Who Caught Whom...A Shameless Plug For Mr. Wiffle Lures
I used to go fishing everyday....
well practically everyday....
Me and my buddy Jeff
would fish either day or night
Everyday....weather permitting
As a manufacturer of fishing lures
it was my job to fish....
But Jeff grew old...too old to cast a line
and I was poisoned when mistaken for a rat....
and lost my sea legs...
So now I am landlocked to a desk
Yet still.....even today....
I have people write or call me
and ask me for our lures....
'Which Mr. Wiffle works the best? '
they always ask....
'What is your favorite color? '
'Do you like the White with Red tail
or prefer like I do the White with Red head?
Or does it really matter...I mean they all work? '
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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Some Animals are Easier Trained Than Others, and Some Just Have a Need to Feed
My desires are unfulfilled
I cannot possibly eat or drink enough
To fill the void created by what
They have bled from me
They have taken all
Leaving only passion and that passion
My passion
Is heating my body
Like coals in a furnace it burns
Fiery and Hot
But my ductwork is blocked
Not venting at all...
Never releasing it's tremendous power and need
To feed on a victim
Or a love
Like you
I stay caged by the restraints of distance and time
To the walls of this room or the sides of my car
As I linger and ride
'Hell' struggle through my thoughts
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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Nightmare On A Dead End Path To Hell
I don’t have an honest inclination to reflect
On why I am not now or have never been
A part of the whole picture thingamajig
Or why every wildflower under the sun has conceded
To the superiority of the ramble weeds
That they of the many varieties have been forsaken, over all others
And the brambles should then reign the more powerful seed
Being carried by the winds and birds to the ends of the earth
That hellish thorns and twisted vines of overgrowth should
Block the blessed path to Man's epiphany
Of being crowned the chosen one at length
It is that we must now take and trek the hard cold truth
Remembered to all the Angels as mere mortals
Mortals who have tasted the forbidden fruit
From the hand of our own former rib
And who without a guitar or harmonica reed properly tuned
In the key of C
We are just so many weak men worn from the rock of ages
Nothing more than simple grains of sands so to speak
Or just so many men as Dylan said who are trying in vain...
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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Pigeons Aren't the Only Obstructionist
The whiskers on my face
are spreading vicious
rumors after five
'bout the obvious ejection
and possible retirement
of my razor to the back
of a dirty and crud filled tub
-the kitchen table is
feeling a bit melancholy
with empty whiskey bottles
lined up in the apparent
chronological order
of their alcoholic demise
while according to the proof
listed on their
peeled off labels
they seem to be discussing
the lack of any formal
seating arrangements
for this evening's
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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The Genius Of Being A Dumb Animal (like a horse for instance)
The precocious interrupted patterns
of his thick tongued speech
are a direct result of the broken dialects
he had been learned at home.(the master not the horse)
His loving mother and laboring father,
both of whom were legal immigrants,
had walked out of eastern Europe,
and yet only briefly had stepped outside
of their existentialist dreams,
when they conceived the likes of him.
'Son, we want you to hurt like we do.'
they both would radically repeat
to their impressionable boy.....over and over,
as they washed behind his balls and ears.
And so it was that at a very young age
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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