Down, down the night

This is a dark house, dripping.
Inch by inch from a quiet finger
Into a puddle, a bag of gloom;
Shadowed mists move over,
Their nostrils breathing the bowel
Of the night, a quite dark black.

It is warm and tolerable in the smell
Of my sleep; I embellish myself in
Night sweats, peeling my skin like
Black amnesia. I crawl into a lonely
Corner, my mouth licks the darkness;

Negligible starlight pours through a
Window like an old heavy press;
Moley-handed, I push it aside in the
Stony hole of night. Yet, its radiance
Scathes me. Diminished, I am inhabited
By tears. How my bad dreams endow me.

Copyright © 07/23/2019 lance sheridan®

Down, down the night

Love is a dangerous pleasure

I slept, say with a snake
Occasioned to a trembling,
Each breath breaking into little pieces
Compressed and sealed in a white box
Sewn into my heart;
It makes the shape so heavy
And no melody harder.

I begged for mercy in places not empty
Spread thinner by a cause and a doubt,
He established the color quite cunning
Slender grey with black and red ribbon,
I concentrated on the illusion not to shatter;
Its exaggeration was strangely flattering.

His hands were a sad size for choking
Every bit precocious,
A kind of game and nothing flat on a neck
Everything breaking,
Life once a splendid address
Cut, cut into white
White so lately.

My life toppled and the tears rained down
A void appall till I drowned,
Love knows not of death
Till the sharp scythe of jealousy hacks away;
I was rationed for a day for a week,
The simple sum of my heart occasioned for a heaven.

Copyright © 07/23/2019 lance sheridan®

Love is a dangerous pleasure

The summer child

I see the summer child on
graying wood
mile off sun- warm hand back,
white gulled flight
slow pulse day- creek towards
the black tongued sea,
fish stalking bird wades in the
sloppy mud-
limping rabbit through the thicket
slain salt wind and tilting grass-
through the window
of her eyes, the dusk and water
she watches.

Copyright © 05/21/2016 lance sheridan®

The summer child


The clouds loomed straight down that morn on the track-heads.
We were always crying, in our spare lives, put-upon sisters,
Carrying two, small, black cases like dead skin on an animal.
We were better off from the rented parents batched in a mean.
Grownups, always aloud, cross-legged on their stern seats,
Heads bobbing-up and down like snakes in a still sea; biting
Words as they cursed us. We are inseparable as two cork dolls;
We slipped through a keyhole passage and inched into the shadows,
Our fingers cold and red from the solitude. We read from the good book.

Our staunch stone eyes stared for a passage, beyond an inconstant
Life. A place where children twirl like colored tops and gallop on
Merry-go-round horses. But in this sunless air, our fingers pointed to a
Blackness. Our parents, two warped shadows came searching in dark repose;
Their shapes long, dull to a pigment of thorns. We kicked and fought,
They tried to shut our mouth-holes, we screamed. The sky clouded over as
If it were out of breath; our faces whitened to a sheet. The blue eyes of
Authority comforted. The shine of this small thing was sweet in our hearts;
We hardly knew ourselves. Life now had a good smell, we are no longer owned.

Copyright © 07/16/2019 lance sheridan®


Religious objects

A church, that is a blind religion
A kind in a bible and a Holy Ghost
A specter and nothing strange in a
White sheet color and an arrangement
In a sermon to finger pointing-
All this and ordinary nails and a crucifixion.

It was all decided yesterday-
The loincloth color is chosen
And the spitting god image and perhaps
A holy water washing
Certainly glittering and handsome
And quite becoming
A sight, a whole sight and a little mourning.

Perhaps the whole death thing is a
Bit extreme, and very likely
The little things could be held dearer
Than a wanton sacrifice
(In the event of an emergency, break
glass and don feather and cotton robe);

To be worn with rosary beads. A prayer-
It connects the white and black heaven
(whiter and not coal color; never more coal color than slighter).
This is the best preparation for meeting with the three.
The father, the son and someone.
It makes belief and atonement a bit fuller.

