Dust to dust

Lost souls

And a dry dusted rain laid the
wheat in a casket,
rolled the tumbleweed dice that
closed its lidless eyes
in the brownfield land; the farmers
into starvation to see how the other
half lived.

Where are the roots that once
clutched a family;
now rubbish burning, smoldering
in tin cups for the blind-
they cannot say or guess how
many were hung by poverty; nor
count how many died.

The wounded homes plied the
boards and nails
into coffins, their fever sung a hymn-
the only hope left
was a disease, time counted
out by the
anxious worried sick; do the farmers
and their families remember
anything, or are those wormholes
in their heads.

The dead and the dying are useful,
yet untrustworthy-
all with undisciplined squads of emotions,
all must succumb
to the Lord’s Prayer, or quake in
purgatorial fires.

They were all really worshippers of
combine machines
and weather vanes, now sinking in
the muck and mire of deceit;
the voiceless wailing
riven into the shallow banks of earth.

The dark cold empty desolation
of the farms,
the empty door yards under the
oppression of time,
death who emulates by sortilege,
dead leaves on the ground;
in the end is their beginning.

#1Lost souls

Ɛ pieces of dirt

Two came to a field
so they sought solace
so they were one;
The place where they stood
a name- it has none.
Something lay between them
they did not see;
words none
nowhere anyone speaks.
It did not breathe years
covered it up.
Ash, ash.
Night and night dry as dust.

Whirl of particles
they did not touch with their calloused hands;
that was written in silence.
Spoke to each other with dry eyes
was, was;
they let go, patched a hole
driven into the terrain.
White stone marker in the shadows
go, your hour
has no siblings
stay in a blackish field
you need no stars.

Your breathing obeyed your death
down and down
into a porous edifice- petrified scabs
the buried hole;
no choir, no praising psalms.
The parents are the quiet ones
walking like a hearse;
on the water, on the land.
The place where they sleep has a name
Jehovah said
with his eyes before closing them.
They let go of their world
let not death put asunder.

#1Ɛ pieces of dirt

ꀘ꒐ꇙꇙ ꂵꏂ ꆰ꒤꒐꓄ꏂ ꒐ꋊꇙꋬꋊꏂ

The day the darkness
hard apart and plaster white;
i picked up a handful of silence, i
know what lies are for.

He came into my life, bright hair,
shoe-brown, old school,
wiped my lips with a kiss;
like corpuscles in a handbag.

My many blank faces are hooked
to a wall of memories,
stolen smiles; adulteries grieved
in dreams. No, this is not fatal.

I shut my eyes under bandaged
blackness, i think i made him
up as i grew older; my exhaustion
hugs my tired lungs;

Then spews it back like vomit,
into the pitcher of my throat;
i remember it is love i am full of,
so old of it, it flogs my heart.

i am doped of pain, it is orphaned
into my bones; he smiles in my
head like leprosy; i should have
another affair, me and sweet sex

Pearled into a relationship. My
husband drowns his sorrows inside
old whiskey, drunk as a bastard,
fat snailed into his shell.

Me and someone, opposites in
bone and hair, ulcered and beautiful,
he calls me rare; i could eat
him, he is so immature.

There is a stink of death from a
hammered gun, its smoke gives me
T.B. Once i was beautiful,
now i am a disease; coffined into

A ceremonial wind, wincing, thin-skinned;
my lovers saying, the bastards a girl;
i lump down my self-esteem in old clothes,
i am a kleptomaniac in my aging skin.

#1kiss me quite insane

C-ɱσσɳ & ƚԋҽ Wҽɾҽɯσʅϝ

The wheeling moon in her sleep night
(published twice)

She tried to sleep to kiss the dream,
Let fall the clocking time, the slumber eye,
Shifting planets, the wheeling moon.
So, with teddy bear, they flew the sky
And touched the stardust like angel wings.

She fled her mother’s eye who wept,
Fled the nightlight, its ghostly shadows,
On a cloud coast, she climbed the twilight.
Left behind her siblings under blanket and thatch
Caught the windlass winch, the night mist ride.

Softly, silently falling asleep, the inches into dreams,
The quiet dark thimbles, she knows the fairy tale thread,
Yards of the milk white rain, and sly red wind. The fables
Of yore. Leaping gnomes, and the black backed dragons
So deeply sleeping a way in the C-moon wheeling.

#1The wheeling moon in her sleep night

Body’s raw wound
(published twice)

The dark moon shadow stalks me down,
Its dust bags of light scar me;
In a touch, flesh, bone, blood quickens,
I pick off the worms, drunk from a lick.
I walk the night, haggard through the
White street lamps, singeing filaments
Cataract my eyes. Obscure vision

Corkscrewing down storm drains. And the
Shadow, like a black wolf, each paw on
Me a brier; my doom consummates a bodily need;
It snares me, hungry, hungry. It eats
To satisfy a need, I am gutted to an undertaker.
Blood floods to a spot, purple; the rest of me
Is whitewash board, stiff as I crawl down a sidewalk.

