A painting book in which i could make miracles

i was born of cross and altar,
got all the way down on my knees to
pray to my father
prayed through the rain, the leaden
glass
prayed to the masses, the funeral sand;
dipped my brushes
in the holy water,
white pages in a book in which i could
make miracles.

Miracle of dreams the sleeping world
no nightmarish gloom
flesh of ghost;
awake the sinners to the sun
morning poppies
breath of light, milk of dawn;
the fishers fish, farmers grain to
feed the populace weak
the starving;
unblind eyes covered with cloth.

Paint with colors- plum like fire for
the cold hearted
dred swamp believers;
vibrant awakening for the daft
wearing the smoking
gun revolver;
cobalt blue deep for damp city
darkness
corruption;
but alas, the page, the empty brush.

Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan

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In the water that sinks of the sea

i sit in the palm of the sea
by tidal pools shallow and lonely,
my hands dark tan and somber
my model sailboat with whitened sail—
our youth idol,
as idol as the dune enclosures so high
i cannot see rustling tree tops
where i climbed,
nor swings old and rusted. …
thoughts all silenced by the roar of the sea;
i the lad with the sailor’s dreams
long time wish the melancholy wash
of waves and brine. …
alas i wait, for the air is motionless
and the land is dry
in the water that sinks of the sea.

Copyright © 04/20/2016 lance sheridan®

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Fingers on a wire

Dawn comes, the land slowly awakes-
it thirsts for rain
it thirsts for dew
soon, cattle will come to graze. …
the barn door saunters.

Break from the wood, a coyote-
grayish brown,
muzzle and paw
silent, breathing past the
dog rose hedge.

Loitering wind, flickering dust ’round
the barbed wire fence-
sewn with the farmer’s hand,
pulsing, waiting
for the predator flesh.

Filled with temptation, filled with
cries- no longer a
cunning beast, the wire tears. …
livestock-
downtrodden grass and fear.

Hounds and farmer leaping
bounds. …rifle shots
into the dog rose hedge;
then flickering light and circling
cloud- a deluge besieged.

Puffs of breath and wounded
skin- the canid tears
through the rifled hedge;
Farmer, why mute?
Ah, so the quiet hounds.

Copyright © 04/04/2016 lance sheridan®

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My ‘About’

I began lance sheridan® in January of 2013. I’ve had over two dozen poems published to date. They’ve been accepted into more than a dozen journals including—

The Mind[less] Muse
Poised in Flight
The BeZine
Poetry Super Highway
International Poetry Anthology

On my writing—

“Lance, your use of language feels less like mastery and more like partnership…as though sometimes your words might participate–seduce and scorn, dovetail and derail each other. It’s a measured dance without set steps: Intriguing. Madeleine Marzio/writer

The witch-
The images pop out to paint an unbelievable canvas of great imaginations. Barbara Kasey Smith/published poet

The Ravin’ Lunatic-
Wow! This is an incredible piece of creative writing. Read the whole thing and it’s really something. Aria/The Modern Faye Magazine

Red dressed lady-
Your thoughts create the strokes of colors that seem to form your words…. Wonderfully fluid. LadyBlueRose/poet

Whaler’s Lament-
This is epic! This could be a whole novel and yet you have captured the intensity and detail in such fine verse and specific detail. The character-portraiture is strong. A staggering line: “Yet my love of whaling creeps over me like the vapors from a squall” – THAT is poetic epithet. Kate Burnside/poet

© 2013 – 2016 lance sheridan® © 2013 – 2016 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®; © 2013 – 2016 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®; © 2013 – 2016 Çross §titching of the §oul®—All Rights Reserved. All poems contained in this website are protected by copyright laws and may not be broadcast, copied, displayed, distributed, reproduced, republished, transmitted, or otherwise exploited in any manner without the express prior written permission of Lance Sheridan.

I claim no credit for any images except, ‘the religion of bees’, ‘slight of hand’, and ‘Clear Skies’, which are personal photographs. The use of pictures are for inspiration only.

