I love your fierce approach. You swash
at me.  With strong arms you cut the air.
I feel the breeze of your determination.
You look like a soldier.  The art of love
is a frenzy of intensity. You can't take
me without a battle.  

I am the rose-holder, you are the steel
clad rider.  You joust to win my favor.
I throw petals to path your way to
me.  The minstrels play.  Sing amen
to this afternoon.

You have won the day! I am the
receiver of your presents.  Fifty years
have passed. My trodden soul is
bare. You rode the steed of truth
and beauty.  

It is my turn to write your name
in a church of sorrow.  To try to
climb down my lofty seat.  I kiss
you fairly my true warrior.  The
last joust was now.


Caroline Shank
5.26.22

The rhythm is whoopsie daisee. The
moment of the first bounce sets the
pattern of the wave.  It's like talking
to him when the rain poured on the
window. Up and down I tried to see
his face thru my tears.

It's like failing first grade and your
mother slaps you so your head goes
up and down and the wet drops on
your face are not enough to help
with the rocking motion.  It's later
on in your life that the attempt to
have *** on the water bed reminds
you of the day Aunt Ceil was there
and never a thought about why
my mother felt her world cracked
at my failure to please her. Their
conversation in French made me
dizzy.

I walked to the edge of the bed and
there were no dragons.  The waves
of the waterbed tried to hold me.
My back cracked and I rolled over
to try again to get up.  But you can't
have *** on a waterbed, in the
light of a single candle, The Eagles
playing in the other room.

I sank for love but love threw me
away.  My dried body simply was
no brace to the ****** of your moist
intentions.

The radio played on later in the
night.  Sleep drained me
and the announcer
played Claire du Lune…..
Through my sadness and my
loss I lie on the
bed waiting for you to come
back with the
****** Mary's.


But that was long ago and you
and the struggles in the night,
of the songs and the waves

are

gone.
.

Caroline Shank
5.20 2022

It's been a long day.  You
died so soon ago and we notice
your noise is gone, the parakeets and me.
You should comment somehow on
the oddness of things
since your disease.

The paranoia and lies the dementia
played made your dreams seem like
waking and your sleep tore into

you with fantasies and confusion.
You shouldered the  nurses by
telling them you felt fine.  That
lie pushed you to more agitaton.

I never knew you would get well.
I was cursed with a colder reality.  
As I drove to see you in the cocoon
of the nursing home I wondered
would you be crying or well.  

It was the crying I never unfolded.
in your room where we so carefully
braided the colors to your whims.
The colors are the same today.

Now wilted, the bright sun's rays
like the daylight dim but your harsh
yellow teeth spread around my
name and you saw me beaten
and unforgiven

You took me with you to the
Hell of brass urns.  I thought
to ask you why but the look
on your framed face said you
were waiting and your yellow
grin dared me to be quiet.

I saw the years in stark
isolation.  
You in a painted slicker,
I knew you
loved me once and
briefly.   Your journey
was a long one. Mine is

to shower daily your burnt
name across the
yellow ******* of

chared Sorrow

off.

Caroline Shank
May 15, 2022
.

Realization begins with a grassy
patch on the cheeks.  A loosening
chin.  Our eyes tear
a little in the woven years.
We get older, better.  We stop
weeding.  Time is represented
by the passage of linear
rows.  Memory, imagination and
the strings of movement flare.
Answers streak the imagination's
runways.  We used to be whatever we
were in those early youthful afternoons.
Now the flowers are loose and confident.
We plow the past in conversation.

Look at us.  Our age signs
the geography.  We rise from
a packed landscape, determine
the motion of the earth.  The
winds of the last forty years
blow from behind.

We form together.  
Clouds gather us in.
We raise flags.
Our answers are on the
breezes of the past.

We sing.
Our anthem is
a song
for the ages.


Caroline Shank

I wore blue flowers on my dress,
white flip flops on my feet.
I call this summer casual.
That was my dream. You
are not buried yet.  Soon.
I see me in the chaple
working the crowd.
Flowers in my hair.

You died on a Tuesday morning.
I was eating pizza.    I looked and
saw the flat face of death in your
beautiful eyes. You had no response.
I sat in the chair I occupied while
you were alas living.

There was no way of knowing your
deeps and shallows ebbed to the
middle of Tuesday.  There was no
more of you in my eye and I was
quiter than ever.

My dress is in the mail, my shoes
are in the closet.  I will wear blue
flowers on my dress and white  
sandals. I call this liberation.
I am released from dull gray and
the dumb dun serge you wanted
me to wear.

I sit here without tears having cried
for two months.  You are long away
and if not thinking of me you are
at last  peacefully free of trying.


Caroline Shank

I remember you in
the striped backseat of Tony's
car. The red leather seat's squeak
on my cheek,
and the pearl white ghastly plastic
door handles crushed my head.
I remember.
you with your duck tail
Haircut, dark brown, greasy
with Brylcream..  
It was widely known in
those days how your deep
broken brown gaze was
turned on me one evening
when I was fourteen.

The summer was over and
Winter's
clouds were layered on like

a stripe of a
gray leather.
You used language,
harsh in hearing,.  
shallow in response.

The story
is an old one and people
told it of me, just the night when the
red plastic shined on my face,
like a stripe of a scarf.
When your second wife
was so sorry you died
before your silver dove flew
over and I  was waiting
for your

apology.  



Caroline Shank
May 2, 2022

I remember you in
the striped backseat of Tony's
car. The red leather seat's squeak
on my cheek,
and the pearl white ghastly plastic
door handles crushed my head.
I remember.
you with your duck tail
Haircut, dark brown, greasy
with Brylcream..  
It was widely known in
those days how your deep
broken brown gaze was
turned on me one evening
when I was fourteen.

The summer was over and
Winter's
clouds were layered on like

a stripe of a
gray leather.
You used language,
harsh in hearing,.  
shallow in response.

The story
is an old one and people
told it of me, just the night when the
red plastic shined on my face,
like a stripe of a scarf.
When your second wife
was so sorry you died
before your silver dove flew
over and I  was waiting
for your

apology.  



Caroline Shank
May 2, 2022