I, in my mask

I have made a mask, a wall to shut me from
Your hate
Of the dark, delving eyes and
Sharpened claws
Rape and pillage in the nurseries of
My face,
A gag of mouths to silence
Your enemy
Your bigoted tongues a trumpet
Of lies
Shielding your dead brains, the countenance of
A dunce;
This tear-stained widower’s grief forged by a
Clumsy orator
Laying my family’s ghosts in pine boxes, my
Half-ghost
Body held in death’s corridor, I tread in blood
And bones;
I seek an escape out of this
Naked entrail.

Image of images to the world, your
Phantom meddle,
Mortal, unmortal, I in my confusion leap from the
Steeplejack tower,
Tread through the perilous air, impale myself on a
Man-made
Pike; the wooden insects eat my flesh. I am your
Invalid rival,
Turning counterclockwise in your
Swastika symbol.

You have climbed to your country’s pinnacle, up through its
Cadaverous gravel,
It falls thick and steadily into our
Corkscrewed graves;
The neck of our nostrils can no longer breathe.
You bring out the dark patrol, your
Monstrous officers
And decaying political party, sentinels garrisoned like cocks on a
Dung hill,
Crowing to their presidential savior who rings out the
Hangman’s bell-
Be you your own ghost, your bodiless image on my stick
Of folly;
We are stoved bones thrust into his shipwreck
Of muscle,
Locked in his struggle; I am no longer alive in
My skin,
Clawed out by this carnivorous reptilian in his
Rotten fathom;
Trapped in a water torture till my savior conjures my soul.

Surreal Mask ABstract with Many Wires

Two love poems…

Then was my love

Then was my love,
I saw time with its dull scythe
And rusted blade
Over the sea water come,
It killed her terribly,
Tide hoisted into an abyss;
Wound and spindled
Hair and bone
Drowned her cries,
Swallowed deep
Into bags of seaweed.

The Sargasso is her tomb,
Food for fish, fed in dark shades;
Once above, the stars
Our twilight, now dreams muted
Stiff as sand, leave me now
Where she lies; damn the sea
That sped her death, soon to
Take mine, take me to the water
Of her breasts; I drink and drink
Of salt to rob the fluids of my heart;
Awake, my sleeper my ghostly bride.

N40 Then was my love

 

Edda and her love for Grimr

Through throats of forest where rivulets labour and
Ravens cry down along ago, a conceiving moon in
High chalk sky, there one night Edda walked till met
The wooded giant name of Grimr, cudgelling a spell;
Do tell, she pleaded, in white linen and crown, why
I’ve a fever from the soft second I saw you, a hollow
Minute I feel in my womb; all my world has become
One, one windy something- the moon and mood hath
Shed one bright white light; your demeanor of unshodden
Foot, uplifting hand, mossy hair, wonder of flesh, blood
Blessed heart- called in my eyes, I’ve fallen deeply for you;
Not for the waning ghost of a fellow, whose words are spat,
Has hallowed heart and creaking bones; no thank you for
That stony idiom, mother and father. In the shadows I sought
The forest warmth, its shapes of thought, my mind sought
The answer, dissolved the tear, parents no longer grieved
My absence; I am a princess of the realm, yet scrubbed of
Anarchy- a young woman seeking love in crumbled wood.
You, who at once like a wisp of wind, beseeched me for a
Frolicking dance- what a hedgerow of joys, through the aisles
Of thistle where the white owl flies; you wooed me. And from
The first you spoke, you had my secret, my love, my betrothed.

N41 Edda and her love for Grimr

Milk in your mouth

The stained flats of life hit and razed
To a darkened asylum,
Vanishing is the life-work behind
Calloused hands,
Footsteps quicken into a deepening hole;
Hymned is God’s shrivelling flock.

The last rights are divvied out in the Christbread,
Spitting wine and holy water;
One must walk through the maze of sermons,
The lashing minister’s envious tongue,
And the holy book drivelled down to one burning bush;
Heaven falls with your fall and the cracked

Church bell beats the left air.
Flicked from a carbolic life in a bed of sores,
The scudding base of a familiar
Midwife birth,
Flick of the finger and your eyes are
Already murdered.

