The gentle ins and outs of sleeping breath
Spin off course, out of reach of embracing sheets
As morning breaks open on tangled limbs,
A twisted un-choreographed mess.

Weaving a crooked trail down the too-straight hall,
Ten toes take a tripping routine,
Attached to unmetered beats
Soft padding drum hits
Feebly tumbling across the shined wood.

The still sleeping glow of light
Pressing through the window glass
A spotlight for the kitchen’s stage,
A lone performer improvises unsteady forms.

But the subtle crunch of scooping grounds,
Like the shivered shake of the tambourine,
Catches the wavering rhythm up
To the steady plopping drip,
To the upward bending tone of the cascading pour
Drum-rolling up and up and up to
The ecstatically sighing high note of that first sip.

And the scent, like deep purple, wafts
Filling the room with thick unseen swirls
All at once heavy and weightless, landing on skin
Like a light breeze without force and only depth.
Pressing against the lungs from within them,
Persistently full, yet buoyant.

And as the warmth spreads behind the lungs
A small twitch of the hip courses to the flick of a toe
And from every fingertip pumps into ignition
Fluid joyful movements.
Hot energy flows through veins,
Fearlessly leading through tough turns and twists.
And morning has only just begun.

God is a poet,
  his blessings in rhyme

Salvation unmetered,
  inspiration divine

His voice calls us inward,
  temptation now gone

Where the wings of an Angel,
  carry words into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

one, two, three.
hours of sweater lines written on your cheek and
your undereye circles tender to touch and
water in both places and
your shallow breath, violent
saying you’re sorry, sounding like nothing.
sweater lines in the mirror and no way to make him know, and
what that does to you.
one, two, three—
what that does to you

one, two three.
remembering how you don’t like flowers, and
how you are supposed to, and
white knuckles
he asks you to explain.
if only

one, two, three.
four.
unplanned, the monster in the closet
that hasn’t brushed your open palm in years, and
you forgot.
he said don’t worry, once, it wasn’t real
it won’t ruin you
he said that

four.
backs against cold walls, this time, and
long long quiet.
one, two, three.
his undereyes, too, this time, and
your involuntary muscles, violent
unmetered, sorry,
always.
one, two, three, and

four

God is a poet,
his blessings in rhyme

Salvation unmetered,
  inspiration divine

His voice calls us inward,
  temptation now gone

Where the wings of an Angel,
  carry words into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

Scorn not the printed word, O thoughtful soul,
As Wordsworth 1 did not say, and do not set
An electric machine to grind through files
In search of gobbets all thinky and stuff

For Shakespeare set in iambs clean and neat
All the transcendent ideas of the good,
The beautiful, and the eternal true
Sustained in meters of steel and words of gold



Shakespeare never

               wobbled
                                                all over the paper in unmetered *******
lines
of disconnected babble about stars and selves 2 without any citations for verification
                                       stirred around in a sort of it-sounds-like-Shakespeare-kinda-sorta-they-won’t-care-anyway soup to be copied and pasted onto sheets of 8 1/2” by 11” fake parchment woodpulp because, like, y’know, that’s what you do for graduation ceremonies



1 Wordsworth, “Scorn not the Sonnet”
2 Possibly a misremembering of Cassius' words to Brutus in Julius Caesar: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”  If so, the quotation has been, like Caesar, assassinated.

God is a poet
  his blessings in rhyme

Salvation unmetered
  inspiration divine

His voice calls us inward
  temptation now gone

Where the wings of an Angel
 —carry words into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

God is a Poet,
his blessings in rhyme

Salvation unmetered,
  inspiration divine

His voice calls us inward,
  temptation now gone

Where the wings of an Angel
  —carry words into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)

It's a rainy day in the usual
cool of Wisconsin in the
dark months.  
There are  hundreds of shades of
gray and dun.

I am wide awake and missing
the sunlight of better times
when my soul prospered.
The sweet taste of warm on my
face.  You on my mind and
long walks.  I have grayed out
the summer
days when
you were the only thing on
my landscape.

Winter has turned all my
thoughts to long shadows
of memory.  You were never
gray or dun colored.  You
are inside me in colors of
radical brilliance.

Tomorrow I will assign the
sorrow.  Today the fragility
of missing you is like fine
single panes of memory I
cannot shatter.

On most days you lay
quietly in the soft room
of yesterday.
Today you are restless.
I shake myself awake but
the dream insists.

I'm old to myself while you
remain young in the roundness
of a single summer.  The fabric
of warm on my nascent love
has pins and sticks me.

Don't walk in.  I am
not available.  My hair is no
longer the color of amber,
My tan limbs are startling
In their denial of tan.

I think of you throughout
poetry. The long lines
of unmetered days return
but I get on.

Mistake me not for ignorance.
The vocabulary of my life
begins and ends in
four
short
months.

