The fabric of society dangles by a feeble thread
That trembles with the the heavy weight of anger
And is stretched beyond what possibly
Can hold it all together

Weavers rush to reinforce the ever thinning yarn
But the sheep that usually supply the wool
Are scattered in the meadows of contention
And a worthy shepherd can’t be found.

How long can the tapestry, once honored and revered,
Remain in place upon the walls that form the room
Which shelters us from the visisitudes of living
In a world of hatred and divide.

It must not crumple to the floor, cut loose from
What sustained it through the centuries,
Leaving walls with gaping cracks that let inside
The freezing winds of vengence.

Will there be a place to hide and recreate a loom
In hopes of managing to learn to weave once more
And patch the rends in what was rescued from the floor
And seal the walls of hope again.
                                                         ljm

heavy rain from a darkening sky
and buildings  fall

no one knows what will be left
running down the nowhere
where dreams die
on a metal tray
at the hospital morgue

trouser leg pushed up
the search for black ink
and a child's name
begins

perhaps the arm
the hip

the back?

and the children plead,
lie to me,
tell me,
i won't die,
today

and the silent screams
are left in an eternity of why?

foul and bitter hearts
will prevail
on both sides,
this is the poetry of death

The syllables of conversation
scatter like Shore stones.
The Gulf prefigures you
as a dream prefigures the

child.

Salt water runs through our
toes as we walk. There are
birds and wind like kisses
lick the sides of yesterday

when the screams of love

reached

Heaven.


Caroline Shank
7.6.2024

Myth of my path was
weird. It does not take a turn. Only
stops midway. You can take hemlock.

I peel off the light
of the moon. Now you can walk under
the stars like a bride.

When the pain stops,
nobody knows. The penultimate
narrates the endless rain of tears.