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



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,
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®


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
her generationed home coughing
from inhalation of scorched 
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®


the glide that stuck to her fingers

jack booted thug, group of a bullet

threat thereof


to take what he wanted wearing the

muscle, wearing


the cobbler’s nails


blackened stubble on a hardened face

with shallow


depressions where a blade cut in like

furrowed soil


gave coppers the slip down crevices in

mortared walls


carried the jackknife rusted deep down 

a soiled 


pocket with stolen coins, flipped, tails

they lost


held up in four walls and a dirty mattress

dirty sheets


rusty water dripping with intent to  commit

annoying feelings


curtains painted with dust, termites eating



lifting a wallet felt a woman’s hand soft

manicured nails


smelled fresh linen clothing and high heels

short skirt


she ran her index finger under a five o’clock

look got


his undivided


shave and a two bit haircut, three piece with

a gold


chain watch, looking rather sharp, smacked

a kiss


moved to a city loft, big brass bed that spun

sensual intense


reformed, he put on the needle, put on the

record phonograph


she danced the glide that stuck to her fingers

he applauded…


Copyright © 08/13/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


pushing you in puddles

black and white rain, once, kept
you inside

with an open umbrella as you
watched your

finger draw a heart on a window;
you served

tea to your dollies, they were kind,
never asked

for seconds; you skipped rope 
while waiting

for your best friend, drops of 
rain jumped

off branches just to kiss your
porcelain like

face; a childhood, once, kept
you in 

memories as you looked in a
mirror to

see you’d grown up into a
beautiful woman,

had a family, moved, some
place in

between you wrote poetry,
then searched

for a new voice; rain fell onto
a street

where holes form puddles, you
looked outside

and saw a new friend wave, you
untied an 

apron after serving tea; “come
on, let’s

play,” he said, pushed you in
puddles, you

found your new voice…

Copyright © 08/06/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


cold droplets of white

it snows in a desert where cattle
skeleton heads
lay in hot sand by day
and minus temperatures
in winter,
lizards lie on glass windows
in homes beneath
desert cactuses made
of foam rubber
and green paint;

it snows in a small hometown
park where she drinks
hot coffee, pondering,
nervous blue eyes look
around for
yesterday’s footprints,
cold droplets
of white, frozen
rain, they somehow
comfort her; 

but she seeks solitude in distancing
herself from his last touch,
trees line a December
solstice as if to offer some
sort of guidance,
a letter lays silent by
her feet
her unforgiveness,
wet snow washes off ink,
his writing;

they met by chance in a village
square, both in a shop
where promises are sold
for a buck ten,
one was left on a forgotten
shelf, two hands
touched, they walked
for a while, he fell,
somehow she forgot what
it was like;

as he tried to get closer, she
kept distancing herself
like old wallpaper
in a painted room, tried
to forget a painful
past, dogged her day
and into minus temperatures,
shoulder cold
on any attempt of a kiss,
he grew tired;

his feelings were where he sat
in the back of an old
greyhound transport and
a busted seat, wrote
a long letter with few
words, mailed it
to ‘attention’, she poured
hot coffee on snow
and runny syllables, stepped
into yesterday’s footprints.

Copyright © 08/02/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®



Matters of concern as is up or down 
short or long the lifespan ascending
knocking on Heaven’s Gate or choices
descending living burning sins of Hell

Murk rising yet progressing toward a 
higher level above and blooming 
to achieve enlightenment processing
purification azure in spirit alignment

Becoming of a staircase for an arising 
sun beams offering relative portals of 
connectivity reaching for lotus petals
from among lily pads for future growth;

Winding banisters project images in a
painted mural of Shangri-la as brushed
on colors run in unison into glass covered
mirages filled with imaginary water 

Rivets in twisted metal pull up sets of
curved wood in an ascension to light as
conversely in a reflection descending
to shadows of an intent by dark

A ceiling acts as hands in holding steel
cable in an avoidance to letting go 
where miscalculated architectural figures
would lie with tortured faces grimaced.

Copyright 08/03/2013 
Vivian Locastro Dawson & Lance Sheridan