more than this

is it madness
to want something
more than this?
winter wind whistles
at the keyhole
and the barest ember
of faith flickers
in the night

sunday morning

leaden limbs
and heavy sigh
the bathroom fan
hums away

bowl washed

bowl washed
a candle snuffed
i, too, become night

steam

lace around my wrist
bone around my throat
a kiss in blind shadows
a whale song across
crimson waters
scratching, tap-tapping
window crows laughing
yellow teeth in my pocket
chains around my throat

casting the runes: ᚦᛇᚺ

pricked septic & bled
in barren stone fields
& abandon

scraping bone on bone
strain to push through
outer doors to
hel's hanging garden

for interpretations of each rune, follow this link

runes in this poem:
thurisaz
eihwaz
hagalaz

1001 shadow walked nights

I’ve reached the dubious goal of having posted for 1001 days with minimal interruption (a few days here and there of scheduled posts, but always a post) and in that effort, I averaged close to five public posts a day (based on the simple math that I am a few dozen posts away from 5000 public posts).

Equally dubious is my suggestion that I have some have kind of kindred relationship with Scheherazade. I’ve hardly told that many stories, nor is my life on the line. But it came to mind, is soon to be posted and, well, there you are…

There is no cake. The cake was a lie. A thousand days of writing gets you exactly a thousand days of writing. No more. No less.

But you can virtual cake, in fact. Here’s my gift to you for putting up with so much compost from my fingertips. Let me know if it is as yummy as I mean for it to be:

machine

strain against the machine
grinding on and on and...

we kissed in a weedy alley
and twilight slipped away
to a darkened room
your breast hot in hand
as you held it firm
in swoon

first, ol' one eyed jack
then a queen bloody red
in laughter they fell
to shadows slipstream
drunk on oblivion

and still the grinding
beating at the door
tearing lips from lips
in a slow fade to white

after midnight

gone to dirt they will say
shaking their heads in a
ain't-it-a-damned-shame
kind of way but secretly
pleased they won the game
they all played not knowing
it wasn't a game after all

dancing metal after midnight
a tap dripping in moonlight

slumber

enough to get by
poor in other ways
slumber now, slumber

release

no more broken things
in the dresser drawer
within the secret compartment
where such things reside

all ham-fisted kintsugi
with no gold remaining
to hold the essential
fused

releasing the world
                   to the world
in unseeking clay tiles
the arrows tumble out
from the quiver

Author: michael raven

more than this

Like this:

sunday morning

Like this:

bowl washed

Like this:

steam

Like this:

casting the runes: ᚦᛇᚺ

Like this:

1001 shadow walked nights

Like this:

machine

Like this:

after midnight

Like this:

slumber

Like this:

release

Like this: