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
prayed to the masses, the funeral sand;
dipped my brushes
in the holy water,
white pages in a book in which i could
Miracle of dreams the sleeping world
no nightmarish gloom
flesh of ghost;
awake the sinners to the sun
breath of light, milk of dawn;
the fishers fish, farmers grain to
feed the populace weak
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
cobalt blue deep for damp city
but alas, the page, the empty brush.
Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan
We stand in the sweep and hurl of current, our bones weaken- look at it loom, ruddying sea …. dispatch and have done with us, scythe of brine wearing away; the night comes and folds rueful a day, to the shroud of the sea we will be taken.
Copyright © 04/25/2016 lance sheridan®
Oh! fall of night, lingering dark and shadow, why do you prey upon me. i am but seeking the sanctity of light- it breathes in faint winds and lilts of water; here i walk, whispering, unafraid of you.
Copyright © 04/23/2016 lance sheridan®
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®
O! wanderer from a thousand shores, dost thou nourish me with soft drops of amber in sunlit morns. …dost thou take flight with thee into meadows fragrant and tranquil summer rain- once more, and once more.
Copyright © 04/19/2016 lance sheridan®
Rust, must its sentence pass, drinks of my soul much as drought drinks of earth; parched flowers grow beside me in pity. …thoughts of once new comfort me- that acquiescence vain.
Copyright © 04/18/2016 lance sheridan®
In the red, dark dusk, one bare mast, no longer the canvas flap; the crow does not fly, the tide is cold. …the last breath of the boat curls into the wind like cloudlets faint.
Copyright © 04/17/2016 lance sheridan®