Dear Friends…

My heartfelt thanks and most sincere appreciation for all your wonderful thoughts and comments. I will keep you apprised regarding the progress of my book. I wish you all continued success with your own unique art. Blessings and hugs!

Dear readers…

You have done me the great honor of reading and reviewing my poetry. When I wrote, it was a promise to you that I would make your time here fulfilling, enriching, and perhaps even transformative. As far as I’m concerned, we’re good friends. I will be off WordPress for a while to write my book. I sincerely wish you all the best in your endeavors!

Peace and love,

Red jacket of fire

I struck a match; being so tired
Of the old faces of bureaucracy
Grinning, grinning as they drove
Past in a ’33 Ford
With rolled down windows
And not a grain of dignity,
Stepping out in white colored suits,
Rolling the poor who live in cardboard boxes
The color of coffins.
Hatred, hatred, and well, I was tired
No longer being able to keep it in,
I am not subtle,
I am as merciless as a glass case with a
Fist shoved through.

Shards of flame melt and sag a roof,
Bend and cringe a bureaucratic look,
Do not touch;
Eyes like tin, dead fish in a bowl.
Firemen poke at the carbon remains,
Flake up and flutter off in a draft
Down a city sewer;
Mix with ripped bags and gutturals
Of the dying.
Stuffed expressions in wastewater,
Flowing, flowing aimlessly to the sea,
Dyeing the air, particles in a cloud,
Bursts the silver lining.
Do not touch. This is immortality.

Copyright © 12/27/2018 lance sheridan®

Red jacket of fire

Soliloquy of the earthen woman

Of clay and earth
All alone;
Walk the soil street
My eyes closed,
Dreaming under a dense lid cloud,
Leafing through volumes of poetry: free
From all bullying. The rough boys,
Fit nowhere in my sleep,
Like unwanted pages on a bookshelf.

Under the moon’s onion shape
Am unaware of how
The marionettes dangle,
Expressionless and getting drunk,
Soon will seize a prize
Will take me hostage and waken my nerves;
Blenched, as one shaped into a
Death mood.
Crypted into a drear headstone.

No place it seemed
To laugh, kiss, seize a living,
The simulacrum of a breath too tough
For an ending;
To forbid a sullen ash heap fitting into
A thick foliage of hate.
Yet, despite my tears, my praying,
A rendering evil in a blink;
My mood like an unforbidden flower.

No longer claiming a feeling,
In my flesh the sling of arrows
Quite clear.
Maltreated my body, outrageous blood,
Collapsing into a dwindle;
Glowering over me,
My mouth silted with flowers
In a shocking wise.
All my beauty, my wit, descant for a pyre.

Copyright © 04/01/18 lance sheridan®

Soliloquy of the earthen woman

The shape of her sleep

Who are these unresolved’s at the Tudor court to meet me? They are the marriages – – –
They are Katherine, Anne, Jane, whores of the king.
In my veil and paper dress I have no protection,
They are sumptuary laws, enforcing social hierarchy.
They are smiling like new virgins winking murderess eyes.

I am naked as a corpse, do they not love me?
In blackwork hoods with beheading axes,
They’re all nodding heads; my skin is milkweed white;
They smell fear knotted under my armpits.
Blood clots are dragging up my spine.

I cannot run, I am rooted in time, and the tyranny of Henry.
The mind of a hive thinks this is the beginning of everything;
If I stand still enough, perhaps he will think I am childbearing,
Sealing off his sperm, his guises, while quietly humming
Like a midwife with a breastplate of cheesecloth and a blood smell.

The old queens are untying their disguises,
The villagers are moving the virgins;
I am the king’s girl, must live another year in animosity
While in a Tower cell riven with finger joints and bones;
I am exhausted for a chopping block and a raven feather.

Copyright © 12/24/2018 lance sheridan®

The shape of her sleep

The great sea

Salt waves through the air streaming,
Over the stone clams and valleys of fish,
Pouring into mouths of tidal pools,
Lucent as moonlight; nightfall floating
Silver and exact: flickering darkness descending,

Mute as black slate cleaving into the shoreline.
The drifting wreckage of sand
Swallowed by the dark throat of the sea,
Stretched into its shallow banks,
The ragged rocks, the dead minnows.

All are gone: the dry wood, the broken oar,
The tolling bell, the soundless wailing,
All tongued with the dead water and the dead sand.
There is no end of it, the rending pain,
The sea and its conscious impotence of rage.

Copyright © 12/22/2018 lance sheridan®

The great sea