©2022 Michael Raven

watching this undulation
of the forest canopy
the wind's hard caress
my back on red earth
roots uncomfortable
on my spine
wondering if you ever
dream this scene


©2022 Michael Raven

scratch scratch scratch
scribble schrimmle
scrumble rumble
scrat --


can you grasp the whiskers
of a tiger under your lap?

scrimble crumple scratch

Conversations about an idiot.

©2022 Michael Raven

I woke during the Bradbury hour of 3am. I could see tree swaying in the wind and the streetlight gloam. Rain tapped against the roof, maybe the honey locus branches.

Maybe I was just uncomfortably warm. I don’t know. I have always run hot and the ceiling fan was set low. Or maybe dreams. I’ve been having the lucid type again, although I often only have fragments remaining that evaporate when I wake. Empty buildings, dense forests, my grandparent’s old home. That house on the block I grew up on that never existed, that often plays a role when it isn’t parking lots or ramps or the other things.

Continue reading “Conversations about an idiot.”

mushin || day 151: actual 実際

©2022 Michael Raven

too much time
debating the intrinsic
everything is relative
nothing is real

This series of writing explorations that I call mushin are an attempt to grasp the concept of mushin no shin (mind without mind, 無心の心, often shortened to mushin, or “no-mind”). I am using prompts from 365 Tao, largely because they are Zen and Tao themes for meditation (which suits this exploration), not as an endorsement for the book from which they are derived. The daily prompts can be found in this table. Anyone wishing to participate is welcome to do so, either post your own response to the prompt below or post a link to your response in the comments.


©2022 Michael Raven

my face hurts
smile painted
fractured facets
sea sun blinding
i walk out on
the beach with
a heavy hand
towards the
shimmering Glass
steel determination

some alchemy

©2022 Michael Raven

I asked the world under for some thoughts. They came,


There, the iridescent black feather falls over water. I catch it in my hand and brandish it like a cape, tossing it over my shoulders. I am shadow within the the dawn, looking out. Whispers around. One who sees, there is a calling under the doorway stone standing, beckoning with slender arms, thin fingers, olive skin. Follow me. Blackthorn hand, a balance. Slip obsidian, sharp in hand.


Striding forth, there is ash, white at my knee and two gold eyes staring back at me. I’m back! I’m back! they say. I smile, ducking under weathered rock, pretending there is sleep in my eye as I wipe away a tear. “That, I can see, stolen child.” Twining between, long drawn caress, firm embrace. We will celebrate, you and me, and I nod. “Soon. Soon,” I agree. I will push you down, you will see.


Melting skies burning fields; this is not the forest. Recognizing nothing, I follow paths under, between root, under the tree. Did you not see the signs? Of course you did, but you never see the first. Guilty, I admit, as charged. It took me five years to see the signs screaming in my eyes. This took thirty, interrupting my thoughts. I almost gave up. I promise to make amends later, but the light draws me along the path, beckoning, burning bright.


Ocean blue under blood red moons. I hear song from the before, simple stuff. I look around, in wonder, seeing cliff and rock and a storm coming in from over the waters. I turn to go back underground, wrong turns maybe made. Laughter, arms embrace I cannot break. A kiss and warm lips under my ear. Good. You came. A tug and then falling backwards into the waves, drowning with arms tangled around me. Sinking.