We don't control our own lives,
we pretend we do, but that is
merely a wishful self-deception.
Even human life happens not
unlike our riding a rollercoaster.
we are merely up and down
passengers with no control, on
board for the duration, at the
Whims of Fate, and recent
good maintenance of all the
equipment.

Words a child can tell his parents are:
I didn't ask to be born,
You have not done me a favour to bring me up.
I hate you.
13/9/2022

No one is gonna save us
If we don't save ourselves
Our politics an Abyss
Our religions need more Elves

Democracy might be a mistake
Where are the Philosopher Kings?
Lady of the Lake
Cathedrals. Ancient Things

But we live in our present age
Gas stations. Internet ****.
The old order dying
What might be reborn?

American. All too American.
But at my best I do resist
Unwell very often
But the poetry persists

I remember Tokyo
Taipei and Gamla Stan
3 dear deer
1 dear fawn

          Bangkok: Temple of the Dawn

Hollowed out dreams
Cracking at their seams
Still grasping for the star
Which never seemed so far
Still searching for that fire
That shields from all that’s dire
The cathartic placation
When you satisfy inspiration
The iridescent heat
That comes when lovers meet
It must be real obscene
To be this routine
To stretch that errant prime
Into a lifetime

When I start to regret the past
I have to ask
what does that piece of me mean
is it something best forgot
or a lesson
that turns my dark to green
It might make my dust into stars.

I should not waste my scars.

the cult of the ideal woman.
silent era mignon.
pass the baton.

a little diplomacy.
a little electricity.
and a waterfall of curls.

she moves with the fayre.
I see her idling on Fifth Avenue
and at work behind the counters
of the stores.

besotted men plant young, leafless trees upside-down,
roots in the air, simply because
she wants it that way.

a groundbreaking end
to The Broken Oath,
and her name on the credits
for the very first time.

screens, fans, and umbrella stands.
or maybe lilies in a field of seclusion.
she is stardom.
she is the eternal question.

It's getting dark early again. The
street lamps are on by dinner.
Soon the memory of piles of
leaves, the smell of Fall and
the call to jump in the whispering

auburn heaps of my youth
would jolt me.

I am old now and fat.  The
ritual of Autumn's call to
the dark evenings that were
an invitation to the holidays,
is a calling cocktail.

The rains drained the ashes
into the sidewalk gutters.  The
hopscotch grid fades as day
light melts and I lose the
game.

Games are like drifts of scents
across the light post's shadow.
They are the ephemeral
recipes of my New York
youth. I walk to the edges
of the grass reading the
folded paper fortunes that

told me I would marry Jack
someday. I didn't. I threw
the lined prediction in the
leaves, scuffed my brown
shoes on the sidewalk

never dreaming that real
life would crinkle like the
ruled paper forgeries.



Caroline Shank

The soliloquies
born of tears,
spoke of Loneliness.
The Plays the Thing.
The Long and Winding Road.  

Hamlet was not crazy,
as some think,

he was alone.

Lady Macbeth scraped blood
from her hands in a
castle of lonely rooms.

McCullers loneliness
was a companion.  

Teasdale wrote of the sea's
lonely foam.

Lear,  alone,  held Cordelia
to the
cold and empty sky.

I know Alone.   It is a wind
just past my skin.   Your hand
on my face is a reflection.   My
skin is uninterrupted by the
conversation of your fingers.

Alone is the road
we travel.  

Evermore.


Caroline Shank
8.16.2022