Old Raven

Artist Les Herman

fineartamerica.com

Raven is sitting on top

of my monitor,

looking at me with grave prescience.

What can you tell me,

of my dreams,

Old Raven?

Raven busily rustles her wings,

puts on her pointy glasses,

points with a feathered wing:

Listen up!

Raven,

with your gobble-cry,

you summon me to 

shake off this torpid darkness.

With your pointy wing,

you indicate Up and Out,

a change in my Being,

whether I stand in place

or pack my bags.

Raven thumbs through 

a Book of Possibles,

none of which have any connection

to my current reality.

Thumb, thumb, thumb,

an upward look at me,

assessing my readiness

for each eventuality.

She stops at a given page.

This is the one -

the answer that I need 

and fear to hear.

I light sweetgrass 

in the abalone shell.

I waft the smoke skywards, 

earthwards,

and to all the Four Directions.

Our eyes meet.

She awaits my question.

Raven,

on the smoke of my lit prayers,

hear my plea:

lift me over the mountains

to walk once more 

beside the sea.

Raven looks down,

beak pursed.

I do not hear her answer,

so I know it is

not time.

Perhaps it is time

to find

another question?

This was sparked by Elizabeth Crawford's wonderful poem Dialogue With My Dragon. A Raven visited me this morning and I knew she had something to say, I had something to ask. Thus this poem. But still no answers. One is on the way though. I am certain of it.