Kyrie Eleison

(Tomorrow you can drain
the swamp behind The
8th street oak and the
copulating frogs will scamper
away, two by two)

But I digress  
To be me is
always to be
alone

Christe Eleison

I am the invention of
misdirected intentions
I scream inside the
private drawer of my
Keepsakes and truffles,
hiding apostrophes.

My sole sojourn is into an
old boat I found on the
beach of my meditations,

it trespasses on the lanes of
poetry and obscenity.

Lord lay me down, I will
be always in place and silent.

Kyrie Eleison.

I am sunbent and
I Crawl


Caroline Shank
2.8.2024

I am enough. I am bigger

Than 10 pounds. Enough.
That old saw.
I cannot pass for Shirley
Temple

But I am responsible for my
happiness Tom.
I danced at the graves of

Voodoo priests.  

In my imagination I was
lauded by Great Spirits.

I am enough to fly between
the Holy Days, the

Vatican of my mind is
open and I ply the

pages of my long life
from my fingers.

Caroline Shank
I.27.2024

The moments, the Big moments
drape or twist.  I am veined.
The philodendronas years

Lead me

     here

to you.  The loud years of
babies are simple maths.

Legs and arms no longer

     wrap.

Their smooth hands patted me.

I was a queen once, in the
Nile river.  I woke up here
to mental words.

I am happy in my way
Cynara.

I send you, love, 100 years
     Of gratitude.


Caroline Shank
1.26.2024


*In my fashion”


Caroline Shank
1.26.2024

My fingers separate the air
between us.  Spokes.  A draft
through each digit whistles,
and I fall through, let go
of my bones.  The sound of
crying splits into syllables,
a vocabulary of fine letters
spills on the soft brown
palette of earth.

Art oils out of yesterday’s
memory.  I leave, erased
from imagination, evicted from
form.  
thought from wonder.  We
meet on the flat sandhills
of reflection.

This thought, which by and
large constructed you, contracts
in sadness.  The distance
between us is spread against
the whitest sky.  Your image
forms like brilliance from
stone.

Cover me in brocade, white
brocade, and tan me under
the sun.  A little glass of
sherry and a Jane Austen

book to read.  

Mention the dances,
the kisses under raw
red crepe paper hats.

We were lovers then
the breathless of
early kisses

under the pink
percale.

We were young and
tan. We spread love
like butter on bread,
like a
summer
song by Chad
and Jeremy.

Clear the dance floor
I am on my way to
you

again.

Caroline Shank
1.6.24

I am reminded of Florida and the
sunshine. The heat of memory.
I loved the years spent with you.

The slant of time, the curls of
daylight. Walks on the sands.
You took my forever talking
with smiles.  I remember

the last days there, combing
for memories. Packing the
pictures to satisfy the cold

north screaming winters.

You were wrong to leave me
halting, grimacing, the nurses
alone your last

Lovers.

Caroline Shank
1.1.24

I don't want to be this old
The fried crisp lips and
a neck with strings of
gobbled goop skin like
Christmas lights circle

the end of the days
like cookslices.  The
taglike things,

the straight hairs on my
chins, there are several,
poke into collars raw from
rubbing on butiful jewlry

I refrain my lament
Being 77 yars old
is like the inside
of a soup can
dried on the counter
corner for a week.

Caroline Shank
12.31.2023