He got on, I think, at the first stop
I hardly noticed him at first.
Another passenger, another journey
Another person trying to get on further in the world
But something caught my eye. Was it his looks?
Perhaps, he was handsome, yes
But the type of handsome in an antique
That must be handled and cared for in sterile fashion.

"Tickets please,"  belches the scratchy tannoy of the carriage
As a red faced man in a deep hue of navy bumbles along the aisle.
He presents him any papers on his person
And looks at me with a stupid grin
His old eyes of the deep trenches at sea, glisten
There’s still life in the old boy yet.
Impatience wins this round. His hands still fumble helplessly
Through the sheets; not frailed though, just tired.

Time passes, he daren't say a word
And looks outside, without a sound. Time doesn't worry him
It's treated him well. Or has it?
As he paws his ginger mane
The grey strands shine in the light
A paper sits unread, unloved beside him
Lights of distant towns blur past
As he stares, unflinching, into the distance.

Grunting and shrieking of rails let us know we're stopping
The muddy blue pools shimmer as he rises.
The blade from Cherryvalley assures us that yes,
Yes. This is Lisburn alright. Getting up, sniffing the air
Where nature is a predator, he heaves his dark blue tote bag
Over his shoulder with a grunt.
Roaming into the darkness of the late winter night
Climbing. Climbing. Gone.

I sometimes look into the windows of the 1802
at the lights; look at my reflection
Where is he now? Is he like a stray
a lone nocturnal animal, finding his way
Or did he give up? Did he finally reach his den?
And what will become of me? Time tells, I suppose
It always does. I ruffle my auburn hair
Oily, not greying. Scruff, not mane. Still tamed.

On the italian alps
a blizzard in a gail
the lands are cold see
its all seems so numbed and frailed

I’m out a’ walking down
an icy river road
theres a bear hanging round
i think my breathing slowed

Im off to summer land
where the children run free
where the sun is open
in blue sailing country

I'm a walking down this road
off around a white bend,
a might just see a star
a tree on Jupiter
i might friend.
White teeth, gold,
banquets, handsome green hills,
buffalos, rainbow brass knuckles and the frills
let my mind play all night
in the moon on that street
in that leather world babe
under the pearl light well meet.

I’m out a’ walking down
an icy river road.

Sometimes I remember the scorn of my family,
Effigies of bloodlines crossed into a tired face.
I remember my mother,
Her vice was appearance-
Not her own but that of others.
Every day was judgment
She’d pick us before we bloomed and left wilted children
Questioned the lack of fruit
Not with self-deprecation but with scorn
How dare we cross the farmer who sowed the seeds and watered the crops?
How dare we look towards the sky for comfort?
When that cold trowel could dig in our necks.

I remember one time my mother asked me if she was the problem
A lie, I’ve heard that question many times
How can you curse a broken human more than she does herself
And somewhere in my head, I justify it
Consider the kindness built on vanity to be kindness nonetheless
Flowers do not need to be alive to be beautiful
They can be so frailed and dried up they become immortal
A crumbling tombstone of decay
And we marvel at them
And I remember that I am a product of my mother

by the turn of the clock
i have not done as i said
my head and i have frailed
lonely and failed becomes

Home for me is darkness
where I can't see but only think.
Reality paints a picture
with frailed brushes and dried ink.
I have a rich eye
for the most beautiful art
so I've done away with scribbles
and the editing part.

I'm scared of ink running free
and bleeding into a depiction of me.
I even struggle with the pristine version of me
that's crafted by my discretion
yet I see it and ask questions.

Why am I painted in shades
of grey, black and blue?
I hope to see my life unfold
but regret it as I rue
the persistance I put upon wondering
instead of going forth and wandering.

I'm left in my life to discover
instead of have it uncovered.
I need no brush or a pen,
just a heart and a new life to begin.

