of red barns and canal water
she sat in a red barn, on the velvet sofa,
quite comfortable in her
forgotten world
wiped the perspiration from the nape of
her neck
sipped the sweet tea like she sipped
a kiss
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
her cigarette
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...
the myths woven by us
reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned
invented stories come out of our yawning abyss,
from our minds, half asleep
the fluid movement of our words moves with
unnerving ease, like wet
paint dripping off a 'wet paint' sign
we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle
we play out of tune like evaporated milk,
yet we drink it
we play with others then toss them aside
like glued labels on old sneakers,
to them, can't have the pain without
the pleasure
we look out of the corner of our eye
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs
we believe there is a light inside us
surrounded by four stones,
the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,
yet we weave the myths
with a needle
and invisible thread,
but that's like sewing a bullet into a revolver,
once the shot is fired, the damage is done
we have disclosed ourselves like
water has disclosed
itself to a crack in a dam
and then we try to put the water into
a single cup and offer it
to someone who's drowned
we prey on other's weaknesses
like dust preys on a drought;
feathers once filled a small room,
paid a penalty for participating
in child's play
feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,
much like myths woven
by them at
some time in the future
when they realize their dreams can't be touched,
much like the feathers
much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips...
Lance Sheridan is an author and published poet. His work has been called "stunning"; "such depth, an amazing imagination." He has been interviewed by a Salisbury University Journalism major. His writing partner Barbara Sutton is a published poet. What others have said about their writing, "you send the reader on a journey through his own soul"; "symbolically thought provoking" and, "the imagery is amazing."
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