Sun is hotter,
but moon is nearer.

Yellow-belted dress
in runny mirror?

Come naked night,
intent is clearer.

In the day air
you can hear her

bright beguiling verses;
after dark is dearer -

moon-mouthed poems
are sincerer.

Smart and sincere not
              Moral Sanctimonious
                   It’s my way or the highway
                      I’m right and you’re wrong
                             We can do this all day long

Tomorrow the lights will go
Out
is all.

The bulb, a soft
corrosion in the end.
Only tomorrow will recur
A million light years,
over a future
unaccomplished.

The glow  is
Un normal.
Love Extinguished.

So u will have to be
Unloosed from the
alphabet. Ink in
space

dissolves.

The unrestrictions
of a love pledged
like Smoke and
Mirrors. The dusk
of
of Unknowing

spills.

The land of whispers,
of imagined Summer's

doesn't
exist.

Ever
.

Caroline Shank
7.25.24

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.

The once beloved Knight Sir Lancelot
and his loyal trusted men at
The threat of death were forced to kneel before the entire royal court and pledge their fealty to the King.

They were admonished for their actions.
The King had a more useful purpose for these men. They were given impunity. Which led to the discriminate slaughter of the peasants they sought to protect.

This harsh reminder and lesson for the other Marauders in the land,  going against the King, would have dire consequences.

Song inspired
The monarch song by horrible histories
There are several different versions are all funny

Through
the
looking
glass

on the sands of a shore
to
a
common park
an
African heart
views
global
art

We
fathom the winds
stave
the
tempest
that
stokes the grave

from
a lions roar
to
a humble dove
speak in tongues
none have heard
turning
sound
to
God's word

living
in straits
of
life above
Valhalla
here
the
gift of  love
.

My friend Dale
complains constantly.
He's a millionaire,
but says he's
always broke.
He quit drugs, and
rubs it in everyone's
face.
He rages when the
world is at war,
and complains that
it's too quiet during
peacetime.
He talks horribly to
his friends, and he
smokes cheap cigars.
He doesn't like
art, and he's never
read a book.

Dale has a small
pond in the back
of his house where swans
listen to Mozart and
mate, while squirrels and
raccoons share pomegranates
and waltz all night
long under that big yellow
laughing moon.