby chicks to hold in the palm of your hand.

But I remember the Moon landing,
and I remember John Kennedy’s funeral, and I remember Viet Nam.

I had no clue about what any of them
meant to me, or to millions of other people at the time.

I was a kid.
	I had games to play,
		plastic soldiers to arrange,
			cities to build in the sand.

There was work too.  Chores for me.
And the Textile mill for everybody else. 

Now, I didn’t know what everybody did
	at the textile mill. 

But I knew it had a lot to do with lint.
	That, and the fact that my papaw
		didn’t have a left arm.

I remember when the Viet Nam war
	was on the six o’clock news every single night. 

Momma and daddy broke the rule
		about no TV during dinner
				just to watch it.

	It didn’t matter, though.
		Not to me. Not at the time. 

Well, except that my cousin
	looked a lot like one of my
toy soldiers when he came by to see us
	after he got drafted.

You know it’s funny.
	Because later,
when things did matter –
	when assassinations and war
and death and dying all came home to me
	in ways I’d never dreamed they could,

I wished for Moon Rocks,
	and some time to understand them.

Brain  Surgery.

This here’s not Brain Surgery!
But for certain, success weighs itself
in near the same measure.

Successful dissection, after all,
still brings pleasure -
Whether the knife is built
 for breaking skin,
or the clean white lines of paper!

One stroke! One thought!
Cleanly cut and clearly read!

This is brilliance –
Brilliant!
and all the more precious
because of the clarity of its cut!
Because of the hearts
its cut can steal,
and because of the feelings
it reveals.

Cracked corn.

Yellow nougets,
 made mortal by the crush
of a miller’s tool,
spill out of a sack’s safe keeping.

Kernels,
once bound for baking,
mix with the grit of the ground.

This is Scratch –
Too rough for meal-making
in its present state.

Bits of gilded grain
reduced to Chicken Feed!

Rest assured, though.

This less glamorous purpose
is also a guarantee  that
tomorrow’s eggs will break
to a Golden Dawn.

Little Husk.

Little Husk,
so dear, and now so dry!
So sure, and yet so fragile –
 Insecure!

I have only to close my eyes,
 and I can still see you –

Taking chances.
Certain of yourself!

Sure that each new antic you undertook was well within your reach.
Timed to perfection
by bright eyes,
 and a light step.

So sure you were, and so surprised
when the potential face of danger
pulled you in and out of comfort
while we watched.

So sure, so ready for success –
Then a jump and a turn.
Miscalculation and a quick safe landing. 

Recovery.
Astonishment!

“How dare the deal go awry!”

You say it, see it, beg for understanding!

Then look for love,
and a quick embrace
for reassurance before you
find new encouragement,
and face the test again.

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.

Breathtaking.

There is breath-taking!
	and there are moments
that take our breaths away!

Literal Breaks in time.
	when a single intake of air
turns into a grain of utter joy.

Instants!

	Exceptions -

Fissures in life’s continuum!

	These we live for! Die for! Try for!

Instants,
	of transcendence -

Powerful impressions. Expressions!

Separation from the norm.

Although sometimes beneficial,
	the deconstruction of the typical passage of time
mostly causes consternation,
	and confusion.

This is because it is anathema to humans -
	who, for the most part, seek order in their lives,
and a desire to see transactions
	properly progressing.

Sometimes timing
	takes more time
than the simple attention required
	by the passing of seconds.

More is expected,
	and more affected
when intention
	meets the inevitable.