I wear a jacket that looks like patchwork
I dress in a shirt that's far too tight
Because it makes me feel different
Because if I wear this then
It's like I'm hiding my skin
It's like I can get lost in
This long pointy hood
These orange and purple patches
I'm not wearing my confidence today
Can't you tell?
Yeah I know, I've been told
Confidence is a good look for me,
but
I'm not wearing confidence.
I'm not wearing the salt
Or the pride
No
I left that in my other jacket pocket
And I'm shaking too much to get it out now

I'm here
In a black shirt I said I'd never wear
I'm here
In a hoodie that still smells like dust
Because I guess it's better
Than any coat that stinks of lies
And I can turn on my screen
And listen to bitter truths in
Gorgeous symphonic language
And I can paint
These tiny colourful stripes
Onto bottlecaps
Looking away
Because it's too real
Please, this is the only reality
I need to be a part of,
Let me read my soul
If I can't find the way to draw it
Let me turn it into a song
Turn it into something
Worth listening to
Because hell knows I've had it
With yelling at a people
Who still just turn a deaf ear,
A blind eye
And now I'm at the point
Where I'm hiding in a patchwork jacket
I'm hiding in this long pointy hood
My skin behind a shirt too tight
Because there's no use arguing my case
When it's already been decided who's right.

Spiraling mindsets,
Shattered perceptions,
Twisted and mangled plans for the future lie all around.

Dying dreams scattered in the churned-up mud,
As a light but steady rainfall of dread cascades upon the carnage.

The accusations are steaming from where the rain hits it,
Both sides fired shots at each other so rapidly the barrels warped beyond recognition.

Rusted fields of barbed comments lie between,
Where even a knick could spell infection and disaster.

New dreams arrive to replace the old,
But are torn asunder just as quickly,
Hard truths rake their lines as they cross,
Torn asunder by those terrible things.

This place was once nice,
Full of hope,
A place of peace and happiness,
But now is lost,
To fire and steel,
As the guns finally fall silent.

The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.

The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.

It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.

Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?

I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.

At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.

Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!

It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,

our lives.

Times past, our driving word was ‘could’
As in we could do this or that
To help the world, to do some good

Then, strong ideas asked if we would
Let them then, step up to bat                  
Respect was asked, when we used ‘could’

That this meant work, we understood
And some attempts fell fairly flat
Yet help we did, and did some good

That fashion’s out, replaced by ‘should’
Imperative, we’re spoken ‘at’
Time’s passed when arguments have ‘could’

One must comply, it’s understood
By those who dictate online chat
Now ‘only we’, can do some good

And half the people see falsehood
When wrapped in hate, ideas are spat
It’s hard to see this do much good
Perhaps we should re-visit ‘could’


Cliff Green 2017