Poems reblogged…

My sincere gratitude to House of Heart, lampmagician, Rexton Digital, and dear friends- your consistent support of my poetry is awe-inspiring. Warm regards, Lance.

The virgin queen bee:

The orphan stars:

The strumpshaw grass:
The strumpshaw grass — Lance Sheridan

Channel swim:
Channel swim — Lance Sheridan


To her life, the cracked white sculpted face,
Nude as Cleopatra in a beggared body;
Fed the bad dreams by a priest’s hand,
The flimsy sermon and the bald angel stone.

She lives in an inane world of wind and clouds,
Restive woods with sap leaking from the bark-vents;
At the count of two, darkness and she does
Not know a thing, watches for a cumbrous moon eclipse.

The bronze dead light flickers like a nightmare
Until the sculptress chisels away a look easy as paper,
Her fingers are buried in the dead plaster;
The skin does not have roots. It withers like a dark secret.

Copyright © 05/07/2019 lance sheridan®


The thin crows

Rose, a knot of birds,
She opens
Five moon skies
For eyes to light a dream,
Black milk-spout, big finger;
She has so many ladders
For getting a leg up
To these limber crows.

She learns, good natured
Child that she is, how
To circle, veer, half-turn
Index the wing,
Tumblehead, blunt helper,
Crows scavenger fetcher,
Whipper of mites,
No daytime dozer,
She shuts on the key
Of these jackdaw toys.

Black-feet, branching
Touchy limb,
She noses out the lay
Of bark and twig,
Cold height and warm nest.
Young ornithologist,
Your note page
Crossed by three causeways,
Feathery, treeless,
With black-tongued landspits.

Black-backed, black-bellied,
As a pitched night, she
Wings the Sky of Do,
The left her mirror,
Her backward image.
Feather-bearer, beaked girl,
The crow’s foot,
By heart here she holds
Silver screws, rings
And her crow’s body.

Ill-served she will be when
Flight mishandles her
(Broken arms and splints,
Skin a scapegoat for a bruise);
Worse-served when jackdaws
Make off with her wings.
No earthworms in a box
To feed the thin crows.

Copyright © 05/04/2019 lance sheridan®

The thin crows

Black umbrella in rainy weather

Through thick rainy weather
A girl sidles, fingers bent on an
Umbrella handle as if caught
In an unhappy circumstance
That might merely by its continuing
Attach her to a blowhard wind.

In the storm eye’s envious corner
Her wet shoes draining on a shadowy
Figure trying to stay dry, but the rain
Gusts steal its dull color; while bruit of
Sunlight calls out a thunderhead whose
Tongue back talks like a rain-soaked raven.

Cleaving inclement air
Over her dampened spirits, no sun
Rivals its downpour look; conceit
Like a divining rod in a shrined yard
Searching for holy water; it
Waylays the girl’s church-going.

Against hymnal and prayer
This malevolent storm sets
Forty-days enough to distract
A religious thought; she is desperate
For a sacrament, a rosary, any
Hail Mary to dissipate this leviathan’s wetting.

Copyright © 05/01/2019 lance sheridan®

Black umbrella in rainy weather

The orphan stars

Abandoned astral light dropping as stones
Into pickets of waves whose silhouettes are
Darker than the night sky because it is lightless.
The sea is a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, once held in space, now
Motionless, save for the fall; distressed and
Anxious, they are eaten by the moonlight.

Astraea sees that the heavens are different.
There is a sense of absence in a once
Shining place. The stars have always treated
Her well; but like children, they are wan, and are
Dulled by much traveling. They drink from the
Small night chill and shut their weary eyes.
She, a puritan, searches, does not overlook them

By looking too hard. They are sparse in the sea,
Yet, infinite dust shyly on a shore. Nevertheless,
Astraea accounts for them all. On this night, with
A view of the sky, she places them in a new
Constellation, Ophiuchus. There is a hint of ease
Here. Suddenly light. They oust their enlightened
Peer, the moon. They are no longer the blunt ones.

Copyright © 04/28/2019 lance sheridan®

The orphan stars

The virgin queen bee

A garden of daisies mouthing for air. White
Speckled petals dilate in the sun, peeling
Back the morning dew. The bees encroach,
Circle and circle, a well of pollen collected
For a virgin queen in a combed frock hive,

Her heart chaste, sister of a monotonous drone.

Her wings trumpet open to the buzzing of her subjects;
The golden honey drips its sticky fluid down.
In her chambered boudoir, streaked with orange and brown,
Suitors nod their stingers, potent as kings to father a dynasty;
A fruit that is bitter to taste: dark flesh, heads off:

All coffined to swarming ants, hungrily clambering, awaiting death.

Copyright © 04/24/2019 lance sheridan®

The virgin queen bee

The other one

All night she moved along the brim of sleep,
Like a stone in a wheat field, the ground was hard.
Moon, shadows, crows that withering sky.
Her bed wore the stain of darkness,
The light wormed back into her mother’s womb.
Small as a broken doll in a dress of innocence,
She dreamed how imperfect she was, and she was.

Against the bare, whitewashed walls, her room
Cramped in a poorhouse, she heard siblings crowd
In a starving for sleep; footsteps multiplying into
The dream chamber, bodies aching for a slumber.
The statued grain like pillars, her twelve slow steps
Towards a windowed figure, heavy as a ghost;
Six feet to a grave, a shovel for the dirt—

Her mother in black, poised in some old tragedy,
Read from the purgatory book; like a good parent,
She swallowed in the darkness. Embraced the
One who never did, flesh and some bone. It dogged
Her, sleepless and envious. The moon drips red.

Copyright © 04/18/2019 lance sheridan®

The other one