I will be taking time off from my poetry blog to continue writing my book. Thank you for your immeasurable support of my work. I wish you the best in all your writing endeavors. I leave you with several poems. Please enjoy. Regarding my E-book- looking at a release date this Fall.
The distant rote of granite shoals, sullen, like a
Mystagogue, worshiper of the white haired,
White bearded waves, waits and watches for
The sea-yard god; what is a god, a god is unison.
In pots, the smell of salt, powder for sails, autumn
Dust winder; the season rages into what it reaches-
The fish, the whale’s backbone, the shore, it tosses
The broken oar and the dead men. The sea howl
And the tolling bell, it measures time rung by the
Tide swell. Time counted by anxious worried women
Lying in black veils, lying awake, unweaving wedding
Gowns to piece together the past and the future;
Calloused, withered hands patient to some degree,
Keeping their rages, dwellers in death; unpropitiated
Prayers reaching to the sea’s edge, the torn whitecapped
Waves, the shattered voices; salt is on the black roses.
Waves swell and the grained face sand ages in tidal pools,
Deep among the mussels and shoulders of the sea; the salt
Air breathes the water, untamed, a conveyor of souls. That is
What is remembered. That is and was from the beginning.
Copyright © 07/21/2019 lance sheridan®
If they tear the quarry through,
One kneeling in the brambles
I will not look at them again
When I feel the musket ball
Clumped in a muscle- blood
Stench, guts a crusty scrabble,
Conspicuous. I would count the
Scant seconds hinging, small
Knobs of time nudging me into
A trench dug mud burrow,
Mottled from a life. There is no
Doubt that by this time they found
Me- bestowing intended death
Much to my dissatisfaction. She
Is on her way, my lovely, having
Heard the clap of musket fire.
A very little woman with black hair
Kneels beside me in loneliness. She
Does not have an answer, yet bundles
It as to sacrifice her feelings. She
Closes my eyes with a kiss. Useless
To my pursuers, I am now burdening death.
Copyright © 07/22/2019 lance sheridan®
This is a dark house, dripping.
Inch by inch from a quiet finger
Into a puddle, a bag of gloom;
Shadowed mists move over,
Their nostrils breathing the bowel
Of the night, a quite dark black.
It is warm and tolerable in the smell
Of my sleep; I embellish myself in
Night sweats, peeling my skin like
Black amnesia. I crawl into a lonely
Corner, my mouth licks the darkness;
Negligible starlight pours through a
Window like an old heavy press;
Moley-handed, I push it aside in the
Stony hole of night. Yet, its radiance
Scathes me. Diminished, I am inhabited
By tears. How my bad dreams endow me.
Copyright © 07/23/2019 lance sheridan®
I slept, say with a snake
Occasioned to a trembling,
Each breath breaking into little pieces
Compressed and sealed in a white box
Sewn into my heart;
It makes the shape so heavy
And no melody harder.
I begged for mercy in places not empty
Spread thinner by a cause and a doubt,
He established the color quite cunning
Slender grey with black and red ribbon,
I concentrated on the illusion not to shatter;
Its exaggeration was strangely flattering.
His hands were a sad size for choking
Every bit precocious,
A kind of game and nothing flat on a neck
Life once a splendid address
Cut, cut into white
White so lately.
My life toppled and the tears rained down
A void appall till I drowned,
Love knows not of death
Till the sharp scythe of jealousy hacks away;
I was rationed for a day for a week,
The simple sum of my heart occasioned for a heaven.
Copyright © 07/23/2019 lance sheridan®
I see the summer child on
mile off sun- warm hand back,
white gulled flight
slow pulse day- creek towards
the black tongued sea,
fish stalking bird wades in the
limping rabbit through the thicket
slain salt wind and tilting grass-
through the window
of her eyes, the dusk and water
Copyright © 05/21/2016 lance sheridan®
The clouds loomed straight down that morn on the track-heads.
We were always crying, in our spare lives, put-upon sisters,
Carrying two, small, black cases like dead skin on an animal.
We were better off from the rented parents batched in a mean.
Grownups, always aloud, cross-legged on their stern seats,
Heads bobbing-up and down like snakes in a still sea; biting
Words as they cursed us. We are inseparable as two cork dolls;
We slipped through a keyhole passage and inched into the shadows,
Our fingers cold and red from the solitude. We read from the good book.
Our staunch stone eyes stared for a passage, beyond an inconstant
Life. A place where children twirl like colored tops and gallop on
Merry-go-round horses. But in this sunless air, our fingers pointed to a
Blackness. Our parents, two warped shadows came searching in dark repose;
Their shapes long, dull to a pigment of thorns. We kicked and fought,
They tried to shut our mouth-holes, we screamed. The sky clouded over as
If it were out of breath; our faces whitened to a sheet. The blue eyes of
Authority comforted. The shine of this small thing was sweet in our hearts;
We hardly knew ourselves. Life now had a good smell, we are no longer owned.
Copyright © 07/16/2019 lance sheridan®