It comes from talking too fast.
Words from thought spill through
me.  I am unadorned with
punctuation.  I write in long
lines of ideas switching from
one to another like trestles.

Some thoughts get stuck or are
trapped under wheels. They rub
me clumsily.

I speak only English in a stomach
churning speed.  To tell you how
beautiful you are takes pages and
curls of rushing lines.

I am a jumble of ideas out loud.
A scorch of syllables.  I digress
of course.  I am a stumble of
sounds, a cataract of meanings.

Listen to the scrape of pen, the
words enlighten,emerge, into
conversation.


Caroline Shank
6.8.2023

Grey bound
Green leaves
Grandpa's dream
Grandma's crown.

Sometimes we think
that the party
never ends;
that tomorrow
won't come;
but sunrise always
cracks our illusion,
until one day
dawn's sweet light
shines
no more.

where is the wisdom
of my earlier worlds
giving me the illusion
I knew what I was saying

the years since then
have taught me insights
       unexpected  inconvenient
the wisdom of old age  maybe

yet I don't find again
the certainty of youth
forever lost
in the complexities of living