Its tread is a weighted enemy, my heart shuts,
It peels me like linen; its breath anesthetizes and shoves
Me into a bad dream. It feels like hell;
Charred and ravened in snarled thickets of ash.
I disappoint them, I pray for a heaven,
To a god. This earth I rise from, let my soul writhe in dew.
I am stepping from this skin, featureless into eternity.

#1Body's raw wound

i breathe the salted air

Ode to the sea

Not a single walk out one hundred
yards or more
could boast about being free
from a shore,
or a hook or a net;
without any effort of being made to
remove bodies
of mackerel or squid to its
final resting place.

A lone fisherman carries in his hands
the lifeless body
of a fine fish, and making the most
distressing appeal
to a shore man for aid to enable
him to pursue a
wooden coffin to bury it in.

My heart aches and a drowsy numbness
pains my sense
as though of seawater I had drunk, or
emptied some dull boat
to the drains in some melodious plot
of tidal green,
and fishermen numberless drowning
in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of waves that have
been lingering a long age
in the deep-delved sea, or for a
breaker full of brine,
its blushing warmth with beaded bubbles
winking at the brim,
and salted mouth that I might drink and
leave this world unseen.

As I wade far away, dissolve, and
quite forgot,
no longer among the dunes I have
never known,
my weariness and last grey hairs-
my body grows pale
and spectre-thin, and dies;
where but to think is full of sorrow
and leaden-weight despaired.

Away! away! As I walk into the sea,
charioted by fish
and crab, by wings of gulls; haply
the king moon
sits on its throne, clustered around
by starry skies,
but here there is no light.

I cannot see my feet in the clay
of tides, nor feel
the softness of night; I am embalmed
in darkness and its
pastoral eglantine. Fast fading, I am
covered up in waves,
in their murmurous haunt of death.

#1Ode to the sea


Sunlight and reflections in the seaside mud,
thrilling children wired for a summer;
they dance along the changing tide.

The wind howls, the sea yelps,
children’s voices measured out in time;
rung like a bell of the unhurried.

The children weave, the children wind,
they unravel the morning, the past;
time stops, and time is never ending.

Sundown, sunup, the children never leave,
their images reflecting in a watery mirror;
it glows more intense with their moving spirits.

The sun, a bloom more sudden than a moon,
budding along the hedges of dunes;
a morning arises with its voluptuary sweetness.

The children came by day, like husks of shells
washing along the beach and into tidal pools;
they speak a language, but not of the living.

Dead water, dead sand, like dust in the air,
dark gulls with flickering tongues; dead scales
on fish, rattling like tin in cups of brine.

The moment sank into the asphalt of the horizon,
the sea now a waning stranger. The children
ghosted, stone white faces; they kick the empty pails.

They left their bodies on an empty shoreline,
without enchantment, their laughter ceased to amuse;
they are no more than exasperated spirits.

Their smiles cracking like disfigured streets;
now paved over where there was once a beach.
Faded, blowing, no longer resembling a life.


evil vs.morality

The tongues of hell

Impure, dull fat Chthonic who wheezes
at hell’s gate. Incapable
of licking a soul clean- that indelible smell.

Hatred, the low smoke of Patroclus
haunting a body- like Cerberus
choking the aged and the meek.

The hothouse greases their bodies like
bomb ash, radiation turns
white- their skin grows heavy as a

Lecher’s kiss. Dark as a lantern flickering
on, off, on off.
God’s head is a moon searching for bodies.

He plays down the pardon for the bearded
apple garden; good and evil
grow on trees. White and black beasts

Paler than the cross. They were once living,
now dead crying in hell.
Satin’s sullen face like a mudcracked church;

He fiddles a hymnal with his long black hair.
The steeple bells are like empty
wells for lost souls- they cleave in the clapper;

The priests crouch, humped in silence. Jesus
surrenders to their obituaries.
He is a lean undertaker in their empty pulpits.

The bond is canceled, and the prayers are no
longer heard; they seem long
and weak in the bodiless hell pit of earth.

Dayadhvam and the aethereal rumors, a revival
for a moment; the devil is no
hand expert. He speaks with a controlling tongue.

The tongues of hell

Lady Madonna

I walked alone in a multitude of loves-
the preacher’s, the wise men’s,
the Jesus’ father-
my miraculous virginity leapt up to the
heavens, upending lightning,
down to Galilee’s deep sea pillow,
where once I was married alone; my
lips catching an avalanche of
sacramental salt, ringed with tidal pools-
for a chosen woman sleeps
where the shore courses through her soul.

