That was before all the decisions.
Before the car was packed and
you drove with such a pain in your
knee.

That was the last time I was
thin and my hair was not yet
pink.

Before I knew you were around
the corner.  You were not yet
the last to set my mind reeling.

Tomorrow will see you wrapped
In the linen of your generation,
the symbol of a freed man.

Wallace Steven's predicted
you but I was not listening.
To be freed was not the point.
All that was before I saw the
exhaustion on my face.

Waylon Jennings here.
Full stop

Yet all my life foretold you.
The brave of you and the
blindness of my ever
singing anthem.

I leave you with s soft
flower

To

Wear

in your hair.

Caroline Shank
April of my discontent


4.20.2024

I am neither this nor that,
Neither here or there.
I do not talk too fast nor
loud.

My ego rides on me like
a rug. It needs vacuuming.
Today was a pretty dusty
day with lists and conversation

written with the accouterments
of my old age.
I am a fantasist.
It shows in my mistaken
choice of you.

You cannot hear me.  I am too loud.

Whatever I have to say is not
a flower or a song.

I am the avatar of she who
left.  The husk of intelligence.

If there are questions that
are unanswered  ask another.
I have the memory of a
conversation, an admonishment,
a loving reminder from someone
who was wrong.

And the reclining apneic
experience to

sleep. To say

my

prayers to the God of my
understanding


Caroline Shank
4.17.2024

I heard, the other day, a small
sound, a piece of gravely
noise.  To remember you
in the voice around the corner,
the right turn into the bathroom

where memory lay.

In the depth of a minute.
you came back.  I looked
to where you last called
to me.

The dementia still rooms away,
Your slanted smile lingered
like the Cheshire Cat's did.

All dressed up to cover the

bruises.

I began this poem to hold
you where the phantom
calls began.  To see eternity
in an hour and laughter has

it's own cry under the
lonely mask I wear.
I scan the room to
capture something as
ephemeral as yesterday

“When I was

young.’


Caroline Shank
4.4.24

You, Still There.

Picture me if you will,
like Minever Cheevy
leaning against the wall.

I thought and thought
about a kitchen you have
never seen,  my creamy
coffee, and the cat.

The blur on my face
is you. Your brown
beard streaked with
white..  No one can

make out the riddle
of you.  I keep singing
This is the dawning of
the age of asparagus.

You laugh and my face
crumples with the memory
of that, now nearly muted,
dear sound.

When will you be gone?
I scrub to no avail. I look
At myself, lost in the memory
of your death, standing by
for you to tell me something

about coffee.  

The blur
gets bigger as I rub

harder.

Your face clings to me
and I am lost

In the magic of your

song.


Caroline Shank
03.28.2024

I will tell you why I am
so
loud.

So you would
notice me.

I am
cluttered with images.

Images that swirled
while I slept,

long and
chipped.

Your voice
rocked me to

sleep and in the
morning

I sang.



Caroline Shank
3.19.2024

To whom shall I say
I love you
If not to you?

To my bent head
I close my mind
to paths windings,

And the sun’s bright
light steals the dark
secret of you.

To the nights signature
you lie with me.
I wrap my dreams
as hidden

in the shelf of my
breast.

Not to know this
is my gift to you.

The place upon, where
you
rest is the worn
In me the tragic

song.


Caroline Shank
03.17.2024

Did you find it?
What you came
here for?  
Into this land of
broken dreams and lies
you travelled with a weary
pack lying on you like a
moldy shell.

I don't have two pence
to care
and two pence….
In other words

the scar of your
indifference
raised the

white triangle of
sad songs and
Army jingles I
learned from my
Dad.

Slide it beside me
before the effigy

Me,
In a papier mache
page Turner.

I am a member
of the caste.

Namaste

Caroline Shank
3.16.2024