Point of Eden

A visceral look at modern urban poverty – with more than an echo of Dickens’ London.

Lance Sheridan

Enter the cold no ones land of alone
A void stamped out with the aftertaste
of a funeral
Where a pulse rising from the grip of a knife
utters a name
Where the waking from a six o’clock
alarm clock is
rubbished into a draggled alley.

Of broken lives and sweaty faces contorting
like fingers on
a twisted sheet in a bad dream
Where a landlord dwindles back rent into a dirty
laundry bag
Trailing his four letter words through dim light
and sickly coughs-
Upraises a finger like a joint between two worlds.

A ghetto by the tracks where death, on pin-legs,
sentries, his utterances
Ungodly like a wakened head; chattering train
with white noses exhaling
Down into the gizzard of the city’s guts-
point of Eden
Render no share to those thick in poverty, to
those who lose by merely waking up.

Copyright © 03/22/17 lance sheridan®

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On female friends

They jump into your chaos 
Unperturbed

By the dense mesh your cage

Of invisible barbs presents;

Built through years of to and fro,

Up and down against

The same cold fence.

Pushed on again

And always again

By that needle voice

Shaped of myelin and synapse,

Amplified by experience

On repeat.

‘Walkies!’ it cries and back you went,

Pavlovian, obedient,

To dangled collar and lead

Gathering more spurs to weave

Your own briar thicket.

No faerie curse is here princess,

You’re your own cruel gaoler,

Architect of mess.

But they come on crooked wings-

Tattered feathers stained

By blood and wine and pain-

Stronger for beating against

The rules they give the bird to.

Battle-drunk they come, striding through

The tangles in which princes flounder.

And laughter, the defiant screech

Of fearsome ravens, furious owls,

Fills and warms the dusty halls

Of your imprisoned heart.

Little Fears blog

Not poetry perhaps in the strictest sense but I thoroughly enjoy these deceptively simple little short comic fictions at Little Fears blog – the punning talent is prodigious! 😄 The naive drawings of the other-worldly characters resemble a child’s doodle cartoons but I find them haunting and they draw me in. Inbelieve there’s is a linked shop and when I ever make some money I shall visit. In the meantime take a look.

 

“Sorry to hear that, Pterodactyl” said Yuffie. “What’s up?” asked Fuen. “I just told my man I was leaving him because of his ‘Who Wants To Be a Millionaire’ obsession,” grumbled Pterodactyl. “Oh dear,” said Fuen. “What did he say?” Pterodactyl sighed. “Is that your final answer?”

via Bird — Little Fears

Commandments

A resonant and beautiful reminder to tune into the light and peace at the heart of things by Roger at rabbitlaneutah.com

Rabbit Lane

In our lives, in this world, so much of what we hear screams at us; so much of what we see strains the eye; so much stimulus overwhelms our senses.  So how do we sense the sublime? How do we discern the quintessential?  Beauty and ugliness both surround us.  To see beauty despite what is ugly requires both a choice to see, and a belief that beauty is there to be seen. For a moment, put aside religion, God, spirituality, and morality–and trust that intrinsic beauty and goodness are real.  That is when you will see.  My poem “Commandments” points at the difficulty of having faith in goodness, of sensing the sublime, of believing in beauty, touches on the straining effort faith requires, but affirms the reality and virtue of light, goodness, beauty, and sublimity, and their power to eclipse evil.

COMMANDMENTS

Of you
I require
to hear Wren’s peep

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Night Watch

Slumber-dark, the room inhales, exhales,

with the shifting focus of my myopia,

to the breathing rhythm of your body-heap.

I scan the watching shadows

that see bland day-lit domestic detritus

turned to hood-cloaked guardians

of midnight’s unfamiliar realm.

I also watch.

The unblinking snake would envy

the piercing intent of my study

of your head’s side. Skin-lids shudder

as your eyes twitch and roll in pursuit

or retreat in the dreams racing

through your Tardis mind; that universe

of memories, lusts, imaginings, clustered

compactly inside that adored box of bone.

Peering at your ear,

I will myself tiny as the flea,

so to boldly journey

past embryo-curled exterior structure,

through the winding, narrowing dark

that leads perhaps,

towards the flickering kingdom

I could never dream to map.

~Polly Oliver (2017)