The Ravens Are Back
The ravens are back, much closer, talking constantly
to the huge owl who perches on the post by the road.
No one knows where he lives, he won’t say,
as he sits ice still and stares backward through the Moon
of the Morning that Floyd the Rabbit scorned
to salute on his way from Blueberry Patch
to Forest, thump thumping his remarks that patch
over his shortcomings and short temper that constantly
run Wes Weasel down through the scorned
weeds by the barn and drag him on down the rocky road
to a meeting with Cassandra the Snake, Queen of the Moon,
who says she has grown old hearing what these boys say.
“You rabbits and weasels ought to stay out of offices, and not say
what’s on your minds in this country. There’s no room for a patch
of lawsuits like this, and I’d rather move to the moon
than to hear the bickering. And those ravens constantly
chattering and the owl sitting still, down that there road,
ain’t helping nohow. And where is Libella? Has she scorned
us here in these hills of slanted hopes? Where is that Moon
of Dragon Flies, that elegant soar-about who will say
what she wants, hovers, reversing, forwarding above the road
of our hearts, playing gayly, humming quietly in the patch of time
that begins evening, her flight a song that constantly
calls to the Bats of Night, as they dance to the moon
under the Milky Way, while I, queen of my moon,
am left to sort the salt from the wheat from the chaff scorned
by those who spend their hours flittering and constantly
dancing to the sway of the lighter beams of life, and say
nothing to those who cause consternation, requiring a patch
of decency, and calling all to come together on the Road
To Recovery, a road that is long and brambly and bumpy, a road
that leads to beatings and blood and trumpets, to call the Moon
of Chance, of synchronicity, that orchid’s song, that Gentian patch
of sound that proclaims a name of good that is scorned
by the suspicious populace, whose indecision will say
no to what the ravens call the confusion of constantly
complaining about the road of life gone awry that constantly
speaks to us wildly in moon beams of pale meaning to say
that we are meant to learn in patches, not to grieve the path we scorned.”
Floyd the Rabbit sits still
where dreams spun
shimmer with ravens
waiting for songs sung late.
Floyd is waiting for time
to say the word
to turn the world not too late
to share baked dreams
that cool crusted leaves
dripping butter names from trees.
Floyd speaks to trees
that stand against time
sent to tell who leaves
while others sit still
among the branches.
Have you heard the Owl’s last meal,
dropped by bleeding trees
dram by dram from dreams?
Have you tasted blood’s own time
raining salt that burns like stillness
when your songline ends?
Goddess of Beaver Lagoon
The beaver knew who she was
when she rode up on her bike.
It was the gloves she wore,
showed her power,
their greenness redolent of spruce.
The beaver waited for that spruce-iness
then swam steadily with nostrils above water.
He didn’t care about men,
ignored their electric fences,
sterile mown edges, attempts to build cities.
Here was the one who counted,
for whom he spent months cutting down trees,
planning and constructing dams, flooding forests, waiting,
til she sped down the hill, the greenness preceding her, as her steely eye
reviewed the standing copse of dead birch, ghostly grey, tops bare and broken,
the piled wreckage in two creeks, stuffed with tree limbs and swamp grasses,
causing the bodies-of-waters-held-back to reflect the sky perfectly in the
stillness of the lagoon itself.
All progress stopped.
She took off her gloves,
greenness preceding and threw them in,
her donation to his dam pride.
Laura Grevel is a performance poet, fiction writer and blogger. Originally from Texas, she has lived in European for 22 years. Her written work is eclectic, tackling the immigrant experience, storytelling, nature, politics, and even grackle squawks. In recent years, she has been published in Hear Her Speak, Unlatched Podcast, Poetry and Covid, Fevers of the Mind, WORD!, Poets Against Racism USA, Poetry and Settled Status For All, OpenDoor Magazine, DIY Poetry Zine, wildfire words, Dreich, Steel Jackdaw, The Melting Pot – a mental health anthology, American Graveyard – calls to end gun violence, and MORIA. In addition, collaborating with two poet friends, she has a pamphlet out called Crone Chronicles. Laura can often be found live online on international poetry Zoom Open Mics. Her poetry performances can be viewed on her YouTube channel, including a collaborative video called “Girl Walking Across Europe” by Poets for Refugees, created as an act of welcome.