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®
Sea fog rubs its back upon my window-panes,
Salt in places, hindering tide,
Push waves, push waves tranquil on a shore;
Sea birds arranged in sections of sky.
Suppose a row, a seaweed neck, no fishing
No fishing with another hook;
Jackfish, Jackfish in a yard of sea,
Twos, twos into a net; put a stove, put a stove.
If I were surely, the sea wind said, something soon
Someday; whitecaps, whitecaps what is a storm.
Wet spoil gaiters and swells and little canvas
Or ready gray lining, curls, curls.
I settle a stretch, sea at the till; sail or rustle
Mourn in a morning. A high beach and a
Perfect sight, a blow is delighted; put an anchor down.
Put something down someday in my sand.
Copyright © 09/08/2019 lance sheridan®
A kiss is dust as dust as dust,
Stitched into your lips like a dull dream,
You do not, you do not breathe.
You sit in the crotch of emotion
Starving for affection,
Feelings begin to wrinkle, then go black
And, one, by one they drop into
Dark blind shadows,
Like a naked bulb’s light, swinging, swinging.
I count the minutes, one, two, three, nineteen.
Faceless clocks being brainwashed by time;
Numb on a mantel with a date.
My jaw is narrowing, shrinking like old wood,
No longer needed to kiss,
Bestial purity, once, was best
(My heart is scarred from a touch, a bit of blood).
Copyright © 09/02/2019 lance sheridan®
I will be taking time off from my poetry blog to continue writing my book. Thank you for your immeasurable support of my work. I wish you the best in all your writing endeavors. I leave you with several poems. Please enjoy. Regarding my E-book- looking at a release date this Fall.
The distant rote of granite shoals, sullen, like a
Mystagogue, worshiper of the white haired,
White bearded waves, waits and watches for
The sea-yard god; what is a god, a god is unison.
In pots, the smell of salt, powder for sails, autumn
Dust winder; the season rages into what it reaches-
The fish, the whale’s backbone, the shore, it tosses
The broken oar and the dead men. The sea howl
And the tolling bell, it measures time rung by the
Tide swell. Time counted by anxious worried women
Lying in black veils, lying awake, unweaving wedding
Gowns to piece together the past and the future;
Calloused, withered hands patient to some degree,
Keeping their rages, dwellers in death; unpropitiated
Prayers reaching to the sea’s edge, the torn whitecapped
Waves, the shattered voices; salt is on the black roses.
Waves swell and the grained face sand ages in tidal pools,
Deep among the mussels and shoulders of the sea; the salt
Air breathes the water, untamed, a conveyor of souls. That is
What is remembered. That is and was from the beginning.
Copyright © 07/21/2019 lance sheridan®
If they tear the quarry through,
One kneeling in the brambles
I will not look at them again
When I feel the musket ball
Clumped in a muscle- blood
Stench, guts a crusty scrabble,
Conspicuous. I would count the
Scant seconds hinging, small
Knobs of time nudging me into
A trench dug mud burrow,
Mottled from a life. There is no
Doubt that by this time they found
Me- bestowing intended death
Much to my dissatisfaction. She
Is on her way, my lovely, having
Heard the clap of musket fire.
A very little woman with black hair
Kneels beside me in loneliness. She
Does not have an answer, yet bundles
It as to sacrifice her feelings. She
Closes my eyes with a kiss. Useless
To my pursuers, I am now burdening death.
Copyright © 07/22/2019 lance sheridan®