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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The shroud of the sea

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®

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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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To sleep

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®

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