Death enters silently with a counting clock
Lurching- strikes with a time-bomb,
You are deaf in the rafters of your eardrums;
A scythe marches you to a parcel of stone,
Your dead heart is forced into the agony
Of a grave, it has another mouth to feed
(The old mud-hatch closes like bullied iron).

N37 Milk in your mouth~

Born of flesh and ghost

Before the gallow crosses where necks
Are snipped
And dreams are brambled,
Where bones twist into a watery mixture
And blood runs foul,
My heart knew of love- hungered for skin and vein,
Now smells the maggots,
Wringing siphons in my liver.

My throat slakes before the wooden structure, my
Mortal soul
To be struck down by death’s crooked feather;
Remember me, I wrote poetic,
Paper sundered from bones of worms-
Dawn shuts their earthen nothings as they swell,
I soon to hurry to their deepened holes
Down in the yard of her day.

Rejoicing, she dances over my skull,
Blowing shadows
Of a kiss, welshing faith, marrowed fly,
Lying likeness of love,
Quick, this is the real world;
One-sided skin of truths- a loth dream
That kicks the buried from their coffin sack;
Of our two sleepings, I never fell awake
(The photograph is married to the eye).

N35 Born of flesh and ghost

No longer the summer child

Lays the gold sun tithing barren,
Of doubt and dark feeds the sea clouds;
Jack of frost’s fingers cold upon
The pots of fish- wagging shafted wind
On shapeless beaches; splits the wombs

Of tidal pools, dogdayed pulse of summer
Ringing out like a black-tongued bell.
The lame air leaping from its heat,
Now painting ice in the throat of a child,
Shall she be of nothing, shuddered voice

Drained of her words. Shut too, the water’s
Speeches, its salty voice now a thorny spire
Of frost; winter’s tongue punishes the seascape,
Dark-voweled gulls four winded spinning
Into the seaweeds’ iron, choked in the tides.

No longer the summer child, mussels dried
And dying in the pouch, in the grip of cold;
The sleepy man of winter travels the whale road,
Wave and froth choked, combed into a wreath;
Drowns the warmth, foreign to a weather.

Copyright © 11/10/2019 lance sheridan®

N35 No longer the summer child

Where once the reeded pond

Where once the reeded pond
Spun into the mud screws,
Now the dry dust ghost wind blows
Through the dead fish eye;
Where once the heron through its shallows
Pushed through the green weed hairs,
Now the brackish roots lay in a corded decay.

Invisible, its water level once with colored lid,
Now latched into a clay bed void;
Stones, once submerged, now zig-zagged
Into earthen channels;
There shall be wildlife parched, and the
Milk wood drought in the dry womb dirt;
Carved birds blunt into kindled nests.

Shall there be rain, or outlawed into a dumb-down
Trickle, a naked fall into the pastures of worms;
They woke to a hearing in a priested morn
With water praying and the speckled drops;
A reeded pond bent over like a beggar,
Putting moisture into its dry clay cup; where
The rain runs, you shall push out your shores.

Copyright © 11/03/2019 lance sheridan®

N36 Where once the reeded pond

In the sea entirely

Herring gull, I saw you today
Flying in the hills of clouds,
You did not leave the fish,
You did not leave the hooks.

Yes yes, I know what I heard,
Dear bird, I heard you hurrying,
All the fish did with a view.
Can you cannot count entirely.

Can you recollect can you remember
What day it was that you took to the wing.
Today and day after tomorrow.
No you do not and I am so uneasy.

Did you surprise in whitecaps revisited.
All the time.
I understand why you are not better liked.
You do so and very well.

The fish have been very annoyed by
Your impertinence.
You have endeavored to do so
But without success.

Sincerely yours and not carelessly,
The rest of the afternoon.
You see the explanation of this.
The fish will not be pleased altogether.

In the sea and for the sea.
I do not mean that I criticize.
It is not necessary to tell me
That the fish will suffer-

Dear me it is getting late.
This was not done.
Now as to the word meal-
In this way you cannot conquer;

Looks to me. I say nothing.
Indeed you are discreet and timid.
The land is very near and is seen
And the shore fixes it.

Not necessarily here it is more
A means to satisfy myself;
I am obliged to be careful or not.
This has ended very well
(Some fish are very happy).

Winslow Homer - The Fog Warning, 1885