We have boarded the rowboat
And there is no getting off,
Is it worthwhile-
Above all, will it save our lives?
I write now only because
There is an inner voice in me,
That will not be silenced;
But for our scars and tattered wool,
Peel off the sheep’s clothing
O our enemy!
You terrified and almost barbecued
Our chops, our legs, our shanks.
It is our meadow, but not on a plate,
You came disguised trailing the telltale
Tatter of a laundry tag;
Instead of a baa, you howled;
And then you charged for a bit of blood,
A piece of meat- to what extent did you intend?
Never, never, never will you reach perfection
If you cannot spot another wolf in sheep’s clothing!
Copyright © 11/28/18 lance sheridan®
My most humble thanks and appreciation, Alessandria today.
I am vertical
I would much rather be on Terra firma.
I am not a hedge with my roots running hither
In earthen soil, sucking up Artesian well water
With mineral derivatives and cemetery remnants—
So that each Spring I may gleam as a green leaf;
Nor am I the embodiment of a garden plowed
Attracting my fair share of grubs and crows,
Knowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a hedge is immortal,
And a vegetable-head’s shorter but more deserving,
I do insist on having one’s long life and the other’s bearing.
This night, in the infinitesimal bright of the neighbor’s light,
The hedge has gone to sleep
Yet, I stand aloft on this wooden ladder strewing sniffles and a cough—
I look rather pitiful, but no one seems to notice.
In between shivers, I dream of a nice warm bed,
Out here, in the cold, sleeping is rather difficult,
I rather resemble a large raccoon with dark circles under my eyes;
My thought processes are growing dim.
It is not natural to me being vertical on a ladder at quarter to three in the p.m.
I have even taken to striking up a conversation with a celestial owl.
So, for heaven’s sake, would someone come and throw me a lasso!
Copyright © 07/21/18 lance sheridan®
I think I am getting up,
I think I might rise:
The sound of music coming from
My neighbor’s house is not exactly a lullaby;
And I am pure insanity!
So he who plays the wood box
Square in a chair by a window seat,
I would hope be almost too heavy to lift,
Or would lockup;
But whatever the music means,
I pray would dissolve into thin air.
He shapes and misshapens it
Like a melon strolling on two tendrils;
I am writhing my hands in fortitude,
I am boarding the train for an institute
And there is no getting off!
By doing so, that hideous sound
Would ignore me immediately;
But my neighbor stares quite indignantly,
For you see he is tone-dead.
Copyright © 11/22/18 lance sheridan®
This is the sea with its wind whistle, a great obeyance.
Black knotted seaweed hugs my grudge,
I trudge off down the shore as gray storm clouds stoop
From the sky and wet the wall of my existence.
Blind is my smile, empty as the eyes of a blind pianist.
Coldly and soberly, I am lame in a memory
Like a dying tree in an old size
Waving and crutchless, weeping in a wood.
The stone tide ebbs, sucking me in its powdery beak.
Rises so whitely, buffeting my jaw until it was numb;
The washed sheets of my clothes coffin into a
Garbage of shells, all at once razor clams and weedy mussels.
The rim of a last wave sucks me to an undertow,
Stiffened into a rib of sand, pocked white skin,
Glassfuls of salt drowning my tongue;
I acquire air, nobody sees me. I lie beneath the
Glittering, digesting me. Quietly, my eyes close
Wordless and slow. The sea has no mercy for anyone;
Trembling, I am pulled to the breakwater,
Bottomed to a blackness, weeded tomb.