The other one

All night she moved along the brim of sleep,
Like a stone in a wheat field, the ground was hard.
Moon, shadows, crows that withering sky.
Her bed wore the stain of darkness,
The light wormed back into her mother’s womb.
Small as a broken doll in a dress of innocence,
She dreamed how imperfect she was, and she was.

Against the bare, whitewashed walls, her room
Cramped in a poorhouse, she heard siblings crowd
In a starving for sleep; footsteps multiplying into
The dream chamber, bodies aching for a slumber.
The statued grain like pillars, her twelve slow steps
Towards a windowed figure, heavy as a ghost;
Six feet to a grave, a shovel for the dirt—

Her mother in black, poised in some old tragedy,
Read from the purgatory book; like a good parent,
She swallowed in the darkness. Embraced the
One who never did, flesh and some bone. It dogged
Her, sleepless and envious. The moon drips red.

Copyright © 04/18/2019 lance sheridan®

The other one

Published poem- The BeZine Magazine…

Into the darkness- a mugging

Myself whole in an alleyway,
breath and whispers
of darkness slowly entering,
entrapping. …
a pale loitering light off in the
distance, lurking like
an unwanted stranger. …
embolden souls approaching,
bidding- their hands as shadows
clinging; my heart like clay, crumbling. …

A gun waving one minute past darkness
enwrapped my soul in gloom-
no fair dreams to follow, now woven in
musings fright. …
their hands deep within
stealing a part of my existence. …
the Air in the alleyway unweaved
the night- miscreants of social injustice fled. …
me, slowly aging, scarred- now
searching for the feel of not to feel it.


Of that myth of stony looks, and serpent-heads
With flickering glass tongues;
She, out of Eden’s twisted line,
Unnerving the head God boss,
Caused men’s eyes to roll back into white sockets;

Plied her wild self in lover’s shadows—
Dragged their savior hair, squeezed the blood
Fat and red from the veined bottles;
They hissed at her sins. And the snake-charmer,
Weary of coilings and the milk-teeth,

Cut off her white head while whistling a pliant tune;
And her bough broke, limbs breasted in a wood.
An evil device to human, to nothing like a snake–
A winged horse, glory ascends, poised as an arrow,
Riding the moonlight sky. Did she escape, I wonder?

Copyright © 04/12/2019 lance sheridan®


Sonnet: The hours

They occasioned a sea, its whiteness, arranging a life,
Haunched like rooks in the ticking hours that measured
Their years. Death came as skeptical as a dull knife,
They vaunted each day by arranging a sacrificial wether.

But outside this diabolic brick and mortar purified land,
Most sacred in traditional rites, a noise, a sound in the lone
Wind raving, hallowing an interval of horse and man,
Saxon voices angry, came a random descent of arrows flown.

So cried the dying pagans, a brief respite from fear,
Lying, waiting for their Greek gods, for repentance,
Waiting for a hand to lift them to the pantheon stratosphere;
A celestial cleansing required, or a descent to Hades forth hence.

The hours are a mouth widening and swallowing fatigue; life
Is a handful of vowels, the clear ones harmony, dark ones strife.

Ancient Rome; Agrippina Landing with the Ashes of Germanicus exhibited 1839 by Joseph Mallord William Turner 1775-1851

Night shift

I haul up the night’s black peak
On a flame, in a burning air,
As moon quartz, cracks my skin
From the touch, a charred heart
As any match. Far off, the blood sea

Fever, beating a muted boom; still,
The suburb dunes naive, the sand’s
Silver mouth immense in a metallic
Taste of sulphur— however it sweats
In a wreckage of charred grasses.

Now in the crux of my vows, astounded
Fossil, I kiss the hanging fire like a
Phoenix— it drives my blood to thick,
Tethered water. Nightlong, the blaze
A red cock plucking bare the wick.

An immense dawn hammers me blunt
Into a fatigue of wax. My radiant limbs
Now blackened flesh. I seek not the
Sun, nor the hives of light. My mouth
Gasps for drafty air like a dead cat’s
(It whitens and swallows the dull ash).

Copyright © 04/06/2019 lance sheridan®

Night shift

The moon is my mother

Lucina, laboring like a white star, your face
Of white flesh, your ancient father grey-bearded,
Weary, cold and planetary; I am separated
From you both, the earth door is quiet.

In despair, I live here, abandoned— a dark crime,
Soberly resurrected, bending like field grass,
Their mild eyes, tender in a wafted breeze. I have
Fallen a long way, white palms, no labor reddens.

Mother, you see nothing of this— you are not sweet
Like Mary. Her hands of holiness lift me from the
Cold pews of your silence. The clouds of darkness
Are flowering blue and mystical over your moon face.

Copyright © 04/03/2019 lance sheridan®

The moon is my mother

The color of fog

It is a cold sea, a kelp of shades,
Tide rises to the rock level from black fathoms.
At the windowed shack, a fog is born,
A grayness assembles with the color of moths,
Envious gulls winging in discarded moonlight.

Fog consumes with a deep hunger,
Deep as a breakwater depth, its mouth sucking
The maundering wastes, silently in a darkening air;
It leaves the crabs to rattle, descending into the sea—
It thickens, wearing blue shells in uncoiled waves.

Fog is a courier for salty aphrodisiacs— for doddering
Ships, it leads them into amorous crags and jetties,
Metal bones for fish. And then the virgin tears,
Death knells in a cry for help; isolation for the drowned,
Withering in a durable grayness, face down in a sea.

Copyright © 03/31/2019 lance sheridan®

The color of fog