I am
theatre bred
I am
poet born
I will not tread lightly
I will blow my horn
I will make practice
of practice
Till every act is
that of mastery
I will steal history
for so long
that it will linger upon
me. For centuries

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

Morning drips in like coffee.
I think of you. It is the
hardest time.  I begin the
day in sips. My tongue
burns with greed.

You seep in through the
slats of my sleepy windows.
The day starts with memory.
Your red hair curls
around the sun.  I reach out to
touch you.  I want to kiss
the blue of your eyes across
the table.

I, sadly, drink the dregs of
my morning, wash the azure
off my face and dry my tears
to carry me through to
tomorrow.

Mornings drip in like coffee.
I think of you.

Caroline Shank