Farm in a place, once

Compost compost piles.
Sold for a cent
Eggs to the takers
Rose for a hen.
Crop field a hindering
Push plow push plow push plow
How old is a farmer
Who is a wife.

That is the way they were.
Now without turning around
Time is and time does
A cunning
They would have liked a thousand
Ten and twenty seconds.

Weeds grow nevertheless.
Resting cow
Resting bull
Next to an old frame brick
What is a size
Pause in a mortar.

Noisy wind noisy wind a coat.
Opposite it
Opposite it
A hand in earth
A finger in a porcelain cup handle.

Both next to a hurry.
Cousin to an end
Next to a farm empty
Pinned to a shirt.

Apron on a clothesline.
Cold seams
Begging to begging to begging to

Once so great so great.
Do both believe
Weigh the pieces in aged steps
Wheel turn
A little song so very very little
Place in an empty.



She is a blind glass resembling water,
A body, a dead syllable; she is a woman
In a dead package, numb as a lily looking
For an appropriate sun scissored into a
Black cloud. It seems to give her warmth,
Like a live skin. Widow: God made no
Promises; your prayers singed like a burning

Arrow up to heaven. You mourn in loneliness
Like a drunk sleeping in a puddle, wet in a
Dull sense; thoughts, crusted and sallow. Are
Your friends four seven eight and nine praying?
They are folding hands with nothing in between.
Their souls pass through one another in stale air,
Blinded grey to their own bequeathed marriages.

So kiss your husbands in dubious doorways and
Forget their Monday names. Their minds flicker
Like candles while playing prodigal charades.
Hello again to a sweet girl with churchyard ears,
Until you get stiffed again with a wink and a blessing.
Now kiss again and make up while your wedding
Band flares and your backdoor lights dim.

The paradox is that the plays the thing: the prima
Donna pouts, the critical stings that burn through a
Line of words; the cultivated acts in front of offspring;
You all walk barefoot on walnuts in your withered world.
One dry eye, one tear rationed with each breath. God
Appalls from his bold beanstalk. Lie and love while the
Sharp scythe hacks away your days and years.

45439702 - abstract smoke black background

Winter flight

Winter flight of the cold, of geese,

unfolds the frost, snow has no



the depth of the freezing temperatures

is in the reflected pond, the geese cannot



snow laden wings tire the unforgiving snow

below waiting to entomb the silhouettes of



the breath of the wind on the bough of the tree,

melancholy are sounds of warmer days



timelessness of the hills where inhabitants existed,

they feel the loneliness, the grip of frost, forgotten



the sunset opens the window to the night, flurries

begin to fall like brittle glass, moonlight guides their



to dream of summers past

soaring, endless into


Copyright © 01/13/2013 lance sheridan®


Just summer so

The hotel.
Just summer so.
He walked in, partly for the
Clocks in suggestion, minutes
a habit.
Having a room soon,
partly for a
romance. He bought her
flowers, makes older often.
He thought merry,
she without
pleasure on a Saturday.

Noise in or because.
To have
And to have just as
they were
Do they come then.
Join and just and join
and just

Just why they do so.
Their just
an assume
Dovetailed with
a would.

Just shown.
Love which
Which love to love
with, “My dear
how are you.”

They went.
And they left the
Very much better.

Just summer so

Now it’s time to say goodnight

I sleep in the metropolis of twilight,
Colossal moon, catacombs of stars,
Dreams pinned to a deep well bottom,
To the hollows of the lunar night.

A lamp. Six-sided white to guide, touching
And melting the darkness it collects.
I ride on the warm wind feather and rain wet
Plumage through my rem sleep, down the

Blackened crevice where crickets congregate;
A worried, exhausted orchestra burdened to
Fiddle while the moon’s aglow. I am a woman
Of silence in a sleep and end of an endless dream.

Through a slotted window, first light bellied like a fig.
And beyond dew’s blossom and a pastoral scene,
The enchantment of day and fluted reeds in golden pond.
The air is sweet and lazy and I perchance to dream; am I
Worthy as the night begins to walk and makes fresh my sleep?

Crisp and quick the white light daylight folds, the twilight
Restoring. Jeweled stars gilded by moonlight veil the dark.
The wind shakes a thousand whispers exiled by the dawn.
And after their freedom, my sleep begins to whirl, whirls into
A dream. A dream-crossed twilight, the ivory gates of night.

Now it's time to say goodnight

Published poem- The myths woven by us

Reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned

invented stories come out of our yawning abyss,
from our minds, half asleep

the fluid movement of our words moves with
unnerving ease, like wet
paint dripping off a ‘wet paint’ sign

we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle

we play out of tune like evaporated milk,
yet we drink it

we play with others then toss them aside
like glued labels on old sneakers,

to them, can’t have the pain without
the pleasure

we look out of the corner of our eye
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs

we believe there is a light inside us
surrounded by four stones,

the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,

yet we weave the myths
with a needle
and invisible thread,

but that’s like sewing a bullet into a revolver,

once the shot is fired, the damage is done

we have disclosed ourselves like
water has disclosed
itself to a crack in a dam

and then we try to put the water into
a single cup and offer it
to someone who’s drowned

we prey on other’s weaknesses
like dust preys on a drought;

feathers once filled a small room,

paid a penalty for participating
in child’s play

feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,

much like myths woven
by them at
some time in the future

when they realize their dreams can’t be touched,
much like the feathers

much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips.

Copyright © 04/22/2013 lance sheridan®



The schoolgirl

I am not at home.
How white my bed sheets are.
My small bed seeps dreams,
The moon is bare in trees,
It has no face or mouth;

Nor the schoolroom clock,
Parts, bits, cogs.
Departures, departures, the track
Of time empties white into a distance
Tap. Tap. Tap. I find myself waiting.

I am a pulse, a rehearsal attends me
Like a nurse; she is flatness, a dead socket.
I sit at my desk with cold angels, I saw
Their death in a holy book.
As I read, it emptied itself of its promise.

I remember the minute when I knew for sure,
I could see the dangers coming for me, I saw
My world in it— small, mean and black.
Every word hooked to every other word
Like swarms of fish, swaddled in a cold sea.

I was not ready. I thought I could deny the
Consequences. The nun stitched her beliefs
Into me like a rare organ, I did not look.
Terrible students injure me with their white eyes.
I hold my fingers up in prayer, ten pickets leaking

From the cracks in my soul. It widens and dies
In a room papered with psalms. They are not quiet.
Let us make a heaven, they say. Darkness hoods
Me in blue, like the virgin. I am engulfed and drown
In a religion. Can nothing be so prodigal?

Copyright © 05/31/2019 lance sheridan®

The schoolgirl