Poem translated into Spanish.

I am very honored in having my poem, ‘Retribution’, translated from English into Spanish by Rano Raraku, a poet.


Desde el agrio mar de la quietud

Ella camina sobre la arena blanca llorando

Su mente tiene el color del óxido; el sonido de una campana hundida suena frío y final mientras el agua corre por sus pies .

Por tales


ella siente la muerte

En los huesos de los dedos asusta su carne se retuerce como sacacorchos

al tirar de ella en la ciudad de Dios.

Disfruta de la muerte niña ; bañada por el mar

sagrado ella

cruza sin mojar

su alma.

Las olas son

Planas y llenas

de oscuridad.

En una negrura su cuerpo palido; mientras espera sirenas inexpresivas.

Poems pinned and reblogged…

“Gioielli Rubati” Poetry Column pins and reblogs of the following poems:

Pins/once each:
“The hunter”
“A conversation with roses”
“I am vertical”
“Fractured fables”

Reblogs/five each:
“The hunter”
“I am vertical”


Grafters know how industry has managed to breed
Its great deceit:
Whatever their shrewd secret, they kept it hidden

In the same way
They kept the smoke- glass and mirrored from public stare,
Corporate ribbons and the bureaucratic show.

But one dusk polluting, our questions came to bear
Through their brick and mortar
Maze of factories to the truth hidden behind locked doors;

Now able to gape:
There was a smoking gun, conveniently placed in the janitor’s hand
With their fingerprints rubbed off

For trial purposes; the dolt stooges ripe for a jury heckling,
About to be
Crucified, flesh good for a flogging.

The captains of industry wear halos;
Not even one a common criminal,
Unmired, unsmirched, uncluttered,

Smirking faces and knotted wingtips-
Bloated egos,
Hostile takeovers in ten foot moves.

Shrilling their wares
For a swig of capitalism. Yes. These ugly
Colossus bulks.

Sows lounged belly-bedded on the dollar compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filled. What a vision hog-hoods must

Wholly engross in
The great white-way; blazoned in armor,
Knighted with a double-edged sword.

But the whistle-blower
With a jocular fist thwacked in the barrel nape neck,
And the president bill thwart;

Leashing giants like noose-knot drops,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering wind air shape

A clean air blows;
Yet, prodigious in kickback laundering-
The bottom-line shape.

Copyright © 03/05/2019 lance sheridan®



From the dour sea of stillness,
She steps onto the white sand grieving,
Her mind the color of rust;
The sound of a sunken bell clangs
Cold and final, water runs by her feet,

But by such abuses-
She feels the dying, the bones of fingers
Scaring her flesh
Twisting like corkscrews, pulling her
Into God’s city.

Relish death, child; doused by the holy sea
She wades without wetting her soul,
The waves are flat and full of dark,
Into a blackness, her pale body;
The drowned are waiting, expressionless sirens.

Copyright © 02/28/2019 lance sheridan®


Razing of an edifice

Jaundiced, weathered brick,
The other, mortar, crumbling sand,
Go to a grave in a cold loaf of earth;
The mason sweat, bones and bones.

Inscribed on a tomb, these lines:
Once a monument, citizens, scant dollar
Lest your pockets,
Be now this bleak outcrop of dead stone.

String up the assembly line for the paying,
This tour season is peak on a spewed relic
Anchored in rebar and a wire cage,
Rusted as to cut a finger, your wound to keep;
These two most penetrable foes gritted in a bleed
That will rekindle a mason’s envy, drop
His soul into a dirt clime beneath the sun.

Seek not his calloused hands for a prayer,
Nor the hardened look upon his brazened face
In a black and white life, nor put up a testament
To his footsteps in the afterlife;
His sons and daughters shoot their hands
Holding a trowel, mouths like troughs remembering
A reason; they stand knee-deep in a grave.

Copyright © 02/26/2019 lance sheridan®
Razing of an edifice

Mr. Digby and his ten pigs

Pigs love the dried mud drop
Slowly, grunting
On a grunt, up in the splattering rain drop, drops.

A testament
Prodigious in swallowing as they hog their want
Made lean bacon

In the kitchen slop and, stomaching no complaint,
Proceeded to assail
The seven troughed seas and every shallow depression.

Old Mr. Digby kept pigs, ten little ones
In his barnyard off Drury Terrace;
Butchers oft made queries
On hearing their neighbor’s pigs grunt,
Saying: Something is hoggish in a farmer who accommodates
That many squalors.

Sun faced red as a pickled beet, his raspy voice
Had long gone to seed, Mr. Digby
For no good reason
Plays host to chester, duroc, and increase,
With table scraps and cabbage feasting the palates
Of fastidious pigs.

Mr. Digby and his ten pigs