Michael Carroll Green

Autumn.

Red berries dress the Mountain Ashe
in vestments fit for Fall.
The laurel turns its leaves around;
preparing for a squall.

In Your Hands …

In your hands an old espresso cup
held my first taste of adulthood.
A secret taste of knowledge,
shared with morning’s early light.

I learned to dream there,
drinking coffee in the dark.
And learned that you had dreams too;
mixed as they were with the wishful memories
of a school girl’s secret life.

Secret dreams.
Dreams we poured out
with the coffee you served.
Secret dreams, and strong;
softened first by sugar,
then by time.

****

My Spir­it used to answer me
when I was filled with ques­tions.
Now it only watch­es me
and lis­tens to sug­ges­tions.

****

Dri­ving through insan­i­ty
was nev­er more than fleet­ing
Until I paused to say hel­lo;
respond­ing to its greet­ing.

****

Tak­ing pause to think of you;
I’m back with you awhile.
Your reas­sur­ing con­fi­dence
could always make me smile.

****

Child­hood inter­ests urged me on
in search of mys­tic realms,
an end­less quest for fan­ta­sy
inspired by vivid dreams.

****

My soul was more enchant­ed
than yours would ever be,
My mind was prone to see­ing things
that yours would nev­er see.

With­in my great desire to live;
your wish­es set me free,
My end­less search for some­thing else
defined real­i­ty.

Wretched still­ness crowds my vision,
woe­ful vis­tas filled with fears.
Wish­ful think­ing brings me plea­sure,
cross­ing over anx­ious years.

Trou­bled waves of trep­i­da­tion,
spread across life’s angry seas.
Melan­choly bouts of pas­sion
bring temp­ta­tion to its knees.

Appre­hen­sive wish­es wan­der,
Seek­ing some­thing void of dread.
Beau­ty sets the heart atrem­ble;
so afraid to wind up dead.

i spoke to an old friend today. at least i think we talked. it was hard some­times to tell. see, she was mak­ing tracks to the whip­pin’ post. look­ing for some quick hugs and maybe just a lit­tle humil­i­a­tion along the way.

i was the after thought. small talk, real­ly. just a breeze. you know. the kind that moves through the silence at the eye of the hur­ri­cane, bare­ly lift­ing the leaves on the trees.

my friend was dif­fer­ent. she was the storm that fol­lowed. she knew every trick. every answer to every ques­tion either one of could think of to ask. every con­clu­sion she reached came togeth­er just like she thought it would. just like she planned.

my friend had decid­ed she was the only actor in this play. and her script had been set in stone. i tried to write a few new lines. make a brief appear­ance in a walk-on role. but i failed. she’d closed the book on new lines. and she’d done it long before today.

you know, talk­ing to my friend that day was a lit­tle like being lost in the for­est. there i was, pick­ing up the bread­crumbs she nev­er meant to drop, and offer­ing solu­tions to sit­u­a­tions she nev­er meant for me to see in the first place.

she judged her­self before my ears. she being the only judge. and then she found her­self guilty with­out the ben­e­fit of cross exam­i­na­tion. i think i failed in my defense. who was i to think that i could plead the case, any­way. before the jury of her fears.

in the end, my friend found her­self plead­ing with a hung jury. still out, i guess.
not because of any elo­quence i brought to the wit­ness stand, but because she must have had a few thoughts still sit­ting there, dumb and hap­py amidst her tat­tered soul.

any­body who ever thought tough love had a chance in sit­u­a­tions like this nev­er had to deal with dis­tance as a fact. nev­er pro­posed crazy answers to the end of a tele­phone cord. i know this. because i tried it.

tried and failed.

Anger is easy.
Easy to cul­ti­vate,
and eas­i­er to feed.
It requires lit­tle thought
and less rea­son.
Just a tar­get –
a focus for its wrath.

****

Your anger begs for sat­is­fac­tion,
done with dirty fists and vicious hands.
Swift kicks to bring it plea­sure.
Blows about the face and chest.

These are the ones to bring delight.
They make your best state­ments -
last­ing longer, and being hard­er to dis­guise.

Beat and run, that’s the game.
Make a break.
And keep run­ning.
Keep run­ning until the only things left
that still remind you of the deed
are the red rags you tossed into the trunk
along with your old base­ball bat.

