"caroline" poems
Caroline loves the ocean.
Her soul sails on a Carolina breeze.
But her music's in the mountains,
and her heart's back home
where it needs to be.
I'm stuck here
in a Carolina wind,
wading in the ocean
with my heart in Tennessee,
and my mind on Caroline.
Carolina's got everything
a man could want.
Everything he needs.
It's got the mountains and the ocean.
It has a Carolina breeze.
He has everything but Caroline;
everything but Tennessee.
r ~ 6/22/14
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
A woman drew herself up from wrecked wood at the bottom of the ocean;
whispered sea-songs into the wistful ear of a long lost love;
shook her locks 'til his heart beat faster;
looked longer than she should into the deep pools of his pleading eyes.
"I will call you when I want to;
I will call you when I want."
Cooled his temples;
breathed her watery breath
as silvered beads streamed down his shocked skin.
.......
Rumors rock an empty drifting boat;
a glazed shell faced with priceless pearl
broken from its moorings,
strangled by a knotted rope.
"You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you"
Hold fast the bestowed gift,
your Quinquireme of stowed treasure.
Protect its precious structure.
"Who are you, the one who stripped my soul?
Who is the third who stole yours?"
.........
Broken from netting I lie
a beached starfish on burning sand,
wishing the waves to wash me
back through Time's receding current
to find the silence that once was;
to turn away before the sacrifice,
before the Eye of the storm.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC
Attended by old friends and mentors
the Great Bear's name is set in stone.
Protected by the roof of his architectural cave
his undying lines resound
in the celebrated corner of words.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
She's a star-charged satellite
see how she orbits her restricted space.
Uncountable revolutions so precise
her ambition could burn a toe-sized hole in the boards.
She never misses the point,
if she did, her trajectory would send her way off course
toppling supporting roles,
crashing into the wings to a ruffle of tutus,
unfurling her celebrated petals from a tangle of tulle.
But imagined misfortune will not befall her,
she's perfection to the point of exhaustion
and the likelihood of crashing is a million curtain-calls away.
Her performance is flawless
and the only impact will be on her enraptured audience.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
I sat chatting to Alison of what I can't recall.
Why she was here I had no idea at all.
Ian laughed and made a reference to Cruella De Ville, a pet name for my ex that makes him giggle still.
Then she entered, seemingly frantic, papers dropped floating like feathers. Her hair trailed as though chasing to catch her as she raced through the world.
But no man could catch her as there was no race she was not even there but visiting the same.
She spoke loudly, her words echoed of Edgar Allen Poe. Deep and mysterious, soft in reference to my very thoughts.
She seemed familiar, yet not, oh how could that be?
Real and not there, I thought I had met her.
But probably not yet?
She opened a book and said listen to me she spoke so softley I just agreed.
I can't remember a word that she said only Alisons laughter and Ians nodding head.
They sat next to us but faded away I was losing reality but needed to stay!
The librarian rebuked them and I turned away, then I realised it was Caroline who was sat at the desk.
She turned and smiled and started to say
Hi I'm....
Before she could speak I said "Caroline"
I know
She smiled and leaned towards me, then I woke
The dream blown to infinity.
The library gone.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
There are things
I did not do.
I did not touch
you.
You
died. Without
a sound.
Your soft brown eyes pierced me.
I saw you go in the quiet
way you did everything.
I knew you were gone
but not before I
knew sadly, silently
that
I
could not hold
you in a final
embrace.
Closeness had run out
so long ago,
though we loved until the end,
bereft of speech,
as we we were bereft of
touch.
I bowed to your
blank stare.
I would have died for
you if I could have.
but I could not
save you from
this destiny
with the Father
Who
Loved
you
Caroline Shank
2.2,2023
Feb 4, 2023
Feb 4, 2023 at 5:32 AM UTC
Tedium brought them here.
Bored with routine head-counts,
museums and man-made landmarks.
Impulse told them
To flatten the silent fronds,
Blindly tear down the hampering vines,
Rattle the industrious cities beneath their feet.
Curiosity led them
To this patch of unkempt squitch,
This sacred space littered with clean bones.
No words came with them.
Only Observation...
... a leaping fire tended by savages
Polished teeth strung around their necks,
The bark-ridged skin,
The supernaturally piercing eyes,
Their ashen members grazing the farinaceous earth.
At the heart of this sacred place
Littered with the clean bones,
Condesention covered them with coats,
Misinterpreted grins exposing evidential remains.
Fear penetrated their too-white skins,
Their souls through the sockets of their eyes,
Their clattering teeth.
All this is true :
The scattered bones,
The brass buttons blinking through starved ashes,
The arrows in a glass case.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
A faded photograph
Hangs on the wall
Evoking memories
Of times gone before
Transporting me back
To younger days
Of innocence and dreams
Of simpler ways
Those vintage times
When life was fun
With skies of blue
Endless days in the sun
Carefree years
Of summer wine
Status Quo on the record player
Singing Sweet Caroline
"Every Sha la la la
Every wo wo wo still shines.."