I’m sarcastic, have an offbeat sense of humor, a purveyor of words and imagery, love music, read, drink coffee, exercise, dislike ruffians.

70 year old traffic

i honk the horn, it is silent
the whippoorwill is silent
all about are rusting
and whatever can be done
will not stop the rusting,
it is you time and small rain.

i want aging wheels to turn
and it is you air
that will not allow it,
up in trees and sky
and whatever it is you do,
no one really knows where you are.

here is the metal roof and doors
and dashboard;
springs pushed up through seats
where passengers sat on
road trips; faces remembered
on brownie cameras.

i sit, keeping junkyard relics behind
me from budging an inch
moving about as fast as dead
batteries and headlights
lying on the ground, lying
in old tire treads.

yet, there is the wonder of stars
each night, and of
fireflies lighting up all radio
tubes and big band songs,
and of keychains with a
sweetheart’s photo being held.

i want no world where i can’t
hold a memory
and it once was sitting inside me,
not sprayed on with coats
of a paint, but rather were the ones
who enjoyed the ride.

Copyright © 03/19/2015 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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Whispered lives

Pedestrians on sidewalks
waiting for
late buses and worn handles
grasses tall in a field 
swaying,
watching a pretty woman’s face,
shadows underground
underneath 
her feet,
they listen to the sounds of
her soul
city streets covered with
umbrellas and
late appointments.

Flowers in her hair,
wears perfume,
clothes gray and white
a traveler down a dark alley
unfolds a map,
dim dome light feeble
from age,
subway car’s flickering on 
and off
much as children play
with wall switches
passengers step off curbs 
into cabs, meters
like one-armed bandits.

Concrete slabs by streets with
washed off chalk and
hopscotch
look up into a man’s face
and aging clothes,
he hears silent voices
of children…
in his apartment a
window opened,
hears her heart whispering
from misted field.

Tickets written from quick, 
silver parking meters,
torn, scatter into
asphalt breezes and
department of sanitation
brooms
she moves, her feet touching
an imaginary dance hall
floor where they met…
slowly, he closes his window,
a kiss goodnight.


Copyright © 03/26/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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symptoms

torrent of gray sky, torrent of water, she
drapes the cleave of dress over
feet of clay, cracking, impermeable 
layer, as to soil
as to sun and
earth unfertile as she 
is, head to rest on aging hand
not to affect a lover, a ring
lays between argil, 
bluish layers;

in fingers she reluctantly grasps tattered
ribbon once in reddish hair
and gift to be given by
him, she lets an unwanted wind 
forsake a future as it 
be to rest in advancing sea,
the clay it chokes,
she rattles her non-denominational 
cross, gilded chain to
redden skin;

finely laced sleeves to cling as they be
pulled and torn, fabric of life,
lessened
salt of waves deepen
intent malicious,
her tears drop, one, then
one into brine
and clay,
she cannot swim, she
cannot hold her breath,

under a sea of despair, above
light, gasps for air, clothes
wet, tighten
she cares not,
wooden boat of hope, he 
is in to save, but her 
heart pushes
away, drowns in 
self pity, sorrow of the row,
never ceases…

Copyright © 08/18/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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love too seldom

she hung onto a warped kitchen door like screws
pulling out of hinges, smoke 
from a
three alarm next door crept over on the 
belly of night,
pried open a small window, sought,
grasped her delicate 
neck with fingers,
slipped through red lips,
coffined blue eyes;

one small flame jumped off shingled roof
and danced across weeded
grass, climbed up wooded porch
ignited board
ignited paint,
she lunged for glass door knob
to breathe through slats
felt the heat,
tears to extinguish a
burned impression;

cindered clothing, she strips naked into warm
air and soft skin
she protects smoked eyes from
moonlight,
her generationed home coughing
from inhalation of scorched 
sulfur,
now impregnated by flame,
gives birth to 
bastard fire;

clutched in a guilty hand, a small box of
strike anywhere,
one last match to burn his letter,
went something like,
“I never want to see you again…”
“you won’t,” she thought;
called to make sure 
he was home
when she struck old newspapers
and absence of love…

Copyright © 08/15/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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