Keep run­ning.
Keep run­ning and nev­er look back.
Because back there
is where the hurt is.
Where the beat­ings first began.
Back there is a drunk who passed for pap­pa.
And a child with bro­ken dreams.

Keep run­ning and nev­er look back.
Because look­ing back is hard.
Hard to do and hard to see.
Bet­ter to keep run­ning, and look­ing straight ahead.
Bet­ter to be angry.
Because anger is easy.
So much eas­i­er than pain.

Anger is easy.
Easy to cul­ti­vate,
and eas­i­er to feed.
It requires lit­tle thought
and less rea­son.
Just a tar­get –
a focus for its wrath.

And God knows
there are plen­ty of tar­gets around.
Boys for plea­sure, boys for pain.
Boys just wait­ing.
Easy boys.
Easy tar­gets.
Blue-faced boys.
Need­ing to be blood­ied
because of who they are –
what they are.
Vic­tims because they got in your way.
Beat­en for anger’s sake.

Beat them fast.
Because fast expres­sions of anger
are the best kind.
They make the point
and get the job done
in one quick and easy les­son.

Quick and cru­el.

Made to hurt; made to last.
Made to get even for beat­ings of your own.
For fail­ing grades and hand-me-downs.
For all the mem­o­ries learned the hard way.
You know.
The ones that came in the form of a stick
or a wide hand across your cheek.

So now you got all those boys.
Those sad blue-faced boys.
Boys meant to make up for every­thing you lost.
Meant for beat­ing.
Meant for bash­ing.
Meant for anger at its best.

And you know what?
The best part is that nobody real­ly cares.
Because all those blue-faced boys are lone­ly.
Worse than you, they got no friends.
No friends and lots of ene­mies
to turn the oth­er way.
Lots of ene­mies to say it serves ‘em right.
Serves ‘em right, they say.
And what were they doing out there any­way?
Out there where the likes of you could find them.

Look out for anger.
Watch out when it finds its mark.
Because anger needs action.
Action to express itself.
To over­come pain and humil­i­a­tion.
Anger needs action. Action and a tar­get.

Your anger cries out for sat­is­fac­tion.

But who will be your next blue-faced boys?
Who will be your tar­gets?
Who will be your vic­tims?
Who will you hit to hide your shame?

****

Novem­ber 12, 1995

Let it rest, child.
Let their hatred go unchal­lenged.

Let them go child.
Best to leave them to them­selves.

Let it rest, child.
Give your­self the right to turn away.

Let them go child.
Find the strength to rise anoth­er day.

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,
Just wasn’t worth the pain.
My old neu­roses haunt­ed me –
encir­cling my brain.

I would have failed at gar­den­ing,
if ever I’d have tried it.
My hands could not have learned to prune;
my heart could not abide it.

At thin­ning time my will would fail;
no pulling up for me.
By Sum­mer­time my weeds would own
the aspect of a tree.

It takes a heart with stub­born­ness
to cau­ter­ize the beds.
A sin­gle-mind­ed will­ing­ness
to pluck off nature’s heads.

My heart was nev­er quite so strong;
I fear such use of pow­er.
I couldn’t kill so many buds
to make the per­fect flower.

Though my song is often troubled,
and my words are often cold.
I find my lyrics preferable
to the discord I behold.

****

Though my song is often troubled,
and my words are often cold.
I find my darkness preferable
to the blindness I behold.

****

A spirit formed from ancient lines
will be haunted throughout life.
Its newborn cries of innocence
are symptoms of its strife.

***

Early on I learned to hide;
to keep myself apart.
To feign acceptability,
and hide my deeper heart.

***

Such spirits shouldn't reappear;
shouldn't force their patterns home.
Their souls are full with sadness
and their hearts are meant to roam.

***

Yours the pattern I recall --
Your touch reveals my history.
Your every word recalls my life
disentangling my mystery.
 

The poetry I pen today
will speak from out my soul.
And yet its incantation
cannot contain my whole.

It speaks for me, yet only part --
it does not know my mind.
Its innocence is natural;
Its paper eyes are blind.

And like the lines poured out today;
my mind finds limitation.
I seek to find eternity --
Some startling revelation.

You'd think I'd learn to fail the test;
not wrestle with frustration.
You'd think I'd know the poem's role
In pondering creation.