Why can I still remember
All the lines
Of those songs played
Oh, so long ago
Across the waves
Of my radio?
"I think I love you
Isn't that what I'm afraid of?.."
Lyrics never forgotten
45 rpm statements of love
Radio Luxembourg playing
Hidden under the covers
With melodies about life
Betrayal and lovers
"You're the best thing
That ever happened to me..."
Nothing learnt in school recalled
So well as lyrics from '73
Dancing Queen was another
Vinyl classic joining the mix
To enter my subconscious
In 1976
I glance in the mirror
Expecting to see
A reflection of the girl
Who used to be me
Someone carefree
Someone bold
Instead, I see an image
Of a woman growing old
The years have flown
For this troubled soul
Who's lived a life
Which has taken it's toll
The eyes are tired
The hair's turning grey
The heart's battered with scars
The wrinkles here to stay
Then I think of those songs
From the days of my youth
Considered classic gems
Now I'm long in the tooth
They're still being played
Still giving pleasure
Just like the old girl in the mirror
They're vintage treasure
Nicki Tilston.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
Four white walls adorned with posters.
Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd and an odd cluster
of animals and dinosaurs.
and a strange man relaxing his pores.
I could learn something from this
The wall space around Van Gogh
is lined with empty cigarette boxes.
A constant reminder of life shortening though
they encircle the skull like rabid foxes.
I've lost count of how many I've smoked
The carpet is littered with stains.
A reminder of past strains.
Even industrial shampoo
will not fade the marks scarred into.
I've been here too long
The drawers are a symbol of a cluttered mind.
Nothing is organized. but anything is an easy find.
Random thoughts make the air stale.
Only freshened by the 3pm arrival.
Its just junk and coupons
Its difficult to balance all these things out
without a feminine touch to soothe.
A soft laughter to rile the doubts.
Another pair to line with my shoes.
I'll be with you one day Caroline
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
i’m drowning in new york city.
i want to die, again.
always! why is it like this?
i hate everyone; i want my ****** dramatic burlington life and friends back.
her, him, those two, even them…
i want it back.
i wanna be no one.
i wanna be everyone.
i;m full of emotions that i don’t want because everything is so different except for them.
no matter what i do the doom and gloom is always there.
i wanna change my name
i wanna get a dog—auggie or esme, a red border collie—and flee to the south.
I WANNA DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH.
i see these visions of a stable, happy, healthy version of myself but i also see these visions of me literally not making it past age 21.
i’m eternally stuck on self destructing.
but why?
why!
everything is good but it’s never enough.
i’m never enough, it’s never enough, he’s never enough (whoever he is at any given moment)
sam says he’ll fly me back to santa cruz and my insanity says do it but the small semblance of “morals” i still possess tell me not to…
only because of my parents. because of joe.
i don’t want to hurt them.
i don’t want to hurt anyone. but i’m hurting. always. forever. unless i’m drunk. no, wait…even when i’m drunk. i learned that the hard time this last run.
but life is meaningless (words are meaningless and forgettable) and time is a flat circle
blah blah blah
i’ve been here before
i’ll be here again
everything i do i’ll do over and over til i die.
if i don’t get drunk anytime soon i will eventually.
eternal return; the emo version of destiny.
remember when caroline myss’ book told me my highest potential was “victim”?
i’ll be drowning forever.
i’d rather be drowning in absinthe than drowning in aa meeting coffee.
i ache at the beauty of the world; the beauty which i will never achieve or be a part of.
i cry and i cry and i cry.
i want to be beautiful and pure but it’s all so dark.
all the people i’ve loved and who love me…i weep and i weep and i weep.
i can’t breathe fully; why do i wish i could not breathe at all?
i look back at all my pasts as if they were yesterday, and yet they all feel as if i’d made them up entirely.
disconnected and yet fully involved with each and every era of my evolution…
and yet i swear, i haven’t truly changed a bit.
the details change—the scenery, the faces, the dreams…
but all the emotions…all the thoughts…they stay the same.
“i won’t change, i’ll stay the same—darling, fade away…”
fading & falling & then blooming for a single lovely night
time is a flat circle.
i ache, i weep, i cry.
i naively hold onto the hope that someday…someday i’ll be okay.
please, god.
i have to be okay.
i have to turn off the bon iver.
i’m just trying to breathe.
maybe someday.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
I knew you from another time, another country,
watched you flicker between the shrill squeals of children's voices,
trace crystal on reflective faces.
Long forgotten, you followed me here
to dance your brittle death over my body's contours,
startling me into submissive white.
My skin shudders.
Your cold hands surprise me,
long bones flecked with almost-snow
shrivel my seed to a dry husk,
my fruit to rotten pulp.
You are alien here.
Like a thief you fling back my golden quilt,
steal the colour from my cheeks,
reduce my indigenous offspring to a spineless slaver
of translucent gel,
terrified milk running to ground.