This was all approved in the proverbs
(a moral mousetrapped parody),
the nun blacked chased women; sheathed
the virgin shape to baffle all
pursuers, save one, a man called
Joseph- goat thighed and god haloed;
twined his hard hands around
my thigh like ivy, bit my Puritan lip
like a sacrificial lamb, pale, pith and bloody;
our fame soared past the
ecclesiastical brethren, soon wore the

Leafy crowns to a manger. Dark days to
follow after a birth, a shrouded
Turin; splayed too long in the boughs
of heresy. Cast a stone, iron,
merds. Stiff as twigs in an eye. His
body is askew in this doomsday neglect.
Untongued, cross-twisted, his
righteous anatomy till the steeple breaks.
His consecrated limbs and lip
to Christian’s chastity service; his
house is a decayed house.

Lady Madonna

The straw of boxcars

The gigantic interiors on steel wheels
move, punching out sound like
cannon shots:
quietly the grain in bribery to feed the mills;
will there be bread for the poor?
Push it through the slots of their
cardboard domiciles.

No faucet water, their arms and legs
are piled outside
washed with mud, unending cries
like an ER hospital; nurses waiting by the
train stop silos, handing out
smiles from buckets filled with straw-
the gray-faced homeless terrify them.

They stand in a column,
the wheat drudgers. For years they have
eaten dust, drank the
dew from their dangerous skin;
here is their brain machine, it works
without thinking.

They scour the ground for grain powder;
here is their slipper, here is another
as they walk the square patch
of earth for a meal:
they thought death was worth it. They
mold their lips into lies,
are they dead, or are they praying.

The sweat of their efforts tug the
world into a lie. Even the sun-clouds
cannot manage the grief.
Here they come now, the ambulance
gatherers, stacking the poor
in empty boxcars like straw dogs.

The black boot doctor has no mercy
for anyone- he is the hearse
for a dead rail; the priest throws on the
toe tags. His obscenity bulges
before him like a tired rosary. Onlookers
tremble, they clutch the good book.

A third person, it might be god, hairy
as a savior: his heart is too small
to bandage their terrible faults. He
creeps away like a weeping Mary. The
long coffin of colored pine
departs with a marvelous calm. This
is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.

The straw of boxcars

prophēcy and fáith

The doorway to her sleep

She is sleep spelled in her lowly
beach house.
Out of night’s lair the sheep white
and the dune grass loping and bleating
as the wind blithely leaps across the
dew dipped sea.
No gull herd or fish school shall flock
before the sunrise.

Sleep good, fair one, slow and deep
in a creek of dreams
and fairy tales.
In a spinney of dingle wood riven
among the sand plum,
came the keel spume from the fisher’s
it lay fast and soothed, safe and
smooth from the
bellows of the rushy sea brood.

He harrowed near and wide; fought
the skulks with metal
drawn from his scabbard in the
deep dell moonlight-
he breasted three into the gravest ghosts.
He sought her sanctum sanatorium,
her dreamscape;
the knelling of her bed. He knelt
before her in praise,
in the star sky of the nightlong days.

He a cavalier, rind in the quest for love;
she, a fair child of the
wheeling moon.
With a kiss, sleep spelled at rest out
of the dream cell. With
chant and flower under a linen of stars,
a marriage forever
held and blessed. Trade winds from
the dousing east,
waves roaring from the sea latch,

Light on the haygold dunes, the winged
plum seed gilding,
and tern wings ribboned for the fair;
Two hearts.
Pastoral beat of blood held and blessed
in the haloed house,
devout in their vows; their faith each
vast night, and the prayer, and
a birth in the first dawn. A
child touched by an angel of the sea.

The border of her sleep

A piece of daylight

Marbled columns like fat candlesticks-
hard with furled brows
ready to snap. They grip a floor eaten
smooth, stiff and white.

Shadowy lids of night cover them,
hide them away in
furrows of a sunken sunset,
wrought with the vines of day.

Across this hour dividing light from
darkness, ascends
the vials of stars, their light in fiery
spheres; they sweep

The dark line bare- a passage for
heavenlier feet to tread;
spreads the covering splendid of
god’s golden hair:

What hour shall be your hour and his.
The very soul of this sacred
place is his soul.
The evil of darkness shall no longer

Hang hard upon this holy place.
With childlike passage,
all sins sowed from our enemies
are washed away.
(A holy aureole in the spheres of faith).


