it was raining.

the world was mine to take, so I stepped outside and danced around.

I took off my coat and began to let myself soak up the water from the sky,

Let this illusion disintegrate, for no one could ruin this, not even with goodbye.

My tears blended with the water droplets as they hit my face,

The world was truly within my fates.

after a while, the door sensed
that it's left to itself now
to figure out whether to remain open or be closed.
this sudden realization,
made it very uncomfortable.

from the moment she walked out of that door,
everyone in the house, had the same strange feeling.

at some unique point in time
you make the decision to rise
to rise up and take your place.

birds.

remember?,
drawing them
against white skies,
two lines
graffited,
an awe
to the kids we were...?

i really
love birds,
their chirping a
winged colourway.

early morning,
a robin,
dark orange chest,
dead,
laying there,
on the door step.

i never remember
that birds do die
and their flight.

The former Chilean soldier,
sits with a straight back,
eating Paila marina,
the same thing he makes
every Sunday, although
his wife and children are gone.
He delights in the long-ago flavors,
the rich swirl of saffron fire,
the unlocked mussel shells,
ginger-skinned shrimp
and floating onion slivers.
"Served without pretension,"
the saying rings in his memory,
the deep voice of his abuela,
as she stirs the liquid gems
in her wide, copper ***,
shining on a darkened stove.
“Only some things really matter,”
She often explains.

He always waits silently,
squatting nearby, inhaling the scent,
mouth watering, eyes catching
the lift of her great ladle.
She will turn and smile at him,
the way no one ever has.
He is warmed and fed already,
before even tasting the meal.

Now he is rich, wanting nothing,
sitting in his well-appointed house,
sipping the best wine
and listening to soft music.
Yet he sees and hears none of it.
Only the world in his bowl
is real to him now.

I know they look like sunrises and sunsets, but I was painting you.
When I painted all the rivers that lead to the oceans, and the glorious starry nights, and the flowers; the sublime orchids and the tender roses.
In the end
and from the beginning,
I was painting you.

Now you are there where
the time turns out to be a
mixture of fear and joy.  
You live between the lines
and spaces of my mind.

We root for all the people
left on the battlefields
of this ****** war
on which we will either
sacrifice or lose to make
the last days of memory
and the dance of the day
our hymn to the silent
future.

We suffer, you and I, the
days of darkness and
strange things that are
coming at us like leaves
twisting off the trees.  We
arrange ourselves between
the dates that crawl from
the calendars. You say
we are going to get, in
the last days of autumn,
the first rays of Spring.

When I Think of you
I pray.

Caroline Shank

Can anyone help me? Is
there a minute particle of
a sympathetic soul in the
residue of a life loudly
lived?

I don't really have a
syllable of rain to tell
of the need of personal
experience.

Someone run to me with
an outstretched hand
that I may not flail
in the cold.

God knows of my need
and He cries at your
indifference.

Go away from me, I will
struggle to keep from
showing you my unrequited
solitude.

I am called The City of
New Orleans.



Caroline Shank

Hold me a glass cup –
Something fragile seems too tough
For –
Wash the remains from
The clear insides
And

Remember:
I will shatter
If dropped