ABOUT THIS POEM: This is an older and longer poem that I have been somewhat hesitant to post, mainly because I don’t like talking about my issues. But with the Halloween season upon many of us, it may be an appropriate time to discuss my Ravens. And every poet should have a Raven poem!

Nearly 15 years ago, I was inflicted with an autoimmune type disease known as Sarcoidosis. I even remember the exact place, day, and time this dark, ravenous entity entered into my life. There are treatments but not a cure. And as many know, some treatments can often be worse than the disease. These types of things afflict so many people, and sadly, it can take years even to get a diagnosis. I was lucky to be diagnosed early, but my immune system went rogue and attacked my lungs, thinking they were some alien invader, eventually leaving me with pulmonary hypertension.

Over time, I have found ways to deal with this. And everyone has to find their own courses that work for them. Writing is one incredible therapy. I was inspired to do this by a poet friend's similar post. My heart goes out to her and everyone else afflicted by these strange, painful, energy-sucking demons. And there are so many. But I know that there is hope in God, especially when that peace works through kind and understanding friends.

an unkindness of dreary—obscure ravens
preach precariously upon my pitiful perch
of heartstrings—scheming future fatigues
shorting tense wires of electrified courage

 

the harsh—hoarse caw of one sickly raven
cruelly pecks at my delicate vocal folds
etching a charred rasp of its night song
into my trembling and insecure voice

 

these ravenous ravens feed upon my time
with their unrelenting ill-tempered beaks
hollowing out jagged—lonesome streaks
terrorizing my aging—melancholy face

 

circling high—they heckle and mock me
because they know altitude is my enemy
dumping me into dark days of desolation
as I watch others do—what I used to do

 

in suffocating mists—they cough anguish
masking my dreams—stirring hopeful stars
liquifying precious lights into a brain fog
siphoning my sludge down their singularity

 

another raven’s viscid night of molasses
pours out its toxin of dismal depression
over a shrinking silver skin of my bones
muddying my prayers in smokey smudges

 

they rob my lungs—leaving them scarred
forcing my body to fight in hoary breaths
my joints rust as iron—squeaking in pain
as my schizoid immunity squelches any joy

 

my shadow tries to disguise their haunts
but they incessantly plead in cold sweats
to expose their vapors of agonizing words
through obsidian eyes of gloomy despair

 

my flowing energy of life is smothered
beneath fevers of their enveloping wings
in deficits—I am forced to borrow energy
from devious banks of another tomorrow

 

people offer solutions to all my problems
with fancy recipes—they have never tasted
but I must discover my fixes—to endure
as the best cures are kind—patient friends

 

a compassionate gift of one raven’s quill
delivers me upon words of celestial light
with an ink that can penetrate my malaise
beaming a hope untethered by sharp talons

 

while I’ve learned to fear words ending in
—osis —itis —emia —oma or —oxia
I have also learned my unique therapies
—walk —pray —love —write and —share

 

over time—we came to an understanding
they may prey on me for a random moment
but must let me surface—to breathe again
and strangely—we became unusual friends

 

we respect each other’s limits and power
and I have a better appreciation of all life
especially for the countless who also suffer
while I try to gently live—more fully each day

 

I’ve adapted—but I will not be defined by raptors
and because of that—I am haunted no more…