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
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).
Let the wild, thronging train of waves in
Their misted procession of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul.
Is this then dawn as thick beads of clouds
Cluster above the agate stoned shore.
On white shoulders of sand, deep cupped
The night-wind routs through the portico of
Morn, all drenched in dew.
Come forth sun, to the ivy-wreathed horizon,
Of thy cup, the bright glancing vines light
Furrows into the sea; here and there, harnessed
Into tides; the clay-laden lonely streams-
Sandbars at the prow, guides them in long robes
Of ivory; long-heaving, violent sea;
Like a loaded boat, it swings groaning.
In groping blindness comes a storm, the maddening
Swells. Scorned white hairs of lightning jutting,
Crawling like shadows. Oh, where are the echoing
Oars of seamen passing through the stems of
Darkness, startled in the unknown sea.
Through the rough planked ghostly images,
Up the sea valley-head, comes the dappled
Sunset, all drenched in wet. The sky all silent.
On horizon’s altar, this bowl. I drank and sunk
Down sleeping. More soft; aye, but to dream.
Through rocky crag the thick wind blows,
Thick the heather darken rounds,
Past the iron fog disused, the muted bridge
I cross; slow the mule track I wander-
Through forest, through valley soft-suffused.
The autumnal evening far down, with strangled
Sound, doth the rivulet complain; where the mist
Swift rush the spectral vapors white, past
Outcropping’s scars with ragged pines, then
Blotting from my sight; through cloud drifts wet
And drear, the Bothy doth appear on higher mounts
Up the ancient encircling glen; I gaze- through the
Showery twilight grey, what slated roof for shelter;
Approach, for what I seek is here; alight with sword
And battle ax, a gallóglaigh, stone-carved basin cold.
Silence, with no organ peal, I knelt, then rose from
Dirt worn floor where he sleeps, that wooded bed-
Which shall be his coffin, death in life; and what
Am I, that I am here? A knight, purged in faith, at
Whose behest long ago possessed my soul again.
My life is not gentle, it is black and hopeful,
Anything can astonish a citizen;
The mischief lies in getting the wrong ones.
It seems a splendid day, I believe in crops.
Does it proclaim satisfy a woman, I was not
Certain of my mother. I do not. I saw her in a
Doorway, leaving; there is a cloth where I have
Water; I do not determine selfishness.
She had deep set trustworthy eyes, once, dark
Like her hair; light flesh colored life: my father
Wondered about islands. He did not forget a war.
They called it the great one, before they knew to
Number them. He missed that clarity. I begged not
To. I prayed for him. I believed and so he was. What
Is a death. I cannot see what I shall a bit in a field,
So that always I can always I do mean to get about.
Presently the soldiers wives returned. I wish I were
May be I am one of them. They brought the stretchers.
Not any more begging. I fill a free uniform white instantly.
Those features are peculiar to a life. Please be sojourn.
Copyright © 09/29/2019 lance sheridan®
I would like to thank Yeka for having my poem, A long love, as a Guest post on her site, passcodelove. It is a great honor to link our blogs. Her’s, and all your support of my work is gratefully appreciated.
MIRRORS: GUEST POST OF LANCE, LANCE SHERIDAN </strong>❤️
I would also like to thank Aladin for all the reblogs of my poems on his site, lampmagician. Most recently, Desmond of the outer sanctorum. My sincere gratitude.
The sky is becoming excitable, as I propped my brain
Between a genuine interest and a weather; these
Clouds, with their white lids and water over my head,
Dumped buckets of water much as a cream color
Into my piece of coffee with the intention of wishing
Me a good morning. The amusing side more certain
As the necessity never dwindled. Perhaps it was
All an illusion, which may not be peculiar in everything.
And very strongly I may be fainting: the perfect way
To accustom the thing. It took mercy and relaxation
And even a cloud strength surrounding my sanctorum
To decrease a holy mess. It is so rudimentary and a
Creamy substance strangely to mingle in my awakening.
The clouds pass and pass, it is impossible to tell how
Many there are. I did not want any of them, only
A dark substance in a morning cup, supposing it is
Very black in a regularity. What is the use of this kind of
Delightfulness if there is no pleasure in not getting
Tired of it. At any rate, there is some venturing in refusing
To believe cream could be likely in an air fall from above.
It must be the season, trimming the summer into an
Autumn. The settling of leaves is one way to scatter a tree.
Some gratitude, reckless if you ask me. A calamity of
Colors and a raking; much, much too early for an ordinary.
Before they came my mornings were calm, committed to
Caffeine in a cup. Is there not much more joy to proclaim.
Copyright © 09/22/2019 lance sheridan®
What is the sea’s length?
It is there and a dark place: a
Fence distinguishes it and the
Pedestrians existed like stones
And settled in the sand to stay
A Saturday, a Tuesday, Wednesday;
Believing they have that water,
Precious salt too, meant to absolve
Them which nearly did on a Sunday.
The care with which a baptism
(not even with drowning) and with
The sea being encircling in a sacrifice
Of pedestrianism, even more likely to
Be a pleasing; the care with which
A holy man is wrong and the scriptures
Are wrong and the nuns are wrong
Is incredible justice. This makes a
Magnificent resurrection and also a fountain.
The world is at peace in a long dress, that
Is the current and makes religion flow;
And a quite dark grey sky is a necessary:
It is an argument for any use of it, and even
So in seawater so much stretched out.
Can we stand the swells? A great many
Pedestrians speak of a cleansing of the soul
Four times yearly. They are constrained to be
Relieved. The bible has become such an authority.
Copyright © 09/15/2019 lance sheridan®