Music lifts one up
It expresses what we feel
Fills our heart and soul
It can touch the world
Connect all of us
Communicate our story
Tell our history and future
It can paint a picture
With sound
It can calm us or excite
Causing us to dance
It inspires us
Sometimes it can make us laugh
It’s a mirror into the best of us
It’s healing and powerful
We need it
It is magic

Nothing comes naturally
anymore nothing
flows through you and makes you
forget time
everyone tells you It's coming back
It' coming
back but you just wonder
when and how

our fingertips meet gently on the rim of porcelain
and as we take a sip from liquid infinity
all the numbness abides - induced by frost and rain.

the ember glow ascending from your eyes -
no tender coffee with cream could ever achieve -
is the epitome of what makes my inner child arise.

and i adore the way your index finger moves around the surface of the storm-kissed-window,
while you utter your thanks for whatever makes this autumnal evening swirl in an indigo-colored vertigo.

and i see it too.

© fey (27/12/21)

She is strong but soft, a dichotomy of astronomical proportions.
The warrior, her armour forged in the flames of her pain.
Yet her heart so bravely beats for all to see.
For she knows, to love is to give her heart completely and freely.
And this is truly her greatest strength.

I love your fierce approach. You swash
at me.  With strong arms you cut the air.
I feel the breeze of your determination.
You look like a soldier.  The art of love
is a frenzy of intensity. You can't take
me without a battle.  

I am the rose-holder, you are the steel
clad rider.  You joust to win my favor.
I throw petals to path your way to
me.  The minstrels play.  Sing amen
to this afternoon.

You have won the day! I am the
receiver of your presents.  Fifty years
have passed. My trodden soul is
bare. You rode the steed of truth
and beauty.  

It is my turn to write your name
in a church of sorrow.  To try to
climb down my lofty seat.  I kiss
you fairly my true warrior.  The
last joust was now.


Caroline Shank
5.26.22

singing to make your voice dance
and dance to make your body sing
crying a happy-teary painting,
a more silent-loud kind of poetry-painting that speaks