With us today is poet Lance Sheridan. Here is a little taste of his poetry and his views on tough love.
Of red barns and canal water
she sat in a red barn, on the velvet sofa,
quite comfortable in her
wiped the perspiration from the nape of
sipped the sweet tea like she sipped
her legs went from here to there and back
again, waited for her lover
looked out the awning covered window,
a beautiful face reflected
on the still water,
ran deep, like her emotions;
the canal had an appetite for quietness,
preferred it, a vow of silence
cigarette ash fell onto a hand-sewn rug
like soot on an english roof
her impatience grew;
he sold postcards and slides,
had weekends off,
didn't impress her
he had postcards of the same red barn,
next to a serene canal
his relationship with her was anything but;
if he flipped them, animation appeared,
could see her looking
out the window
she had the attitude of wild dogs running
on tin roof tops
never let the breeze in,
was afraid it would extinguish
ashes tattooed the hand-sewn rug
like carneys got tattooed
backs of the postcards were all
addressed to him
she spelled out her anxieties like a
long range weather report
sold all of them to a blind man with a
tin cup and a tin seeing eye dog
bought the pencils...
Copyright © 04/01/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®.
Of love and suspicion
she pulled paper off of elm bark and cut out
characters with dull scissors,
pressed them into old scrapbooks with white
paste and the corner of a smile
she took pieces of a puzzle out of a cardboard
cupboard where paint chipped
and cracked dishes held onto forgotten suppers;
had a hound dog that could smell a funeral
a mile away,
scent came up through porch boards and wet
black ants come crawling out of woodwork
looking for leftovers
scraped into trash cans with dirty newspapers;
jealous boyfriend next door every time she
sat on rope and board to swing,
wearing her low cut red dress and wiping off
humid air with
a soft, wet, damp sponge,
young men cruis’n by in white walls, d.a.’s
and wolf calls
she eats it up with a silver spoon and glued
walks into the house moving like her hips
are on springs,
she’s running on full oxygen,
he, just trying to breathe
opens up an appliance for cold milk
a shot fired
travels through white in a glass,
she clocks out like 24 chapters in an
her body, flying puzzle pieces that
scatter into blue darkness
he tucks death into his pocket, opens
screen door where police lights pry
into furniture and
eyes in grandparent faces hiding behind
the boyfriend keels
hits porch boards like slow nails and
a hot sun
had a hound dog that could smell a
funeral a mile away …
Copyright © 06/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®.
Lance Sheridan began Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® in January of 2013. Since then, he has had thirteen poems published to date. His works have been accepted into the following journals—Napalm and Novacain, Storm Cycle, Jellyfish Whispers, Pyrokinection, Poised in Flight and Point Mass.
What other poets are saying about his writing—
“This is a sort of writing which deliberately flouts grammatical structure and any form of restriction. It is not words. It is more music you relax to, curl up listening with an abstract ear."
“A readers paradise is exactly what your poetry is about.”
“You are so clever in bringing out the story in lines that compel the reader to ride the rail to the end."
"How the hell do you do this to us with words Lance?... I think we must link with your soul for these fleeting seconds... "
“For my writer and reader friends, please take a moment to read Poet Lance Sheridan. I was hooked by the very first poem. There is no “hierarchy stance” in his work or his attitude. Beautifully unlimited in imagination and wisdom, the combination pushed me back to shore after my canoe capsized. When a poet can offer hands YOU are a gift to this planet, Lance. Heaven would cry if you refused to write.” - Lynnie Bat-Abba/Poet
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