I stumbled upon it—
this ruin, veiled in ivy,
its ribs of stone strangled
by nature’s lace.

A withered door hangs
on one iron thread—
the last breath of smiths
dressed in oxide.

Fractured silence beckons
childish will to explore.
Danger wrapped in lichen,
blight decays the frame.

Dense fog dulls the raven’s
black wings—set the tone.
Moss-laden windows,
sinew stripped from bone.

To be continued....

By Darren Wall

A black raven soars up high,
Bringing hope across the sky.
It sees the world with shining eyes,
And whispers dreams that never die.

A darker crow, with doubts so deep,
Believes that darkness is all to keep.
But the other flies on, free and bright,
Reminding us of love’s true light.

One sees the night, the other the day,
Together they carry hope on their way.
Even dark and wise ravens teach us how,
To see the world with open hearts now.

Not even Black
***** brownish grey
with wings that do not fly
only good to cover his eyes
discarded by rejection
he only comes out at night
on crinkly legs
walking by  the riverside
the trees nod for they do not care
in the park
pretty women meander at dusk
no one will see him
no one will bother
there will be someone always
to ring the bells

Struck by the gloss of the ebony plumage
of the raven in starlight.
His eyes an oily mystery
of the perpetual return of night.
Fascinated by his burrowing stare
at the gnarled knot in the tree.
That furnished a nest of naive robin's eggs.
Under inevitable seize.
Meaningful change has an approaching leg,
the wicked raven confides.
A need to explore the shadows
that dwell inside.
I've made companions of
the midnight hours.
In keeping with the natural order,
the pale blue eggs are greedily devoured.
To be who I am.
I left empowered.

A, Norwe-
         gian, fjord,
             overlooking, loftily.
                        Like, sixteen-
                        aged, potential,
                   love. Like, several,
                         protege's; full,
                           and, predicted,
                                            futures.
                           The, raven's, eye,
                   intersects, the snow,
                       as, though, a, beauty,
spot, on, translucent, skins; a-black
-serpentine-rock-set-in-silver-sutures.
           I, counted, to, nine, as, the
magic, faded......... Mountainous,
                    terrain, murmured, with,
                           feathered, subtlety.
"To be, a fjord, is, to, truly, view,
   the world, &, know, cascading, change,
                      over, those, that, are, newer."

© poormansdreams

A dark clay raven hung at a windowpane
to ward off bright songbirds from glass.
It never spoke a word, nor did it feign
to know of a departed late lass.

I asked it my questions, expecting more
conversation than it had on offer,
but plainly it found me a tedious bore
for it stayed quiet. Not much of a talker.

The brief encounter left me po-faced
as I’d been led to expect more from him.
So I turned away, belying a trace
of disappointment weighing within.

Then I heard the wind, and nothing much else
except the song of birds who’d survived
thanks to the clay raven who hung by a belt
in front of a window to keep it disguised.

Edgar Allan Poe
Never wrote a poem about a crow,
But he did write a poem about a misbehavin'
Raven.

The Raven flies,
But just to die,
For the children that it bears,
Bit of the hand that fed them
In a land bereft claimed fair.
A world where god bids all to live
When they say “If we dare”.
A place where all that was is not,
Yet The Raven does not care.

The Raven, dead,
Its children fed,
Its life, long forgotten.
Covered in red,
They laid their heads,
Leftovers, ever rotten.
With its soul fled,
The life it lead,
Its memory now shotten,
The land it left ignored its death,
And upon it grew soft cotton.

Towards the end, there was The Good Place inside of The Dying Place.

The raven watches silently.

You were drifting on waves of Ativan while I vaped in the courtyard before I flipped the mouse card. Lotioning your feet—now yellowing.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the nurse. “But here, take this” as I handed her the phone I yanked from the wall.

No more distractions, please.

An advance copy on a projector screen. Downton Abbey in The Dying Place. You couldn’t believe it. But you also couldn’t stay awake.

Nowadays when I say “calzone”
I’m actually saying “can I have another year on loan?”

When I think about bourbon in the rainbow-speckled glass, it’s a sip-by-sip plea to get those years back.

Alas…

I hold your hand.
The dolphin returns.
I kiss your head.
The mouse rests.
One last breath.
And the raven's wing lifts.