About Raivenne

I am a Big Beautiful Black Woman and I very much enjoy being one. If you want to know more about me (and you know you do), see my "About Raivenne" page.

The Sinner’s Prayer

He pleas to the Great Yonder

Help me now

The path was wrong to travel I know
The seeds of which he did sow
A darkness harvested to seep
In full regret of the fruit he reaps

I’ll take you there is heard…

It is too much

He vales to his knees to ponder

If the means will be forgiven to cope
With a prayer, he does dare hope
That he will not be left to wail and wallow
He closes his eyes in faith and follows


I’ll take you there is heard…

It is too little

He opens his eyes in wonder

The core of his soul is shaken
To learn he was mistaken
He aimed his pleas to a gate higher
But is led to a lower pit of fire

He know the ‘there’ he deserves is the one he’ll see.

Oh! Oh! Mercy!

It is too late

painting of a path. One end leads to the gates of heaven - the other end to a pit in hell.

Written for Thursday Inspiration #142 I’ll Take You There
I was inspired by this image…

Image of a man on his knees in prayer with the quote "The sinner's prayer was a desperate plea for mercy"

The italicized lines above are from the song “I’ll Take You There” by The Staple Singers.

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle-535 – See?

It started with an annoyed sigh. A moment of here we go again(!) that will lead into being fraught with worry. He’s already had a glimpse of this frustration with others in his family and knew the shape of things to come.

It could not be avoided, still he chaffed against it.  

He first discovered it might be an issue when he could barely discern the gap that differentiated the characters he knows should be there. A gap he knows was there before today. His breath caught in the shift of self-awareness he was not happy about.

It wasn’t time for that yet. It couldn’t be.

Despite the low hanging lights, the bright lighting itself was not enough for him to read the tiny print on the restaurant menu thrust in front of him.

He glared at his girlfriend’s amused smirk as she offered the pair she wore.

Try as he might, he could not avoid the truth anymore. Vanity be damned, he needed glasses.

woman handing man reading glasses in fancy restaurant
I googled eyeglasses restaurant. You have NO idea how stoked I was to find this perfect image!

sunday whirl

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle – 535

sigh, glimpse, fraught, shape, shift, gap, low, might, moment, lead, thrust, breath


If there is one thing I have not missed since my fulltime return to office in October it is the daily commute. Door to door, it is an hour and fifteen minutes in the morning; then an hour and a half in the evenings. And that is if it is a straight run, meaning no sick passenger, some idiot somehow running amok in the tunnels, train suddenly going out of service, standard delays, and a host of other things that are the bane of daily commuting.  Especially in the evenings when I hit the height of rush hour where a two-hour run happens at least once a week.

And this was my norm pre-Covid.

Some reports say the trains are less crowded. That more people have chosen to drive their cars in order to avoid as much human contact as possible. That may be true, but I don’t see it, and the huddled masses packed into the trains each day would certainly disagree. After all, less crowded is still crowded. But now it’s crowded in a confined space where it’s a pure leap of faith, and for many the pure need of a paycheck, that the masked people around you are in fact vaccinated and not asymptomatic carriers breathing in the same enclosed space.

There are only two major changes that I can see:

  • Nearly everyone now wears a mask, including the homeless.
  • And nearly everyone seems to have a shorter fuse these days.

Still, I don’t have a problem with going to work. I am just a few very short years from retirement. And after close to a year and a half of remote working, the nearly three hours lost each day to my commute is grating my patience.

I found myself once again explaining “’cides” to a someone who asked for directions when our train went out of service this morning. She was standing considerably less than six feet away from a friend and I, and without a mask. My friend politely asked her to mask up. She did not want to.

Me (snarky to my friend): Then don’t give directions to a murder/suicide.

Woman (angrily): What fuck, I ain’t got nothing.

Friend: When’s the last time you were tested. We don’t know what you might have picked up a couple of days ago that’s can get us sick now.

Woman: Please I’m vaccinated.

Me. Vaccination doesn’t mean you won’t get covid. It only means if you contract it, you’re highly less likely to die from its complications. And you can still be asymptomatic and spread it.

