There you stand patient raven
liquid-black as molten coal
beside this woman besot and broken
her thoughts black and troubled
arms outstretched in anguish
as she stands ravin’ in the rain
tell me what is true here raven
why is it that you stand here
so rain soaked and deeply sullen
beside this broken woman so bereft
her soul so black and shattered
her heavy heart so full of pain
has her ravin’ called you forth
do you feel kinship in her darkness
is there a faint scent of death
carried on her plaintive breath
she~ so saddened and so downcast
her tangled life a mortal stain
are you here as fateful witness
stalking her dreadful final moments
to bear truth to how she suffers
to watch her wrap her fractured life
perhaps feast upon her forfeit body
this mournful soul so sad insane
she~ now but carrion for a crow?
her love is taken
by a mutant strain
her mind is broken
her life’s in vain
this sad girl cryin’
need not explain
I want to celebrate that we can dream. That we can see what is not there, but should be, and make it so. I want to celebrate that we can create a thing of art, simply bring into the world something beautiful, that wasn’t there before — and in being there, enriches lives.
I want to celebrate that we can conceive and contrive something that makes some important thing possible — where possibility did not exist, and the making possible elevates the quality of life.
I want to celebrate the human mind, the human spirit, and the human ability to believe — not because we always go there by logic, but rather we frequently go there by belief alone, and once there, prove the logic of the belief. And the belief can uplift and cure.
I want to celebrate the human spirit that says all things are possible — and sooner, not later! I want to celebrate that art and science are the self same journey to creation — that which improves lives both practically and spiritually. This world must celebrate both from a place of profound gratitude and pinnacle pride.
And the writers and lyricists, those that can employ simple language or song, to proclaim the profound, and easily take us there, to experience the inconceivable, to move us, to fill our lives with worth, with courage, bold thinking, and joy, and laughter, and tears, and learning — to squash the tyranny of conformity, to make us more intelligent free thinkers, and more whole … this I celebrate!
hands of creation
joined in possibility
make our miracles
crow — you are free, giving thanks for your feathers, and hollow bones,
I have neither and I cannot escape gravity
so bird, fly for us both — my heart will soar with you
Yellow dirt near the walls
where curious crows carous
they caw caw caw as they creep
then fly to gingko tree boughs
the Qin river girl is creating
beautiful brocade with her loom
the emerald yarn is mist like
the crow’s shriek hits like a fist strike
abruptly, she stops the shuttle
and sadly thinks of her long lost love
she is lonely here in her room
her tears like the rainy gloom
but alas I see you crow
in the carrion half-light
of this midnight caisson
up to which you creep
this funeral hearse
where my world
does sleep
as you cluster
with your murder
in this chilling rain
to defile the entity
drawn in this caisson
I celebrate
that you cannot
the living presence it bore
is greater than you
your gluttonness lust
might pick the meat clean
pick the bones dry
but the soul it carried
has gone its bye
yes — this being
has lived well beyond this muscle
beyond this sinew tendon and bone
these were its limits
now it is gone
now it is set free
so help yourself brother crow
sister raven
birds of black
help yourself
the spirit here
will not be back
this essence has gone beyond
far beyond
to become infinite
pure thought
unbound energy
completely free
what you pick apart
is the afterimage
of a mortal
now eternal
so take your fill crow
have your way raven
fat black bird — do your best
engorge the inglorious
the rest has left
then be gone
scatter
and far off
this caisson
has delivered its miracle
and still she mourns
she is lonely here in her room
still her tears just like the rainy gloom
As this year of 2021 closes, I would like to say thank you to all who visit my blog, I greatly appreciate you. And a very special thank you to all in this online writer’s community of dVerse. You are not only wonderful writers, you are also kind and generous of spirit. You’ve given this grumpy old man both joy and inspiration.
To those who found my writing enjoyable, I am pleased, that is my general intention. To those I have angered, my apologies, it was not my intention — usually. To those of you who may think I am crazy, you may well be correct, and I may in fact agree with you. To those I have made think, well, that was probably accidental. To those I have made laugh or cry, most likely also an accident. If I have made you feel, that was simply me returning the favor.
The happiest of holidays to everyone, and may the new year be a blessing for us all. I hope to be with all of you again in 2022.
My Blessings
pine boughs sparkling
yule log crackling
full hearts brimming
drawn close this night
ribbons
on bright papers
gifts bestowed
one at a time
round and round
the kindred circle
celebrating
unveiled affections
joy
love
and cheerful laughter
precious times with family
Solstice Blessing
soon we cross the solstice night
the final dying of the light
as the old year quickly wanes
seasons will circle back again
light will overtake the dark
sun shifts the journey of its arc
each new day’s light longer burns
we’ll give thanks as light returns
life’s cycles will reprise
as a new year does arrise
may the power of light’s rebirth
bring you blessings of the earth
Totally gone — I am I’m sure
and I doubt that there’s a cure
from this fever of sweetest bliss
for that wasn’t simply just a kiss
will I ever waken I cannot tell
I’m caught up in your heavenly spell
this is magic — more than what it seems
I’m lost deep in a lover’s dreams
if I’m asleep then it’s just fine
these sweet dreams are quite divine
my angel baby here’s a wish I make wooo…ooo baby — let me not awake
my golden slumbers do not forsake
As you read this Christmas poem, with its taste of bittersweetness, see it not in a dark light — embrace it as a tale of a long-awaited journey, to be with the one beloved.
B rushed my shoulder on this morning’s train
then at the market it was there again
while in line to get my breakfast tea
from our favorite table it beckoned me
in the crowd at the festive mall
glimpsed like a flicker of candle light
I swear I saw it fleeting fall
upon the gifts I did not wrap this night
upon the tree I did not decorate
the greeting cards I did not write
in frail voice I chastise fate
singing carols doesn’t feel right
this season I see it everywhere
the shadow of your love
elusive as a shopper’s smile
caught up in the crush and shove
but soon I’ll catch and hold it close
warmly to my breast
it will sweetly fill my heart
lay soft with me this midnight rest
for it returns this night each year
the same night you went away
in dreams you kiss away each tear
touch my lips that beg you stay
taken from my life in sleep
gone without a last goodbye
as we dreamed at midnight deep
each year I weep and wonder why
but this year I’ll not awaken blue
in the end an easy thing to do
this night I’ll make our dreams come true
this midnight deep I will come to you
Abandoned to an orphanage at birth, I could have been these children.
But the hand of fate, in the form of a loving adoptive couple, saved me.
Abandoned before you here
two desperate needy children
clad in the colors and worries
of their brutal lives
torn shirts
of melancholia’s hues
buttoned in the black of loss
the jackets of pain
are sorrowful blue
threadbare
wrinkled
dirty
the pants are tattered
in shades of despair
belted in the stretched leather
of struggle
buckled in the deep-scarred burnish
of hard knowing
faded and patched
seams unraveling
strained with strife
they are deeply stained
with anguished tears
and the unseen blood red
of raw violence
of heartbreak
shoes scuffed with fears
laces broken
or knotted with regret
roughcut
by the blade of burden
these are the fabrics
of their lives
blended in the palette
that defines sorrow’s essence
by these colors
and textures
you know them
raggedly sewn
with woeful tales
profoundly moved
I dress in their stories
patterned and purple
as night terrors
This line, “I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night”, from Kimberly’s Blaeser’s poem, “When We Sing of Might”, is incorporated in my piece.
