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
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
but alas, the page, the empty brush.

Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan


a Man rescued

Lifeboat in the white of sea
under the bell of rescue,
winder of water oars
who in this labyrinth of tides
cast from the sun shell shore
over stretches of
salted wave
and who through the veiled cloud
to a snail of a man
rescues. …
from the canvas path of a ship
that capsized in
the blunt scythe of a storm-
now the damp and
dry sailor from a dramatic sea
in the treading shade of the shore.

Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan


The water of a dream

Flower of the hazel wood, you are
fire in me-
embers burning edges
of my heart
Petals like white moth wings in
moonlight, i
take your softness and place it in
a rivulet-
touches the small round
sliver stones
i walk the dappled grass path
in wood and star
until the time and time when we
light and shadow moon deep
dream water of glimmering night.

Copyright © 05/14/2016 lance sheridan®

Water of a dream


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®


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®