Letter to my followers

Dear Friends,

As you know, I take my work very seriously, as we all should. This includes being completely dedicated to one’s art through reading and writing. In our journeys to become better writers, we meet fellow travelers along the way. Some with more experience than ourselves, some with less. It is up to each one of us to learn, as well as it is to help.
Unfortunately, not everyone who we encounter is gregarious. They may seem so at first, perhaps to advance their own position in the field of literary works by pretending to really ‘like’ our style, our writing. One such incident just occurred. I won’t go into the lengthy details, and although I was a bit weary of their claim to boost my poetic presence abroad, I agreed to have them proceed (this was why I had intended to put my efforts into this venture, to take time off from WordPress). It was a complete farce, a ruse.
I am deeply indebted to each and everyone of you for the beautiful thoughts and comments that you have written. Without your most generous support, there would be no poetry. You greatly inspire, uplift, teach, and motivate my writing. Thank you sincerely.

Warm wishes,

The Book of Isaiah

I am that which began, the soul of god,
equal and whole.
Yet, god changes the man,
his colored flesh,
his firm limbs,
much in the way he changed the land
and sea.

Out of me a woman, and the fruit,
and fate
forgotten as the plough of earth,
the dust which is god
wrought from water and iron,
communed and sold
to the peasants of Jerusalem.

They are neither prophets or poets,
nor a throne;
mothers forsake their children.
Their labor is the
red fruit of death, blood and breath;
servants to the lord,
slaves to the master.

The shadows of clouds furrow
a kingdom,
their darkness is in the bud of life;
pity and passion.
Worshiped as a sun until the
sun rose.
Its light is in the deep root of trees.

Its tongue is the winds tongue,
barren streams and
clay mud land,
death worms are below;
they have their part in me,
as I have my part in them,
it is a pilgrimage of death and life.

I have not need of prayer. I do not
behold that god made me;
his miracles are shod,
he trembles in heaven.
His anguish is here in Israel.
Our truths are slayed and unforgiven.

My beliefs are the seed of my soul,
equal and one with me.
My brethren are hostile, it beats
in the darkness,
their beliefs live in empty skins;
they clutch at an empty god.
I shall be glad of their deaths.

I am alone in the kingdom. My
misery is three thousand years of
unsheltered contempt.
Almighty, why have I shared the
shame of tyranny,
nailed to its cross- dark,
dead, unmeasured.

O Mighty god, insect or beast,
all-beholding heaven,
have you not heard my agony?
Alas, pain, pain forever.
Your ever piercing arrows have
burned cold into my bones.
In their hoar frost I kiss death.

How my soul, riven to its depth
with terror
gapes like hell within; no
exultation, for I hate no more.
My misery has made
me wise. God’s curse no longer
breathes on me.

The Book of Isaiah


Leaving for awhile…

Dear Friends,

I will be away from WP for an extensive period. All is good. Your wonderful reviews, feedback, thoughts, and support are deeply appreciated. I wish you the absolute best in all your writing endeavors. Stay safe and be well.

Warm regards,


Naked sea in a still place

This is the sea’s end, this cobbled, fishing village,
How the sunset’s breath draws on my hobbled walk.

Cod and halibut, once scooped from the deep brine
By weathered men, salt air nettled in calloused hands.

Why is it so quiet, why are fishing boats with blackened bows?
Their water-lines gasping for a breath.

A quietness dampers the street sounds,
It stretches for years, the shrunken, aging voices.

Aging wooden crutches, half my older size;
The creases in my face, etched by salted wind.

Storms and rain like anchored chains, pummeled the fishers,
Is it any wonder we all survived?

Is it any wonder we weren’t all swept into the darkened abyss?
Drowned among the mackerel, kettled schools

Who swim with their backs against us,
Silver and gray like the perts of our bodies.

The sea, that bred these,
Creeps away like a sea snake, slithering distress.

This tired, aging, salted body has no mercy for us,
Why should it, it is the hearse of forgotten souls.

O unforgiving sea
What dregs sigh, what brine in our throats.

And our families, worrying,
Drawn together like a long pencil line.

On the widow’s walk, hands writhing
Things, things.

Oft, I hobble to the breakwater, spotted with wooden debris,
I am a fisherman, not a land attendant.

I am no longer a smile,
Our children here for a fish, with empty hooks and cries.

And their hearts too small to bandage,
Do I fault the sea?

They watch the fishers vanishing
There is no help from their weeping mothers.

Now the sailcloth, gray and tattered, flickering
In the wind like a pitiful candle.

It is the tongue of a dying profession, remember, remember;
What is the name of colors on the sinking vessels?

Old wood like stumps in a harbor;
Their names disappearing, wordless and slow.

Naked sea in a still place, necessary fish once in search
Of a net; pallors of fishing hands no longer gather.

Copyright © 09/01/17 lance sheridan®

Naked sea in a still place