Daniel Sheehan is a journalist in eastern Pennsylvania. He has had poems published in First Things, Dappled Things and other journals. A number of his poems have been printed in limited edition illustrated booklets by Prehensile Pencil Publications/New Feral Press of New York.
The saint in her stasis reclined there, Preparing to rise, her handlers made clear, On what bailiffs call the Last Great Day When they swear in the witnesses at court. Wouldn’t it be fine to see it happen In the rainy doldrums of a Thursday, The skies finally parting, not for the sun, But the…
1. Garden Here, he said, we cut a crease In which to set the seed. Tend the roots and I will bless Whatever fruit is made, Whether fig or olive grow To sanctify the air, Magnolia or willow, The leaves of common prayer. Treat them with a touch as mild As children would demand. Earth…
The streetlights flicker, set to hummingLike mosquitoes in the amber nightOf tree frogs and fireworks, unforked lightning,Spine-tickling rivulets of sweat. This is the stuff, I think, this the life I recall from my youth by the ocean, Days of marsh grass and the sun’s gold-leaf,Heinekens, Merits, the soulful motion Of lights across the bay. A couple thereSits…
The sparrow that can fly against such windDeserves a spot in memory’s museum. Likewise the sunbeams on the bedroom blind,Slanted just so, a light preserved from autumn,Intruding its chill upon mid-June.As school lets out for good, I hear the cheeringOver rooftops of the kids at noonSet loose through double doors and spinningLike struck marbles, and…
