A lump in the throat
And a winter night without a coat

Language of the heart
And a raging storm about to start

Words begin to form
And a storm that leaves me without warmth

So I freeze instead
Caught on the articulation of a word
And a tempest blazing inside me
And I do not speak



8/13/2020

They , the grass carps
eat away the algae of my brooding from the pond of my feelings.
Like painters , they paint the blank canvases of my life with unforgettable sweet and beautiful moments by their delicate and innocuous jacose paint brushes.

Tickling me with loads of laughter by their innocuous hilarious acts is their shadow.

Folding the tender age of the two little beauties into my palms for ever is my fantasy and living with their childhood memories shall be my ice cubes on my burning wounds.

Sitting in the faculty lot
thinking how I'm as nervous
as my students
for our first day of class
going virtual, live every day
with all the lack of control
and all that could go wrong
(and it will)

I sit here
staring out
into the darkness
an impending storm threatens
as thunder urges me to drive
and fat rain splatters my windshield

but then, I begin to smile
because another storm will hit
and tomorrow will be fraught
with incredible mistakes
all except for one
important
piece

THEY WILL be back in my classes  
and, oh, how I've missed them
like a mother
of too many children

I can't wait to hear their laughter
to form connections with each class

I can't wait for school to begin again

There you go again
scaling the walls of
my scarred and forked
emotions.  I cover the
limbs which you have
not as yet noticed.

I hear you chanting.
I shiver as you dance
around the soft underbelly
of yesterday.

If I could tell you that
which I know to be
true would you stop
your blue colored cry
to be love touched?

Could we but begin the
music again?  I don't know
what the years of our separation will bring, I only know
that we are soft
sound on skin.

Tango me esta noche.


Caroline Shank

You can't reverse the dying
of a leaf. Even if it is not fully
in the ripeness of its demise.

The yellow stripe of incipient
decay that rides the center
of the foliage is only the
beginning.  The curled
edges follow and if there
is a flower it will float down
very shortly.

Love like death takes
its time with all things.  
Toes and fingers curl in a semblance of sadness.  
The veins break
like old thread.  

Both leave in their own season,
in short gasps.  The last thing
to go is the stem. The *******
resonance of a long goodbye.

It rejects the unction
of extreme prayers
left on the
knuckle of loss.


Caroline Shank