Song

I am a metaphor for your loneliness.
Rigged out in sunshine and crowned
with blue skies I am your looked for
ticket to the cotillion.  You never
saw me before the imprimatur
of poetry.

I want to tell you the stories of
my life.  The daring deeds. The
mistakes that you hear in my
voice as a prelude to love.

I am the curlique of madness
that tempts you from the tropic
of yesterday. We were young
and wanton in blue jeans and
rolled hems.  I wore a shirt
emblazoned with your name.

You were perfection in gray
pants and pink shirts.  It was
the 50s and the air sang to us
carrying the music that we
knew as love songs.

We were young then unknown
to each other. Our old souls
were songs as yet unwritten.
Do I confuse you with my
symbols of forgotten requests?

Don't try on my song.   I never
wanted you to.  I am here in
the vocabulary of mistakes.
We cannot find the meaning
In the experience we each had.

Don't look for me to sign.
I am alone in my recent grief.
Don't wait for a sign that
has lost its true North.

You send me flowers which
do not arrive, candy which i
cannot eat.

Tomorrow dies,

as unwritten

song.


Caroline Shank
June 14, 2022

"The Lion Sleeps tonight". Do you remember that song?  I hear it on the
radio over and over  again.  The time
has come…  oh oh I am about to mix my allusions.

I am, like Alice, small inside the music.
The cliff tops of sounds are passing
before my eyes, the wind in my ear
is loud. In the jungle, the mighty
jungle, the lion paws at my scarred
heart.  His claws rip my bodice
open and blood drips on the car
seat.

Have the courage to say goodbye.
You bore me with your growling
and your furry tongue reaching
down my throat. I sing to myself
blurred lyrics. You choke me
with time away and distance
travelled alone.

I will die by myself before you sing
to me of loneliness and crap
excuses. There was beauty in
the jungle before that song
wrapped around my memory.

You were not the first to ask
me to visit midnight, to taste
the hushed and slander of
the dark jungle.

I navigate paths you only
dreamed of in me.  I roll
the canopy away and I am
in my bed alone filled with
horror at the slashed path

I trod with you.


Caroline Shank
Jun2 12, 2022

You are lost to the waking world, a
denizen of the darkness.  I pry my
fingers from off the steel lock.  You
risk the deeping years, the early

yellow springing world laid for you
from my body.  I talked to you in the
corridor of my youth. You only tried
me for.a moment. You took the
pages of my determination and
threw them over the brick lined
walls of your selfness.

You made me witness your dance.
The song you sang, your lyrics
beneath my pillow, the
voice of ancestors not heard until
your music escaped the fences.

My mother did not live to dance
with you.  The songcoated signal
escaped between  your
incomprehensible affinity.

The dance of genetics in full
display.  I am still the Baffled.
The one footed dance  of
the broken, the chondral song
played every evening.

Go behind the schoolyard where
you and the lions of your
collective urges vye to be
the fitest ****** on the block.

My life is short now with my own
kicked addictions. I drowned in
the lake of desire. I have swum
the frigid surf and walked away.

You are not unique. Many sear
the letter of desire across their
bare forhead and cannot traverse
the concourse of the day.  

I will not declare myself aroung
your wheel. I walk through Grace.
If you choose me kneel for the
Benediction of God.

Caroline Shank
5.28.22

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

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
.