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

Poem translated into Italian…

Many sincere thanks to Anna at

She is a small island
I suoi occhi sono assolutamente belle.
Sono pieni del colore del mare,
Un delicato impulso di acqua di lino blu
Luminoso, scivolando tra le onde in un
Corridoio di pozze di marea; caldo, con le
mani ricurve vicino a una spiaggia in bundle
Pietre, conchiglie, impronte di uccelli marini,
la partenza di Tide in trance vorticosa;
Per sempre e per sempre mutevole, scorre
Un barattolo da muratore, solo non proprio tutto – il
breve profumo della memoria di un bambino che raccoglie sabbia;
Nuvole di teste galleggianti vicino; l’orizzonte
Non troppo lontano per ospitare un sogno.
Copyright © 25/06/2019 lance sheridan®

Leaving early from the sea

Sea, your room is lousy with fish.
You kicked me out and now I sit bored
And lonely. In your blue water interior
Mussels the color of black pudding
And assorted pots of mackerel and herring.
I will forget you, hearing abandoned shells
Sipping for air, goblets of crabs like drunkards.
The waves bowing down to their admirers—
Sand dunes and mobs of grasses;
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
I gave up the ghost last night at high tide,
You tried to drown me. Listen, I am no
Longer your tenant. And yet, you seek another
To litter their pockets with the tongues of fish.
You will always be tapping your nervous fingers
On the bureau lid of hooks and lines and sinkers.

Copyright © 06/29/2019 lance sheridan®

Leaving early from the sea

She is a small island

Her eyes are absolutely beautiful things.
They are filled with the color of the sea,
A gentle pulse of blue linen water

Bright, slipping between waves into a
Corridor of tidal pools; warm, with
Curving hands near a bundled shore of

Stones, shells, footprints of seabirds,
Tide’s departure in a whirling trance;
Forever and forever shifting, flowing in

A mason jar, only quite not everything- the
Brief scent of a child’s memory gathering sand;
Overhead clouds floating by; the horizon
Not too far off to accommodate a dream.

Copyright © 06/25/2019 lance sheridan®

She is a small island