Fantasy Tales By Sharonlee Goodhand – SIRIDEÁN SÚILEABHÁN – Dark Eyed Searcher

For serious poetic fantasy lovers…

Feed Your Soul & Free Your Spirit


By Sharonlee Goodhand


Legend has it that she with the crystal ball

will come with all the answers…

she, sorceress of southern climes

the Dark Eyed Searcher

and so the seers  plot by season & stars

the time of her arrival…

the people wait and tend their roles

and whisper prayers… soon… please come soon

Sirideán Súileabhán sorceress of our salvation…

 It is said, that Sirideán reads signs like no other

that her travels in realms unreachable have harvested much wisdom…

Sirideán is the sorceress all sibyls go to for guidance

the sultry Dark Eyed Searcher that all wizards & magi

secretly lust after on moonlit nights …

the one Earthly woman all gods yearn to own…

But it is also said the dark-eyed Sirideán

walks heaven and earth & cosmos alone… a solitary candle in the darkest of nights;

her obsidian eyes…

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The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Thoughts

The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Thoughts


Words moved through her

imaginings reaching another climax

secrets whispering in her silences…


… life moments

cocooning mysterious vibrations

weaving throbbing passing through the story’s flow


how much is real and how much


trembling expectations and dreams of

personal nirvana

spiritual enlightenment –

or simply imaginings


Mists from ages hold silent pauses … listen

to whispers reaching

in and in and in,

stirring deep places

long sleeping … where dwelt 

familiar words unspoken;


Art & Poetry – SharonleeGoodhand©29 August 2016






Particles cling

peripheral vison

            see’s unseen shadows


saw new horizons

    over the

       machinery of cities

       lost connections to

the moors…

         where the bracken fern, an

        unwitting witness 

     of supernatural darkness

 flying on Earth with a whisper of night,

      and songs of

      cities contemplating       

the burning fire…

– smog hisses thick




laden with grit

stops the flight of wings,


saw –



contemplating the machinery of


 wingless, I saw myself

    standing in a

    dimly lit vacuum 

unable to reach the essence

Of Time…


glossy black


wings clipped by

            social structure

I saw myself standing

in chilling limbo

  –  the Doors to silence

beyond my reach …


   I saw new horizons

    over the

       machinery of cities

       lost connections to

the moors…

forever hovering

on the threshold of flight

nothing more than a caged bird.



Rhythms of Retrospect



She was eighteen

a country girl, child of the wilderness

stagnating in the vapid blandness of suburbia

breathless, suffocating in rancid air

that hung as an unseen cloud of industrialized miasma…

… rooftop obscured rooftop, a sea of sharp corners

jostling for juxtaposition, with no room to breathe;

She walked in pseudo silence, rising in early morning grey

milkless coffee forgotten as she listens to the radio

… fall of Cambodian capital Phnom Penh

collapse of Pol Pot’s savage regime –

– and on with the weather, and

Earth, Wind and Fire’s latest

After the Love Has Gone;

Suburban streets doze as she greets the day

intercity train clattering past as humanity

scratches and yawns

tuning in to Sammy Sparrow and O’Callaghan

2UE breakfast show at its best…

… breakfast scents permeate the air

eggs and toast-

– but the suburban street is almost empty

a gentleman smoking by his gate

his dog, of indiscernible breeding

claims first place at a thin sad tree…

a jogger swings wide, arching around

a parked delivery van

as she makes her way to the train station;

Littered platform, windswept and barren

– a reveler left over from Sunday Night Sessions

sleeps it off on a shadowed bench…

… other early risers scattered along platform 1

waiting for the city train

entrenched in an everyday routine

there seemed no escaping…

… from somewhere comes the tinny sounds

of a transistor radio,

Shah leaves Iran after a year of turmoil

weather update

and, Electric Light Orchestra

Don’t Bring Me Down…

… too late, she thought

this suburban coffin has done that already;

