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


‘the mystery’—part 3…


she woke up early that morning with her 
head banging 

like rusted pipes in a condemned building,
an alarm clock

went off with a time that didn’t wanna
be heard or seen,

halfway into getting ready for work she
realizes it’s 

saturday morning and the office can wait
until monday;

“what a hangover!” “what was i thinking?”
“my keys, my keys, 

what did i do with them?” she empties her
purse onto wrinkled

sheets and a skipped laundry day; picking
through loose change

she pulls out a picture of her boyfriend, 
“with all my love”

is inked on the back, “but who was that
guy buying me

drinks all night?” a long argument one
week ago reminded

her why; while she’s showering, a
dirty message is left

on her cellphone; she splits the 
bathroom blinds,

“theo, you and your binoculars!”
“won’t you ever 

give up?” after slipping into a robe,
she starts putting

the things back in her purse, “what’s
this?” “oh, I’d 

almost forgotten about her.”
to be continued…

Copyright © 08/01/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


in the world of the wicked

daunting sea waves lick wooden boards 

with a taste for an 


innocent’s destiny, yet she wears the                  

white; breeze of a


future pulls soft hair, makes butterflies 

dance and barren 


limbs taunt, they scold as if to tell the

young child not to


get her soul wet, but she replies, “i 

must keep the roses 


moist, for surely they will wither and

die;” the limbs pick


at her clothing as a daunting grand

parent must, “child,


if you do not listen, you will receive

a switching from a


deftly branch!” “what of your leaves

dear tree, to soften


this punishment?” “have you forsaken

them for you own


banishment?” “they have fallen from

once a stately oak


into the sea

into the sea,


i hear them in desperation calling,

slowly sinking,


do you not care to save them?” “i

choose not too,


for they are now orphans of silence,

besides, i will soon


have new growth in the spring;” “but

what of this tide?”


“child, you ask of me too many

questions!” “besides,


it is time for a switching…” “oh,

i rather thought


you had forgotten about such things,

anyway, i want to


sit beneath your branches and touch

the sky with my


heart on swing;” “i am afraid little

one that the sea


has now come to claim thee, it grabs

my roots with


salty hands as to choke, to smother

with brine, take


heed not to succumb to dark water,

one of youth


and purity;” “i will dearest friend…”

a tender touch


now from bough to wipe a long,

solitary tear;


she walks away as bark and limb

get pulled into


cold, desolate degrees, places red

roses on whitecap


and depth… butterflies are free.


Copyright © 07/29/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


she’s well acquainted

milk runs down her face, over sheer lace,
over black silken dress, not

like glue paste on coloured paper, put away
when classrooms forgot

to teach; dripping, dripping onto a dirty
linoleum floor where

dark gray water in yellow buckets got
mopped under children’s

lives; P.C. 31 watching mason’s brick
cover up windows where

once small faces were more interested
in skinned knees and

silver chutes in playgrounds, now books
and crayons gasp for

light; she remembers freckles in places
where mascara black

drips down onto an attic trunk Victorian
dress; anglo saxon church

school house adjacent, heard the steeple
bells at recess, heard

them when she sang in the choir, when she
wore a virgin color;

baby born under a thatched roof overlooking
a blue sea, he traveled,

never came back from afar, she raised with
heart and soul,

always read from the good book; daughter
off to school where glue

paste ran down coloured paper, where her
young face laughed with

arms spread out sliding down silver chutes,
learning when her

mother taught a refined essence, but that
was banned; she saw

happiness in a daughter’s face, gold round
on a finger as chapel

bells rang; love in a cottage when a grand
daughter was born…

milk runs down the daughter’s face, over
sheer lace, over

black silken dress…

Copyright © 07/25/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®