Coyprighted material of C.H. Green

Search This Blog

Monday, November 05, 2007

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Langston Hughes

I know it's not April, but it is raining here..."and I love the rain."

Friday, November 02, 2007

In Awe of a Phenomenal Woman

Today on Martha Stewart I happened to notice the guest was the phenomenal Dr. Maya Angelou, the "People's Poet." She not only shared her caramel cake recipe but the story behind it. She also spoke of her writing work habits. This I found most interesting. She rises at 5:30 and goes to a local hotel room which has been stripped of all decor. There is a bed, a desk, and a chair, her Roget's Thesaurus, and a dictionary. There she works until around noon writing in long hand upon yellow legal pads, being careful not to dispose of any writings in the wastebasket. (Imagine where they might turn up.)

I found myself longing for that kind of "work." I say "work," but I'm sure to Dr. Angelou it is a joy and privilege to do something you love so much and be able to do it so well. It is a dream we should all have and aspire to achieve.

I learned other things about Dr. Angelou that I did not know, including the fact that she was a volunteer mute from the ages of 7 to 13. She had been molested and her molester later killed. She felt as if the person died because of her words, and therefore she refused to speak. I am glad that she conquered that fear and began using her words for beauty. She shared a poem she wrote and delivered for Pres. Clinton's inauguration January 19, 1993. I want to share it with you. It's called :

On the Pulse of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

--Maya Angelou

Wednesday, July 25, 2007


Beneath this rubble lies the spirit
Of America.
Rumbling, mumbling as she is
Suddenly stirred from her slumber.
As the one who is frightened awake by a sound
And not knowing exactly from whence
It comes, she moves to investigate.
She is Armed and ready to defend her house
For she knows it was not just the wind
Blowing through the trees...
It was evil that brought this sound
This sound of weeping
This sound of sorrow...
And The commander's cries--
Shouts of War
All from bended knees.

Cynthia H. Green
September 15, 2001
In Memory of those who lost their lives in the terrorist attack on America September 11, 2001

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Writer Unemployed

Writer Unemployed

Are you sleeping
or hiding
behind the secrets
You keep buried?
I ask.
Begging your forgiveness,
I have to work,
you say,
I cannot stay awake
And talk
the night away...
I have a life
beyond this bed.
And so,
I flip the switch
To Horatio
Deadpan one-liners
on CSI
Making mental notes
On murder,
I cannot retire
His socks and shorts
are dry.

--CHGreen ©2005

From Hand to Mouth

From Hand to Mouth

Behind her crimson curtains
She sits and sips coffee,
Saddened by the prospect
Of losing her home.
She pads in socked feet
Silently to the window
And wonders if next winter
Will find her here--
Still sipping her coffee
Behind her crimson curtains,
Saddened by the prospect
Of losing her home.

--C.H. Green @2005



Heavy with the pride
of his jeweled body,
The angel fell
from his spot so heavenly
And so another spotless world
was marred
From the boughs of that perfect Tree.
Thick scales formed
and the wings with which he'd flown
Transformed themselves
into an ugly sheath,
and he cleverly cloaked himself
a creature of her world.
Oh my friend
how could she know or see...
The prince of Darkness
as an enemy?
He offered an ornately crafted lie
Once a gilded grain of Truth--
She took it willingly
and then she gave--
And then, my friend...she knew.

Cynthia H. Green

Saturday, July 21, 2007

If Sleep Evades You...

if sleep evades you,

do not count sheep...for all their cuddlyness is but an illusion...they bleat and bleed and die on the slaughterhouse floor...and all that's left is the woolen blanket that you wrap your sorrows in. Instead count friends and enemies, and if your foes are few, then sweet sleep will surely come as a feather floating from heaven sending you beautiful dreams--dreams where all your loved ones live again and friends are never far.

--Cynthia H. Green @2007

Until Then

Until then--

Embrace eternal life, dear one
For peace is Heaven's gift;
Rest beneath her boughs and wait
For in due time we all will meet--
Where sorrows never darken the day
And praise takes place of pain.
Then shall you drink deeply from the river
Water--holy, pure, and sweet,
And I, with you when my time has come,
Will worship at His feet.

--Cynthia H. Green

Mama's Triumph

Mama’s Triumph

The door closed quietly behind her
As Death crept with silent feet--
Ending a lifetime of memories,
The album now complete.

Leaving behind love's legacy,
Children close in prayer--
Sorrow's arms enfold them
Yet Mercy has met them there.

For in the dawn of this new day,
They see beyond earth's realm
A ship that's headed out to sea
Our Father at its helm.

He's guiding her to safety
As onward her vessel lists
Til anchored safe at heaven's gate,
Home rising from the mist.

No more sorrow; no,no more pain
Only joyous victory;
Death must now accept defeat
For all of eternity.

--Cynthia H. Green

When Sometimes Shattered--

When Sometimes Shattered--

When sometimes shattered, we seek to save ourselves as best we can.
Preferring to suffer in silence and to cry alone--
Than have pity place us in a lower rank, we writhe
In darkened corners crumbling at the edges of sanity--
Almost, but not yet too far gone to feel the pain.
Bemoaning lost chances, lost words that dissipated
Like dew in the mid-morning sun, we grieve,
And our darkened world keeps spinning, spinning, spinning--
Into the early morning hours as we toil
To put the tiny pieces back in place...
And hope against all hope that when the glue is dry,
We will at least resemble something of our former selves-
So that none will be the wiser.
--C. H. Green 2007