After of a night of white terror you sigh over me,
roll your eyes over my corpse
leaving the whole withered,
impartial to my wailing
on account of your ungovernable nature.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 10:10 AM UTC
I'm from Sister Shubert's rolls and homemade chicken and dumplings
From bowling late on Thanksgiving night to trying to be the first one to find the pickle in the Christmas tree
I'm from the smell of my mom's famous pies (pecan, chocolate peanut butter and Kentucky derby fresh from the oven)
From "Sweet Caroline" and "Oh Happy Day"
I'm from the macaroni and cheese I never realized was good
From "Dance with the cow in a patch of clover" and puzzles on Nana's steps
I'm from Rook parallel to the bathtub
From my three favorite windows in the whole house and crazy surprises in my lunchbox
I'm from reading dad's sermons over his shoulder early on Sunday mornings
From lightning bugs and fried okra to the quote board and pickle pancakes
I'm from biscuits with honey for breakfast every Saturday
From McDonald's delicious chocolate birthday cakes
I'm from ***** feet and a pitch black washcloth
And that's the only way I'd want it
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.
There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.
Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 8:56 AM UTC
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.
The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.
At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.
Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.
I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.
My dilemma grows horns.
I half dream of ******
at least amputation.
But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.
At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.
I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.
Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.
(There's someone standing in my elbow!)
Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look! Gold on gold!"
The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.
I wave back.
Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.
My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.
A few deft cuts......
Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.
Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Billy Wynne Veracruz
best baseball pitcher ever
Me Mestizo beloved by the shore a teen a wannabe Mom wannabe wife.
Within his theme songs
In beautiful mystic Vera-cruz.
From the Shaks restaurant my cashiering job
Pitcher asked to walk by the ocean hand in hand.
Baseball players eyes glared so sea-sky blue.
Tallest Knight touching hands.
Handsome king of hearts
"Sweet Caroline song blasted
on pitchers radio cassette player and
" The great Pretender,*
The hours long.
Smooth all passion
seed withheld and me fire firefly flew away..
~~~
Kings like you ought to have many wives
and many babies
Your kind are the crown jewels of fatherhood and motherhood best super human seeds divine
Your legacy rules Earth.
~~~
I found my own reign, great treasures my king heart of gold like mine, called me beauty himself Beast.
Loved to be a one woman man for a one man woman like me his rddbba-Ginny.
We fell in love at first sight
my true love my
handsome American.
Such elite chose me to change Earth he was the bridge and me his worldbringer portal to heaven his star seed.
My once upon a time my twin soul, twin flame King of hearts, became my imaginary best friend my owl of wisdom my everything.
Our theme songs were Spill your heart to me, and what a wonderful world by Armstrong L.
We were also beauty and the Beast.
The memory of my knight my king lover, my true love
my companion,
keeps me safe and sound.
~~~~
By: Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.
Honoring Karijinbba
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:35 AM UTC
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my belov’d, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet still, this fond ***** regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
Tis this, my belov’d, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my belov’d, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our ******* which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth’s ***** laid low.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of Love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1.7k
If you kiss me now our eyes
will close and we will
push against each other
like fruit vying for the light,
In the nightpain of loving
our eyes will slowly open
and your face will wilt
until its cheeks and crevices
dim under the sad symmetry of
our public lives.
If you kiss me now I will forget
the grown repair of skirt alone
in the loud sound of memory
as it slips ever so gently away.
Caroline Shank
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
Trapped in the definition of his interior,
he had become an invisible thing.
In moods deeper than dark ebony
repetitive folding and unfolding of nefarious reasons
pushed him to step outside his restricted vision.
Lost perhaps?
Or provisionally eclipsed?
A luminous slash hinged his door,
the cicatrice between brooding paralysis and explicit dreams.
............
Here on the ledge,
teetering on the cusp of obscurity and mountains blinding peak,
his sight catches a net
streaming from an open window-
billowing freedom.
A metalic thread glitters through him,
its coppery tang branching across clenched fibres
igniting his fingers, his tongue.
A mute cloud disperses.
He stands in the presence of a revelation.
Through the smoke of his eyes
he steps off the threshold
plunging into burnished sun,
his head incandescent with foreign scents.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 6:35 AM UTC
I Found God
I found God in a Baptist Church
in Milwaukee.
Faith, small hands and
scratched bibles.
Warm cookies.
The delicate and the children.
Their names in coded
words on the skin under
my arms. .
Dedicate: the
day to the great E. Perience.
There is a new Age
coming.
I smoke a cigarette.
God arrived in fancy clothes.
Women dressed, frown.
Still voices in the
Wilderness
Witness the Beloved
baptism of perfumed
sinners
I smoked for them all.
My fee for being previously
Apostate.
Caroline Shank
Dec 14, 2021
Dec 14, 2021 at 8:13 PM UTC
It's not the shy flowers that beckon
it's the distraction of perfume.
A predetermined breath
designed to confound the senses,
drag you to your knees,
excite olfactory receptors,
jangle neurons, axons, dendrites,
wow you with silken notes
of milk and honey,
no.....musk,
no.....warm vanilla,
no.....
(attempts to translate their fragrance
would dumfound a dictionary)
Then, Parisienne sabonettes come to mind,
in limbic wafts spilled from a half open box.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 7:41 AM UTC