Copyright © 07/13/2019 lance sheridan®

Religious objects


Works translated into Portuguese and Italian…

I am honored by two very talented writers for translating three of my poems into two different languages. By doing so, and perhaps other’s works as well, it will give people in other cultures an opportunity to read the written poetic word. Thank you for your efforts. And, many sincere thanks to all my readers for their marvelous support.

The first, translated into Portuguese is, I will be well love

julho 8, 2019
por Lance Sheridan

Um pequeno chamado é tudo que faço

Casa ideal. Comida no fogão.

Qualquer descuido, coisas a limpar

Isso tudo se requer

Um tempo, assegurado, supõe-se

Que seja uma necessidade.

Uma vida de paz se alcança arduamente

com uma submissão.

Leiloando o adeus ao casamento

Pequena liderança não quer dizer nada

Expelir e expelir

Por favor e por favor poderia

Por um ponto final em tudo isso.

O que sou se sou incerta tenho uma razão.

Eu clamo sem preocupação

A porta está aberta

Certamente eu estou saindo

Que caminho mais doce eu penso comigo.

Um certo dia eu vou seguir

Mas por enquando eu vou esperar

Te agrada não haver chance para


O que é necessário

Foi deixado aberto, para se deixar fechado.

Sou uma virgem de véu e grinalda

Casada no papel

Um casamento conveniente, bem casada,


Submisso e seguro

Muito adequado

Tão necessário.

Caso há chance da sujeira diminuir

Que espetáculo

A mudança é plausível

Uma pequena mudança é preparada


Agora como uma eloquente

Não me assemelho mais com você.

Copyright © 22/06/2019 lance sheridan®

The second and third, translated into Italian are, A decastitch poem, 10 lines free verse and, The wheeling moon in her sleep night

Una poesia Decastitch…( 10 righe, versi liberi.)

acque palustri, chine fronde,
vilucchio ,
muta farfalla anela
cerca l’airone azzurro,
di bruma

Copyright © 16/12/2013 lance sheridan®

La luna ruota nelle sue notti di sonno

Cercò di dormire per baciare il sogno,fermò il tempo degli orologi , con l’occhio addormentato, Spostò pianeti, la luna rotante
Così, con l’orsacchiotto, volò in cielo e toccò la polvere di stelle come ali d’angelo.
Fuggì dall’orbita di sua madre che pianse,
fuggì dalle luci della notte, dalle sue ombre spettrali,
da una costa nuvolosa, salì sul crepuscolo.
Lasciati indietro i suoi fratelli, al sicuro e al caldo prese il verricello , vagò nella nebbia notturna

silenziosamente addormentato, a pochi pollici
dai sogni, i ditali al buio rintracciaono il filo fiabesco, le iarde della pioggia bianca di latte e il vento rosso astuto.
Le favole di ieri. gnomi saltellanti e draghi neri.
Così profondamente addormentato nel moto della luna.

Copyright © 22/08/2016 lance sheridan®

A long love

Love is handily made of what is necessary
To replace a loneliness;
A plainly made agreement on paper to stop
The holes- the one in the heart,
The one for a singular arrangement established
By a length of emptiness.

Did she mean, did he say, you do not cry,
Tell lightly what you meant;
All of which nobody not you knew.
But it is so. Once in a while you wait.
There is no search, but there is hope.

A circle of a ring and a chance for pleasure
And not getting tired of it,
It shows there is no mistake.
A commitment is a commitment and does
Not connect under a bed.
The sight of a reason, the same sight slighter,
The intention to wishing,
The same splendor is a necessity needed.

A method of love, a single climb to a system,
Lily white with a noise and a grace;
Not in a catalogue, not a resignation-
All makes for a silver lining with no ribbon.

Copyright © 07/06/2019 lance sheridan®

A long love