The burnt out sea

An old sea of dried mud and rusted sand.

How long the carcass fish, the blackened
The small crab eats what ate it once
The rubbished beach, the missing stone,
a sag-backed dune.

Their char of breathing still into the
broken throat
Iron entrails from a toppled ship
Seated beneath, the smelted stream-
Nourishes not in its lump of bones.

Copyright © 04/29/17 lance sheridan®



Dirge for a tree

Born green in a flawed yard, in
speckled thickets
of fog-
Bonewhite in a peephole letting
in the nightlong
and the sounds of obsolete crickets,
A barren branch
sleeps with its dried veins in silting
soil and unmade
Cloaked by a lidless sky
and the sounds of worms on
the lips of a toad
– – –
A wooded deer in a cunning
eats its bark
over and over the old age, no
life for a while
Each breathing gesture drains like
water down a
fleeing in its alley holes down to
the wall
of the sea- into the cellars of
Into the small nostrils of sand and
the pots of fish.

Copyright © 03/24/17 lance sheridan®


Point of Eden

Enter the cold no ones land of alone
A void stamped out with the aftertaste
of a funeral
Where a pulse rising from the grip of a knife
utters a name
Where the waking from a six o’clock
alarm clock is
rubbished into a draggled alley.

Of broken lives and sweaty faces contorting
like fingers on
a twisted sheet in a bad dream
Where a landlord dwindles back rent into a dirty
laundry bag
Trailing his four letter words through dim light
and sickly coughs-
Upraises a finger like a joint between two worlds.

A ghetto by the tracks where death, on pin-legs,
sentries, his utterances
Ungodly like a wakened head; chattering train
with white noses exhaling
Down into the gizzard of the city’s guts-
point of Eden
Render no share to those thick in poverty, to
those who lose by merely waking up.

Copyright © 03/22/17 lance sheridan®


The disquieting man

Mother, what ill breeding of me
Or what disfigured my life unsightly
Poor did I go unwisely kept?
Unasked of my church christening,
That a priest sent black and white
Dressed women with nodding heads
And bilious eyes, to cast me to a street.

A fate properly sealed, a promise
Seasoned to poverty, a vow stamped
With threadbare scruples? Perhaps.
I may never be immaculately clean, I
But hold my soul erect. I will wear my
Deeds behind tattered clothing; sharp
Is my mind- a voice to arise from the

Dankness. At a yes, to write without
Fame- on a journey that I may tease
Out thoughts from an aging mind, to
Navigate words with callous fingers;
But never to grovel a fee from the
Buffoonery of others, nor seek a
Reputation on a poem; to my own

Heart say, be satisfied with my
Unmistakable self, to walk in my way
Alone, free in the occasion to speak,
To proclaim my spirit and imagination;
So, if by chance, I win in some triumph,
I will render no share on cloistered steps.
I stand, not high it may be, but alone.

Copyright © 03/11/17 lance sheridan®