An eyeing for scars

Crack a whip, crack a buggy on a cracked mud road.
Walk in it, it won’t shrink a boot;
Elsewhere in a rural landscape, never trespass a worm,
They live quietly, like fetuses in a dirt jar,
Then shriek in bellies of robins like arrows.

At their feet in midair, never trespass crows in a bad temper.
The inhabitants of black feathers circle a meal
And suck a breath, then tattle the kill in a grating caw voice of flight
Above the grave, in a play that turned tragic.
Blight wrought like a smithy’s hammer and a shoe in a slack tub.

Rooks croak and a drowned man, wiping his lips on death.
Black, a burden in these parts; their blood runs like dark fruit;
They have too many doors to close, bigotry, hatred, segregation.
Palms calloused from swatting flies on a porch
Waiting for a holy man with a bag full of God.

White folk in a white chapel holding hymnals dreaming of Oedipus,
Before the bed, before the father, fixed in a parenthesis;
Itching for the flesh. A melding of shapes in a warm baptismal.
Blind to what is and what will be. Exit satan.
Eye-bathed in holy water. Navel cords, navel cords, wombs of marble.

Copyright © 09/03/18 lance sheridan®

An eyeing for scars


24 comments on “An eyeing for scars

  1. MOMENTS says:

    Wonderful imagery, Lance, as always. I so admire your ability to describe horrible things in such a beautiful and poignant way. The third stanza is very touching and the last one provides the perfect contrast and powerful ending. Love this.
    “Blind to what is and what will be. Exit satan.
    Eye-bathed in holy water. Navel cords, navel cords, wombs of marble.”

  2. A lot of strong imagery, but I did have a hard time putting together the poem as a whole. It was hard for me to imagine these church people holding hymnals and dreaming of Oedipus. Most church people I know have no idea or appreciation of Greek literature. But your images are strong in most places, which adds a depth to the poem.

  3. 3C Style says:

    Your words make me even appreciate the horror. Love this poem Lance.

  4. Very vivid! The contrast so clear it slaps you. Wow!

  5. Wanted to share one of my favourite poems with you. Hope you enjoy.

  6. I would like to learn your magic of wrapping ‘horror’ with honey-dripping words!! 🙂

  7. Barbara Kasey Smith says:


  8. almerighi says:

    Spezzare una frusta, rompere un calesse su una strada di fango incrinata.
    Cammina dentro, non ridurrà uno stivale;
    Altrove in un paesaggio rurale, non sconfinare mai in un verme,
    Vivono tranquillamente, come feti in un vaso di terra,
    poi strillano in pance di pettirossi come frecce.

    Ai loro piedi a mezz’aria, mai sconfinare i corvi di cattivo umore.
    Gli abitanti delle piume nere circondano un pasto
    e succhiano un respiro, poi sfidano l’uccisione in una gracchiante grida di volo
    sopra la tomba, in un’opera teatrale che diventa tragica.
    La ruggine ha funzionato come il martello di una fucina e una scarpa in una vasca allentata.

    Gracchiare e un uomo annegato, asciugandosi le labbra sulla morte.
    Nero, un peso da queste parti; il loro sangue scorre come frutti scuri;
    Hanno troppe porte da chiudere, bigottismo, odio, segregazione.
    Palme callose da schiacciare le mosche su un portico in
    attesa di un uomo santo con una borsa piena di Dio.

    Gente bianca in una cappella bianca con inni di cristallo che sognano Edipo,
    prima del letto, davanti al padre, fissati in una parentesi;
    Prurito per la carne. Una fusione di forme in un caldo battesimo.
    Cieco per ciò che è e ciò che sarà. Esci da satana.
    Bagnato per gli occhi in acqua santa. Corde ombeliche, corde ombelicali, grembiuli di marmo.

    excellent. Lance!

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