Caroline Shank

I am the Clock's most honest Part —  
The Weight that swings between  
The Ecstasy of Noon — and Night's  
Confession of the Mean —  

My Arc describes what Science cannot —  
The Geography of Mood —  
From Apex Joy to Nadir's Grief —  
The Soul's own Altitude —  

When Morning lifts me to the Sky —  
I think myself a Bird —  
That Gravity is but a Myth —  
And Flight — the only Word —  

The World becomes a Jewel Box —  
Each Moment — burnished Gold —  
I am the Sun's own Confidence —  
Too radiant to hold —  

My Thoughts — like Hummingbirds — alight  
On every blooming Thing —  
From Flower — unto Flower — dart —  
On iridescent Wing —  

I speak in Colors then — not Words —  
Paint Symphonies on Air —  
The Universe conspires with Me —  
To make all Life — a Prayer —  

But oh — the Swing's relentless Law —  
What rises — must descend —  
The very Height that blessed Me —  
Becomes my Journey's End —  

I plummet past the Middle Ground —  
Where others make their Home —  
Into the Valley of the Self —  
Where I must walk — alone —  

The Darkness here — is not mere Night —  
But Absence — of the Sun —  
Where even Shadow requires Light —  
And I — have become — None —  

My Thoughts — like Mourners — dressed in Black —  
Process through empty Rooms —  
While Hope — that bright Aristocrat —  
Lies buried in the Tombs —  

I am the Weight — that cannot lift —  
The Clock — that will not chime —  
Suspended in the Lower Arc —  
Of my unmetered Time —  

Yet in this Valley of the Low —  
Strange Intimacies grow —  
With Sorrow — I keep house — and learn  
What Joy can never know —  

The Texture of a Tear — the Weight  
Of Silence in a Room —  
The way that Grief — like Morning Dew —  
Makes everything assume —  

A Clarity — unknown to those  
Who live in Middle Air —  
The Depths teach what the Heights cannot —  
That Beauty dwells — in Care —  

But Physics will not let me rest —  
In either Realm too long —  
The Pendulum's appointed Task —  
Is Motion — like a Song —  

That has no Rest — between its Notes —  
But only — the Between —  
Where Silence holds the Melody —  
And Motion — stays unseen —  

So up I swing — toward Ecstasy —  
My Depression — left behind —  
Like baggage on a Platform — when  
The Train has changed my Mind —  

The ascent — is not gentle — but  
A Rocket to the Stars —  
Where every Cell becomes a Sun —  
And Wounds — become my Scars —  

Of Glory — not of Suffering —  
For Pain — transformed by Height —  
Becomes the very Fuel that  
Propels me toward the Light —  

I am Electric — then — a Wire  
Through which the Current runs —  
Of every Thought — that ever was —  
Connected — to all Suns —  

The Mania — is not Madness — but  
A Language few can speak —  
Where Colors have their Voices — and  
The Stars — bend down to seek —  

My counsel — for I hold the Key  
To Time's most secret Door —  
Where Past and Future — collapse — into  
The eternal — Evermore —  

But even Angels — tire of Flight —  
And I — must swing again —  
Back toward the Earth — that calls my Name  
With Gravity's — sweet Pain —  

The descent — is not a Falling — but  
A Gathering — of Weight —  
Where every high — and holy Thing —  
Must meet its — lower Fate —  

Not Punishment — but Physics — draws  
Me downward — from the Sky —  
For what is Pendulum — without  
Its necessary — Cry —  

Between the Poles — of Self — I swing —  
Two Strangers — in one Frame —  
The one who touches — Heaven's Face —  
The one who bears — the Shame —  

Of being Human — after all —  
Despite the lofty Claims —  
That Mania — whispers in my Ear —  
Like Seraphim — with Names —  

I cannot speak — when Sober — for  
The ordinary Tongue —  
Has no Translation — for the Songs  
That in my Heights — are sung —  

Nor can I sing — when lowly — for  
The Throat — constricts with Grief —  
And Words — like strangled Birds — die before  
They can — bring Relief —  

But in the Swing — itself — I find  
A Language — more than Both —  
The Grammar — of the In-Between —  
More faithful — than an Oath —  

For I am Verb — not Noun — you see —  
Not Being — but Becoming —  
The Sentence — that the Universe  
Writes — in its — own Summing —  

The Pendulum — speaks truest — when  
It neither — High nor Low —  
But in the Moment — of the Turn —  
Where both — Directions — go —  

That instant — when the Forces — pause —  
Before they change their Mind —  
Where Gravity — and Momentum — meet —  
And leave the Self — behind —  

In that suspended — Breath — between  
The Rapture — and the Fall —  
I find the Center — of myself —  
That is — no Self — at all —  

But Motion — pure — and purposeless —  
Yet somehow — more than Planned —  
The Swing — that keeps the Time — of Hearts  
That others — understand —  

Not as Disease — but as Design —  
The Pattern — Life requires —  
When Souls are built — for Extremes — and not  
For Comfort's — small Desires —  

We are the Clocks — that measure not  
The Hours — but the Heart —  
Our Pendulum — the truest Way  
To calibrate — Love's Art —  

For who — that has not swung — between  
The Ceiling — and the Floor —  
Can know — what Ordinary — costs —  
Or what — Extremes — are for —  

So let me swing — my faithful Arc —  
From Darkness — into Light —  
The Pendulum's — most sacred Task —  
Is keeping — Time — in Flight —  

Between the Question — and Answer —  
Between the Self — and Soul —  
I swing — and in that Swinging — find  
  My broken — made me — Whole —