©2021 Michael Raven

hawthorn, hag stone
piercing mists bone
woad & wood
bark tongue, black skin
burrow painted song
eye jaundice i
pricking brier heart burr
aching dark blood heart
rent fetid muscle
burst screaming sinew

in the heavy rain
all cats are grey

3 thoughts on “chant/

  1. It paints a picture, those words. This poem reminds me why I always turn down offers to drink around bonfires with Jeep owning college kids, but I’m glad you’ve found your own shamanic tradition instead of borrowing from my distant ancestors

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m not 100% on the money but they must have spoken a variant of Quechua. I could lie and say that eating tons of mushrooms in my early 20’s was the upwelling of my racial unconscious but it has more to do with deep house and physics-defying baggy jeans.

    I never cashed in on this biographical fact while I was mad for raving but it might have been a good notion. However if I were to strut around as a spiritual teacher I’d choose an identity closer to the American plains , rather than tribes associated with llamas, road building and gay sex in the mountainous airy regions of the Andes.

    Liked by 1 person

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