Friend: Your masking up ain’t about protecting us from you, it’s about protecting yourself from us.

Me: If you knowingly refuse to mask up to protect us from anything you make have potentially contracted today that’s homicide. If you refuse to wear a mask to potentially protect yourself from anything we have contracted that’s suicide. We’re not down with either ‘cide. So, mask the fuck up or back the fuck up, or better yet, do both ‘cause we know how to get where we’re going.

We started to walk away to change trains. As I said we knew how to get where we where going. The woman put on her mask and we helped her out.

No, I don’t have a problem with going to work. I’m fine once I get there.

I just have a problem with going to work.

And it’s a little disconcerting to realize that short fuse I talked about sometimes includes my own.

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Slice of Life – Tuesda/y Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

Come see how others are slicing it up!

Calliope and Melpomene

I am amused, bemused
By your rapier wit,
And sharp tongue
Where complements are calming
And condemnations cutting
You always keep me on en garde
Whether I am
Touched or touchéd
You make your point
With words
That delight and damn
My pen’s ink

Today at dVerse Dee, aka Whimsygizmo, asks us to takes our cues with muse in the form of a Quadrille, a poem of precisely 44 words, not including the title, and must include the prompt word MUSE.

Here I pay a slight homage to the two muse who fill my pen with prose and poem the most. Calliope and Melpomene.

2022 One not-so-Little Word

I have to say the Oxford definition of persistence “firm or obstinate continuance in a course of action in spite of difficulty or opposition” has certainly been descriptive of me and my writing of the last few years.

I can either write blog and poems or read blogs and comment on others, not both, but I persist.

I can either write my own fanfiction or read and comment on the works of other’s, not both, but I persist.

I can also paint or draw, but not both. Unfortunately, that particular outlet has fallen – if not necessarily by the wayside, definitely down quite a number of rungs on the ladder, but I persist.

Yet even while I’m in the kitchen making lemon bars from scratch, I’ll be damned if Erato, Calliope, and even Melpomene won’t suddenly spark an idea in my brain that wants to be written down RIGHT NOW. And naturally Polymnia wants a visual of it that my mind can see, but regretfully my talent and patience cannot always procure to my satisfaction, but I persist.

To write or to read or to comment or to paint or to bake or to any of the several creative outlets that I try to enjoy has been both a bane and a blessing. A blessing that I can, to highly varying levels of proficiency by my eyes, do all of the above. A bane, because I cannot do all of the above all at once.

I know! I know! How DARE I be only human!

Only human in a small apartment where one corner of my dining room does double duty as my office when I work remotely and my creative writing station for blogging/poems/story writing, another as my painting crafts station, the third corner a multi-utility station and the fourth corner is my window and closet. Oddly enough what my dining table has not been used for in ages is that thing called you know dining.

Still, I can’t / refuse to call it my studio, because I cannot afford, never mind actually fit a kiln in it to pursue the glass and metal creative work that remains in my head.

Though it’s my fanfiction that gets most of my creative time, sans the items in need of a kiln, I doggedly try to indulge in all of my various creative outlets. Thus why I have chosen persistence as my one not-so-little word for this year.

I’m determined to somehow find a balance where my blog does not suffer as much this year as it has in past couple of years. Let’s see just how persistent I can be.

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

Come see how others are slicing it up this first Tuesday of the New Year.

The Horns of the Hunt

The horns of the hunt echoed across the snow
The air cold and crisp with its biting sting
Such is the path this winter does sow
But the chase was on, we felt not a thing

Ah ho! Ah ho! A hunting we go!
The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!

Aye, with patience we stalked our quarry
We laid in the deep snow at readiness
Kills decisive and quick, never we tarry
Our arrows loud in the emptiness

Through trees and brush, for buck and doe
The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!

The necessities are done to prepare and pack
We lift our horn so loud to blow
Work done we celebrate and travel back
For to our homes we the wearied go

Our horns lay tell of successful tow
The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie | First Line Friday: December 17, 2021

Our host Dylan provides the first line, we get to write whatever comes afterward. Length, genre, and structure are completely up to us. We are feel free to modify the line as we see fit, adding punctuation, quotes, or other bits if so desired.  Or for more of a challenge, change nothing.

