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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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

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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
kiss-
light and shadow moon deep
beauty-
dream water of glimmering night.

Copyright © 05/14/2016 lance sheridan®

Water of a dream

 

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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