Michael Carroll Green

                 Drop the White -- 
                       it rattles me. 

                     Blues befit My Soul. 

                       I see them
                  in my dreams at night. 

                   A sad but steady flow.

Stranger, unwilling.

This is not -

My place.

It should have been.

I know it.

But it is not.
Not my place.

Not now, if ever.

Not my place,
not made for me,
nor for my type.

Not my place.
Made instead
for simpler folk.

And for a succession
of simple pleasures.

For simple minds
and simpler tasks.

But not for me.

This is not my place.
Not this place. Never here.

Not my place,
nor turned to suit my smile.
It IS turned, however.

Turned –
But not for me.

This place is turned
to the circle of the Sun
and to the wan smile it makes
when the moon is on the run.

Not my place.
Neither set to my pace
nor to my taste.

Not my place,
never built for such as me.

Built rather
for the march of days.

For days that file forth
in the rapid-fire succession of moments
we call time.

Time and I are thieves – 

Fit for stealing. Little more.
Fit for selfishness –
And greed.

Never content
to take a pass on the moment,
we grab every one in sight.

We take them up, 
clasping them to our breasts 
as a parent might a frightened child.

And although we might wish it, 
or at least wish that others might believe it, 
there is no comfort to our embrace. 

No peace.

We are neither comfortor nor saviour. 
We are thieves.
We are the wolf waiting at the door. 

The fox – 
Ever on the lookout for chickens 
foolish enough to roost on low branches.

We are the weasel 
waiting for the careless hen 
to leave her brood unprotected.

We are thieves, time and I. 
And as thieves we live our lives.

Thieves.

Our fortunes are made as much by fate 
as by our own cunning. 

And although we acknowledge this, 
we do not like it. 

Neither do we accept it, 
truth be told.

We know already 
that exposure to a concept
does not equal the acceptance of it. 

Neither does it mean 
that the hearer will embrace it 
as either valid –
Or true.

We are thieves, 
time and I. 

Prone to lies and misinformation. 

Likely to steal a glance . . .
or to steal a heart.

And likely, 
more often than not, 
to take each moment unto ourselves  –

With neither a thought nor a care 
about where they go 
when they leave us.

Time and I are a selfish lot. 
Never content to take a pass on the moment,
we instead grab every one in sight,
clasping them to our breasts 
as a parent might a frightened child.

Sometimes our selfishness is rewarded 
and the moment, 
once no more than a blank slate,
 grows full and rich with inspiration.

Other times,
there is no muse to fill the void.

And we are left downcast and brokenhearted –
with only emptiness...
a few more wrinkles in our hands,
and minutes lost forever.

Attach­ments.

Not real –

This attach­ment to the flesh.

Too flawed –

too depen­dent on each breath.

Brought low,

by an instinct and an urge.

Left alone –

by a self­ish Demi­urge!

dit­ties…

I’d rather think in abstract terms.

Life’s eas­i­er that way!

I’d rather lose my train of thought

Not cog­i­tate today!

Thinking that Way…

How can I pay for all YOUR sins?

I’m struggling now with mine!

What hope have I to save myself

if you can’t tow the line.

Don’t think I’m just a selfish boor,

devoid of human kindness.

Understand the role I play

in challenging the mindless!

On Mothers...

For all the ways
we seem the same,
I struggle with our difference.

With mothers made
 from matching molds
You'd think I'd find resemblance!

So why am I
recalcitrant –
obsessed with deviation.

While you require
more restful dreams
and peaceful recreation.

What urge inspires
my pensive state –
Obsessive machinations.

While leaving you
to easy chairs –
and peaceful contemplation.

Take me quick when my time comes –

Leave no last­ing death for me!

I’ve seen too much of wretched­ness –

Extend­ed agony.