Being jammed in a tram,
What a shame and how lame
To be frailed in a train, to be tame
By a dame (of a size not a fey)
To be blame for a stay on a place for a maimed;
To see flame on a tray from the lights
Speeding by in a frame of a window
As if speeding through a limbo
With a gradus beyond zero
‘Stead of it lie on a pillow
Or being deadly on a billow
Amidst th’ infinity of eon

Shall I from battered path of life derailed
Into the vast mysterious unknown,
Where every firmament is thin and frailed
And everything to you does seem forlorn?
Where dwells no light, nor dark, nor pungent fire
What either burns or purges stranded souls,
Or where reside the creatures vile and dire
Collecting for the passage golden tolls;
Or shall Through this abyss I ever wander
Along the flowing River of the dead,
Or with my head precociously to plunger,
Myself to the sleek tenants of there fed.
But this is all just aimless reveries
Of one who is bereaved of heaven bliss

The ways of life are numerous
Each way displays its own districts and streets
Some bear “…the junction of slothity and poverty”
Others carry attractive posts, the likes for gullible minds
“…wine and dine with the best of time wasters”

One way screams with speakers at pride’s plane
Above terrestrial comprehension
“…junction for all smokers”
It adds “…all those are welcome
who silt to their fill and pipe like chimney”

Observe enough and see folks encroached
Battered and weathered by wrong decisions
Having gory tales to tell.
Why are you blaming them?
It was not their fault, everyman had a plan.
God, they loved for leverage and so had no plans for Him.
In turn, He made plans without them.

It is dusk so soon, but the pleasure they sought
Have tarnished into sorrow
Now they have gathered from their destruct
Reared by those who were yet to begin
“What is the way forward?”
A question not too late but waned.

The sage bent by age, suffocated by their sulphur
Forerunner of their presence
Mixed with perfumed breath of the ‘holics
Smiling though, on the surging crowd
His lips made twitches….then failed.
His hands took over….but frailed.
Then pointed his digits
Fingers that have served all prodigals

That way that looks rugged at the entrance
With no welcome sign
So narrow that your slings must be parted
That is the way, the way of the Blood and the Cross.

A morbid turn of thought has led me here-
At night, where all the dead do rest in earth
How sickly strange the soil, knows how I fear-
This graven yard of death, and deathly birth.

To then torment myself, I visit hers;
The grave upon my heart and on my love
I taunt an older spell, a book refers:
"bring whom lay here, their spirit from above,

Let none the hardened soil halt thy path
Revive this parted soul and gift her air;
To crawl from out the deathly calls of wrath
To walk upon her ghastly bed to fair,

If this be done then I do promise thee;
My soul unto the force that gifts her 'wake,
Relinquish then this body's husk and be
Where I am deemed to whom her soul's remake".

I wait reply, with none a hope in breath,
But sweeps a gust of wind about her leaves
And there an eerie chatter out of death!
'By God!' I thought, is this to be, she breathes?

The leafage seemed to hear and then responds-
With whispers 'mongst the rustle... 'here she be,'
Without no pause, the mound implodes! With fonds-
Then whirling, whispers weeping, to then see:

Out crawls my frailed, deceased, beloved Ruth
Whose form still bears the scars of death decays,
I'm stilled by horrid screams of torrid truth
'What have I done to you?' my love dismays.

Her falling jaw with eyes of pain, now speaks....
'now 'tis below thine self must claim this grave,'
It's then do I recall, as terror wreaks;
That I did bargain then, my soul to slave.

By unseen force, I fall deep in the hole
And lay inside her coffin, ready splayed;
As still as dead, my light in life have stole
As closed the cast with dirt upon me laid.

Entombed, I scream, but none alive can hear;
By love I lived and love's me buried here!

Long ago, miles and miles
ago,  you'd think I'd have
forgotten.  I remember so
many things.

I've learned that a tree down
still remembers its first leaf.
That the moon remembers
its first sunset.  I've learned
to understand then, that the
first beating of your
existence on my heart
remembers you.

Send me a signal that I
may see the first fragments
of your hand in mine,
the first dance in the
dark, the first look
we knew as always.

Let me not go without
one signal that you knew,
once, the colors of my
name you whispered
on my skin that night
you said goodbye.

The years have frailed me,
but not so much that I
could not relive that
sole and singular summer.

Caroline Shank