judges/

©2021 Michael Raven

is it madness to
merge with the wind,
to howl with the moon?
to cry alive the sky?

are threads woven
a flawed cloth song,
do these wefts break warp?
that thread spun
since time was born?

all you judges, beware:
for each stare
may draw stones cast
slow slung and drunken
back to the fist
from which they were borne
for blood washes blood
and clever cuts thrust
are cain-marked
blades in exchange
Photo by Alina Vilchenko on Pexels.com

good night, though/

©2021 Michael Raven

in the shadowlands
and their loathsome lonely
i talk to ghosts who
with nothing much to say
they nod and murmur
grow distant, fade
away away away
their talk, idle stuff
small talk soliloquy
lacking depth, substance
phantom words from
phantom mouths
and, like the ash in the plains
weightless, choking
and tastelessly crisp
lost paper dolls
at the forever party
doldrum
Photo by Alyona Stafeeva on Pexels.com

at the ford/

©2021 Michael Raven

lacuna
the dark soul space
a night sit silence
filled with bruises
blood-red wine
and broken
stem glasses crystal

[the hum of the freeway traffic
a mile or so away
carried by the humidity]

these cuts are mine
washed in water
with the stream rags
cailleach in her
cackles craving
points her bone and
a'scrying
predicts the time of...