The Ravens Are Back
(a sestina)
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.”
Songlines
Floyd the Rabbit sits
still
where dreams spun
between trees
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.
Floyd asks:
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.
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCx1dH7vxwIljVxPd8fs_9xQ
Blog: https://lgrevel.wordpress.com/
Website: http://lgrevel.org/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/LauraGrevel/
FB: https://www.facebook.com/LauraHGrevel
Laura gives the reader much to think about; the owl who doesn't need to impress anyone, to the dancing dragonfly. I enjoyed reading her delightful poems!
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