What’s this glaze
over my eyes…

A heavy mist
with fingers…
that lingers.
A cataract that
dives and claws
into the black
of irises.

A film,
a veil,
a canvas botched
and vandalised
with arguing paints.
And indelible black
that sings of sadness,
highlights the aches
of dejection
and screams
betrayal.

I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

We’ll age like a well-worn porch
In a thunder storm;
Telling tales, sipping drinks,
Beneath a canopy of stars-
In a house that we call home.

Our basement’s stoked with love,
That melts away the cold;
The rafters hang with laughter,
To warm us when we’re old.

Our shelves are stocked
With hugs and kisses;
And jars of smiles and hopes;
The food of family ties,
That nourish hearts and souls.

we are going to fish

we carried our backpacks
fishing equipment
into the cabin

the cabin wasn't
Thoreau's cabin at Waldon pond

then came the storm
lightening
thunder
torrential rain
and

and then
the lights went out

there we were

******

eating potato chips
and drinking beer in the dark

"quick
put all the beer in the freezer,"
my brother says

we put on our headlamps
sat in the dark
discussed
the care and handling of fish
how the hybrid strippers
don't have the beautiful stripes...
we played cards
I read "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance"
by candle light
til 3 a.m.

rain
thunder
and lightening
for 4 days

and living the way Man was meant to live

More fool me. You named the
earth a green planet, the sky
often ten shades of punk.  You
told the Angels to leave your

scorecard at the door.

The Angel of abuse to the
Angel of love.  

Much of desire is so short
an afternoon.  

The bulls are running and they
Look to you to have

The answers


Caroline Shank
9.16.23

SCATTERED DREAMS

Whenever I fell
asleep

my father came
cupped me in his hands

carried me to bed

as if I were as precious
as water

in a hot dry land

or draped like discarded clothing
on a couch...in a garden
on a bench or a beach

I would be gathered up

& awake to find myself
back in the safety of my own bed.

And I would have thought
I had flown

or being magically
transported by a spell

but it was only
the ordinary

magic of my father

cradling me
in his arms

gathering up the littlest
of my scattered dreams

stroking my hair

& tip-toeing backwards
out of the room

his voice
full of tenderness

casting a spell

“Good night son...goodnight...goodnight.”