The line for this week is: The horns of the hunt echoed across the snow.

The Bottom

A sober heart
All knew him to be
Standing good with Bill W
Yes, that was he

Then dark days took
And his foundation shook

From the highest peak
His good standing soiled
Never again found the bottom
To a bottle of Crown Royal

Glass with dark liquor splashing out

I saw the bottle of Crown Royal in my mind and Muse took it and stomped.

dVerse Poets Pub graphic

dVerse Poets Pub | Quadrille #141:
Heady is the Poem That Wears the Crown

De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, lets us have a little crowning glory in the form of a quadrille.

The Quadrille poem must be exactly 44 words in length – not including the title and use this week’s prompt word crown.

In A Frenzy

From a distance I watched the koi in the man-made pond. Seemingly heedless to the world around them, they swim peacefully, their tranquil moves a narcotic in these hectic times. I step a little closer watching. They continue to swim in ever lazy circles. It is a game we play. Well, a game I play. I am never sure if they are in on it or not. I play the game, nonetheless. 

circle of koi in a pond.

The game? How close can I get before they notice me?

There are concentric circles around the pond that mark my progress. So far, I have made it as far the third circle before I am spotted. I am at that line now, trying to get to the second, knowing it will take divine intervention to reach the first line.

Slowly creeping upon the pond, I take my time.

For a moment there is a single erratic movement and I think the jig is up. I still and after a moment the idle swimming continues. I am almost there.

I advance barely, barely lifting my foot from the ground, and slide it ever so slowly forward. All I have to do now is…

DAMN ! I’ve been spotted.

In a blink the formerly calm water is a frenzy of movement. Mouths agape, they all rush forward in a circle synchronized swimmers might envy.

Defeated once again, I take out the bag of food n my packet and feed the koi.

I’ll get past that second circle tomorrow.

Written for:

Cryanny’s Cove, Narcotic – Word of the Day Challenge

Use the word of the day in a poem or short story.

Cyranny’s Cove, November 24th #1MinFiction Challenge

What’s the #1MinFiction” Challenge?

Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…

This week’s prompt is the photo above.

The Beginning of the End

Cyranny's Cove photo of a the booted feet of a person standing in wet autumn leaves on the ground.

For most people in the United States, Fall unofficially begins the Tuesday after Labor Day. 

But not for Bree.

For her autumn truly began in mid-November nearly two
months after its official start.

By mid-November, the many trees that line her street reach their peak orange,
red and yellow colors. And each year, a week or two before Thanksgiving without
fail, it happens: the last hurrah of the hurricane season. While usually not
worthy enough to be graced with a name, it is a storm strong enough that the colorful
jewels of the trees are mercilessly flung to the ground.

Bree will step out onto her yard where seemingly overnight it is littered
near slick with the torn wet remnants of color that once graced the trees. She’ll
look upon the many gnarled branches left clawing at the shortening hours of
gray daylight. Then, and only then, does she feel it is autumn at last.

Written for Cyranny’s Cove, November 17th #1MinFiction Challenge

What’s the ”One Minute Fiction” challenge about?

Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…

This week’s prompt is the photo above.

Was It Worth It?

The prince sighed at the tragic tableau before him.

Two mothers sobbed against their husbands whose own tears fell in silent grief. All bemoaned their part played in what has come to pass. The two men glanced at one another, but neither could sustain the visual contact. Their hate too old. Their pain too fresh.

“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” he looked to each of the four red rimmed eyes, but none could return his stare.

“It could have begun here. Grown into something beautiful had you let it. Instead, it ends with them and with you, now the last of your line.”  

“Was it worth it?” He spread his arms to the ones before him, but each knew the gesture encompassed several others no longer there to speak. “Capulet. Montague. Go bury your children.”

dVerse Poets Pub graphic

dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: The Waste Land

At dVerse Mish tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.

Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.

Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subtract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.

Today quote is from T.S. Eliiott’s The Wasteland “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”

In my mind Romeo and Juliet are the branches that would have grown from the stony rubbish of their families’ hate had it been allowed to take root.