The train clanks

through backyards and blue-collar sweatshops

past a hundred empty churches and a score of empty schools

micro-communities, suburbia and the mills they toil in

animations of living, encapsulated

beneath a dome of shiftless stale air…

… passing through industrialized mayhem with a rattle and clang

before hissing to a stop beneath the waking city-

– fluorescent lighting hums, blinking out a hidden message to

a boy with a guitar, playing for coins under a yellowed poster

extolling the benefits of milk to a child’s development;

Nexus of city platforms purging the flow of humanity

onto city streets… sudden daylight superimposed on

the blurred reality of rattling trains and underground tunnels…

She wore shades of purple violet blue

flowing layers in silks and hippie cheesecloth

her feet rang with bells at every step

hair flying like ribbons on a maypole –

– she knew she didn’t fit in here anymore than mundane ‘burbs

a flowing cloud of indigo streaming through business suits

and miniskirts… boutique owners on 7 inch heels

she passed them by as if they couldn’t see her

as if she couldn’t see them;

At the far end she stopped at a coffee vender

– large extra shot extra sweet

she strolled into the city park

patrolling for a bench beneath a tree…

… a church group sat by the water

bible debate in full swing

on the steps of the gazebo two lads

in animated discussion- a Mad Max religion was born;


She was eighteen

child of the wilderness

looking for trees in animations of city shadows.




On Nights like This – Art & Poetry

Connection 3way photo manip flipped and merged mll slg

Breathing Deep, Delving Deep

Reality of thought takes hold, cinematic visions glow

tuxedo crow in poetic flow, the melody begins to grow

Sentinels of the passage of Time

trees of wisdom and ancient rhyme

she walks within their tireless embrace

medicated is she, by their forest grace

Stargazer smll

Soothed by winter-fragrant breeze

in silence she walks with measured ease

thoughts unfold in cosmic scenes

Earth Energy, muse for her dreams


Breathing deep, delving deep

lingering in jade puddles where shadows sleep

whispering Wilga Willow gently sweeps

fallen leaves into wind-blown heaps…

Starry Starry Night

Reality of thought takes hold, cinematic visions glow

tuxedo crow in poetic flow, the melody begins to grow

Breathing deep, delving deep

She explores hidden spaces in her mind

inner galaxies giving birth

to epiphanies of grand design.




All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16

Wondermazium – Digital Imagery – Life Before Man…

Life Before Man…

… in a time steeped in mystery

                primordial matter evolved

                                eyes, limbs, feathers fur or scale

From  primeval beginnings, Microscopic organisms

gave birth to the theory of evolution;


All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16

From Primordial Clay







SeaLife 001 small slg


SeaLife 004 small slg

All Art and Poetic Thoughts Copyright

Sharonlee Goodhand©31-Mar-16



When Sleep is Foreign



There is a more to me than simply my spoken words

more than the rhymes that spill and spin onto a page…

… there is more to me than what you see;


Thoughts run deep in those hours when sleep is foreign

and minutes tick deafeningly into the seething silence…

… contemplations race helter skelter into chaos

night breathes heavy in the echo between unheard sighs

where remnants of wistful melancholy breed moments of desolation …


Is this life

these days that stretch and tumble and drag into yesterdays lived

but not breathed, as one might breathe in the very essence of communion –

lived, without soul connection and spiritual union, the synergy of

souls joined, connected through mutual understanding of love

and what love is…


Reality stares out from a two faced mirror, trading looks with destiny

and caught between the two… I hold together what’s left of me

for there is a more to me than simply my spoken words

more than the rhymes that spill and spin onto a page…


… somewhere a heart beats in time with mine

I hear the steady pulse in the echo of my soul

the sweet rhythm of their breathing

rocks me to sleep at night

and if it is meant to be, that we never find each other in this life

perhaps… perhaps we will come together


– in our next.


Poetry & Art SharonleeGoodhand©