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
Iron entrails from a toppled ship
Seated beneath, the smelted stream-
Nourishes not in its lump of bones.
Copyright © 04/29/17 lance sheridan®
Born green in a flawed yard, in
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
of the sea- into the cellars of
Into the small nostrils of sand and
the pots of fish.
Copyright © 03/24/17 lance sheridan®
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
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®
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®