©2023 michael raven
everything pain
i surrender and
try to fade away
words | spirit
©2023 michael raven
everything pain
i surrender and
try to fade away
©2023 michael raven
a curmudgeon
without a
sense of humor
is no fun at all
It might just be me… But I’ve found that I have no taste for angry online rants anymore. Even my own rants feel tiresome, which is why I’ve trended away from launching into one whenever something piques my ire.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally partake, but I feel that same tiredness when I reread what my spleen has vented.
Then, again… Most things make me feel tired these days. Except when it makes me laugh. Absurdity and satire make curmudgeonly monologues, not to mention other experiences, notably less tiresome for me.
I don’t know what I’m getting at here. Just mental stew splashing out of a leaky pot.
Take care and enjoy your day or night, whichever it might be when you read this.
©2023 michael raven
calling north
gutpull drawing
& drift snow
a tangled tug
flowing towards
blackened stone
at water on edge
bone & bloodsong
carving scrimshaw
into raw arms
wrapped in
burning cold
©2023 michael raven
earth mother black underwhite scraping lichen-on-stone blood for journeys food for bone move as the winter drift ever on
for interpretations of each rune, follow this link runes in this poem: berkana fehu raido
The day you left me, left me feeling oh so bad Baby, I'm not sure about all the doubts we had From the beginning we both knew it wouldn't last Decisions have been made, the die has been cast And I- I don't want to know if you are lonely
©2023 michael raven
warpaint stained beforestorm rumbling grey roiling & boiling aching heart-throb battering empty shell drained .exsanguinate. wraith fluttering against the wallcloud come lips blood copper biting rain
©2023 michael raven
dragging myself behind myself dropping away blood of rust all crumble, corrosion, decay
©2023 michael raven
to slumber
to wade forgetful
rivers underearth
with two coins
for the ferryman
in hand, copper
tokens to carry
me carry me home
©2023 michael raven
guerrilla poetry at broadway safeway thursday nights fliers you cannot refuse handed out to everyone everyone while a raven preaches to the flock shopping for something tasty on the side
Note: In 1995, I was living in Seattle and somehow got put in charge of a spoken word night at a downtown café. One of our tactics for getting people to come was to do theatrical, “guerilla” poetry at local stores where we thought we might have a future audience. In and out in less than a minute (or we’d be thrown out by the management, or police), handing out 8th-of-a-cardstock-page cards listing times and dates of the next “salon” while one or more of us shouted out poetry. Safeway on Broadway (it might have been a different store name, time does funny things to the memory) was one of those locations least likely to call the cops on us, so they bore the brunt of our antics. I did some window shopping, but I never tried to pick anyone up at those events. This picture reminded me of a more fantastic imaginings of possible outcomes that never came to be.
©2023 michael raven
be the record shop treasure as i flip through and through click clack click clack the cd case racket wishing on that music well for something different to the ear, mouth moving silent to words jotted down a glimpse inside that head, mouth uncomfortable at the shapes it makes while the click clack click clack ratchets through the room
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