Not unlike needed caresses or gentle kisses,
the morning sun did bathe my upturned
face in needed glow of restorative warmth.
An encouraging respite after weeks of clouds
and cold rain to lift my flagging spirts,
supported and enhanced by the celebratory
songs of a plethora of birds, all this perhaps
the shining moments of glory in my entire
self isolated day.

The evening seems to sing,
Choirs composed by currents
In obscure keys of humidity.
A lone songbird takes the lead,
Percussion provides ensemble trees.
While the very air we need to breathe
Suffocates, stifles, tries, and succeeds
To bleed the breath from laden lungs.
Throat pleads, begs, and bargains
To demi-gods and heathens,
Deities and demons,
Every creature beneath this sun.
Let this molten grip
Slip
If just for a note,
A beat,
A pause from the pressure.

Silence is a treasure
To be savoured not measured.
Sweet cadence of relief.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries, here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
There are monsters
that walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

some say she was born with a broken heart,
unmendable by word or deed, and now armed
with a quiver full of witticisms and deft vertical
palm, friends, lovers, the world, all held at bay,
lest they discover her sorrow

I seem to be broken now.
Pieces fall as strangled
shapes to the floor.  
I toe them, looking
for the edges to rustle
back together.

Fragments fall.
Dried edges and shriveled
meanings.  (The torn
remains of my old age.)

I think I am broken.
My poems drift
off as blowing leaves
in a dry season.  
I rake them into
a pile.  The crackles
and snaps. The ends
of thought.

I write this to save the few
remaining poems I have.
Words fall from the
dustpan of dry letters
on a cold night.

Caroline Shank
1.20.21