And the river emptied and silver stream awoke

In a thirtieth moment water knelt to pray,
wringing hands beckoned rain
from a dwindling cloud,
lingering voice dry and brown;

Once, it walked through the cobbled
sleeping tufts of grass,
wading smoothly lingering in the sawdust dawn;

A drought between the essence and the shadow-
pieces of the river in the cellar earth
turning to dust;
the sage in the hedgerow hill listening
for the water rush;

A voice half heard but heard in the stillness,
trickling morning
silver stream, swallowing earth
sprawling soil,
spilling in the footprint river- licking field;
flowing water and the sandy road.

Copyright © 07/31/2016 lance sheridan®

And the river emptied and silver stream awoke

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Published twice…

night into day/goodnight till the morning sun

 

night into day

him¦

innumerable stars written in light
i often dream that the night is more alive
as it walks down the sky with darkness in its hand
and what I take from it I add to my days

silently, one-by-one from its twilight meadows
i cannot walk through the suburbs of solitude
without reverencing the night
for it helps to banish the logic of humanity

to them never a time yet but seemed far duller than the day
how long will the night continue to window their pain
dreams reflected in the day but not in the night
blackened illustrations nonetheless, sleeping while awake

second course, the death of reasons, ordinarily observed
in the night, insomnia, a symptom of deprivation
filled with paradoxes, they sheep flock to it with reluctance
the repose of my night, my dreams, my sleep, do not belong to it

it does not possess me, it is not my soul’s keeper
yet it does not boast of freedom
it walks down an inoffensive path removing all obstructions
in a world of my own, a good night’s sleep is the best oblivion

a new day twists the arm of the night and bades it farewell
like a weary pilgrim, it unlatches the dawn
and it chases away the darkness and the weary worn
everything takes a breath of the morning air, but not to ‘err is human’

for in the morning dew, the little things in life are awakened…

goodnight till the morning sun

she¦

walking upon white sands
imprisoned by thoughts and narrow walls
that hold no comfort within right now

walking beneath the sun
yes warm
but feel embraced by the coldness

as hands touch loneliness
down on hands and knees i go
to touch the warmth once more

but through clouds of smoke
i search for you
and the sun

oh hear my voice upon the ocean
within your dreams
till the morning sun appears

and as sunshine warms your face
open your eyes in joy
and know my thoughts are with you

but for now i am walking
walking upon white sands
imprisoned by narrow walls

thoughts hold no comfort
as I walk beneath the sun
upon white sands within a dream

as I say goodnight though
my heart belongs to you
till the morning sun.

Copyright © 03/11/2013 Ðark Roasted Ƣoetry®

night-into-day-goodnight-till-the-morning-sun

And then a cloud passed, quietly, quietly

And then a cloud passed, quietly, quietly
And the sun rose
And the morning turned to clay
And the crows descended and flew through the gate,
Scolding, mocking,
Flying over dead leaves, disturbing the dust;
And the summer was empty
And the trees were empty-
Unconscious in the rain beat of autumn.

And into the old farm house blew the wind
Through a loosened pane
And the daisies in the garden slept in clay,
Withering summer
And the farmer worked in his clumsy shoes
Digging the earth soil
Waiting for the early snow- it hints of early
The frost is on the briar rose.

And then a cloud passed, quietly, quietly
And the bitter cold, and the bite of cold
And the ragged snow,
Hither between here and the crow stalk
Windless and the winter lightning,
Covers the boughs, covers the early owl
Descending flakes
Snow ash on the old farmer’s sleeve
(Gliding windless, the wended veil of flakes).

Copyright © 09/03/2016 lance sheridan®

And then a cloud passed, quietly, quietly

The box

Who are these people in printed journals,
Agents for syllables?
Small letters examined one by one,
Put together in a square box—
It is the silence that appalls me the most!

I have put my eye to the grid of words,
Dark, dark by a poet’s hands,
Thoughts angrily clambering;
Yet, I let them out— stood back, set them free,
Everybody’s voices, smiles changing;

In need of a breastplate tucked under the arms,
Wearing of black veils after a read;
Strips of tinfoil for a smile.
I cannot run, I am rooted too deep,
If I stand still long enough, I will be untouched by animosity.

I lay my hand on a journal, it may ignore me immediately;
The pack, haunched, grinning over the bone of victory.
Yet, a stepping stone for a manuscript, for a book,
Poems into a new niche, from a black intractable mind.
I am no source for a rejection— the box is only temporary.

Copyright © 09/14/18 lance sheridan®

Box

i, all my being slowly aging

Age, you came by way of withering hands
aching bones
and missing smiles- i remember the smiles,
tucked away
in old albums in an attic where a burned
out bulb
swung with its deacon, the dark.

Ah! yes, you have all things ready for me in a
quiet place
i’ll be there, by and by, as weariness continues to
haunt me
(after all it is your messenger, what sense is this)
i already
feel the skeleton of your fingers, thin and damp
touching me
a cold, airy vengeance- a shadowy portend.

i cover one eye as i slowly grow older,
it hides
my tears- yet, my hand feels my sadness;
perhaps we
can strike a bargain. … let me dance
once more
barefoot in my memories, days of yesteryear.

As i bid my friends adieu, may i say with certainty
there wasn’t
a place quite like my eyes, for with them i
have seen
much beauty, felt much love- like morning
crimson sun. …
now my soul lays me down to sleep, i am alone.

Copyright © 04/26/18 lance sheridan®

i, all my being slowly aging.jpg

Within the house

Two nuns there were, in a stained-glass house,
One prayed, one a non-believer.
Nevertheless, nevertheless,
Candles with a crippled drip, burning the hours
As they knelt holding the Jesus beads,
Being touched by religious men with the dry tick flesh.
Holy orders from the raggy-shawled Joes,

Creeping out of caves in a cellar, drunk on
Sacramental wine. Their shadows, something else.
Dead hands looking for a virgin,
Peddling their bony frames to a couch.
Black frocks plummet to a dark address;
Lecher’s kiss. Holy water, make a nun retch.
The sin. The sin. A vice tin-white,

Like arsenic to a body. Sound of poison in a church.
Squint an eye in a sermon, bronzed lies;
Nuns grow quick with a seed, O embryo,
Even in a deep sleep, you make the sign of the cross.
Blood blooms clean in a clinic, though;
They are no more your mother, God is.
Mouths closed for a while, welded like plums.

Copyright © 09/10/18 lance sheridan®

Within the house