Ted Sheridan Poems

A man of fifty years or better
Approaches the porcelain bowl
Looks down to see his feet
He must now lean forward at such extreme
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His mind has become a violent storm
where thoughts collide like wind driven rain
and major flashes of brilliance are foretold
by the loud thunderous sound of his rage___
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A writer is a person who can create
masterful brushstrokes of painted words
and combine them with delusional illusions
all of which are the direct and administered result
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The fall air lightened by lower humidity and a genuinely stiff breeze
Actually provided me with some comfortable moments for a change
The summer sun had been extremely hot and perhaps has contributed
To my overall mood being a tad more depressed than need be
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Well studied in religion, philosophy and attempted suicide
He has finally after years decided all three are useless to him
He'd rather kill or be killed than die by his own hand
Or that of a major pharmaceuticals company
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Dearest Daddy….the message said
I’ll be over to get my things on Saturday
We’ve found a house and we are moving in
So open the door when we knock
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You poor pitiful and apparently sick man
Bloated like an expired sales date on a roll of pork sausage
Logic would tell you that your time is drawing near
What with that oozing sore on the top of your head
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Sanctioned by her own conscious she harbors her resentment
In the dirty panties and crusted socks she sleeps in each night
They comfort her in her misery and provide another excuse
To curse God for painful truths she feels he bestows on her alone
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Since when did everyone in this friggin’ televised world of ours
Decide they could endear themselves to the rest of us ordinary people
By picking up a large coffee mug
Complete with some fancy logo imprinted on the face of it
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He grew up wanting to be a hobo and ride the trains
With names like the Powhatan and the Pocahontas
The old trains provided a familiarity to his dreams
The click clacking sounds of steel meeting steel
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