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.

On Parade in the AM

7:27am my desk: I am standing at my keyboard going through my usual morning routine as I log in. My earbuds are in, my iPod has RATM blasting because while my body is on the job, the rest of me is still asleep in bed. A colleague passing by sees my very enthusiastic headbanging, looks at me like the very insane person I am, and pronounces “No, it’s too early. No.”

Because she arrived at a perfect moment in the song – I look at her, smile benignly and when the beat drops in my ears a moment later, I raise both hands high – full on rock fingers gesticulating – face scrunched befitting the song’s mood and reply in her face with “🎵Come with it now! 🎶

She understandably blinks at my unexpected response then shakes her head laughing clearly knowing the song by that one lyric sung even if she can’t hear it herself. “Nope, MUCH too early for that.”

“Hey, I just walked in I’m not awake yet,” I laugh as she walks away while I head-bang on and continue with my checks.

“Have you tried coke?” she asks as she reaches the corner.

And because I really am not quite awake yet, therefore honestly thinking about the caffeine boost, I hear a fading disembodied voice around a corner call out “And I don’t mean the stuff in the can.”

I settled for my usual morning IV infusion of C25H28N6O7, and C12H22O11, aka coffee black 20oz with 2 tsp sugar; but now all I can imagine is a series of horned Red Bull cans carrying banners as they follow a white powdered line down the street stomping in tune to RATM.

[For those not into such – RATM is Rage Against The Machine, an American Rock band and their song I reference is the very loud and very thrashing Bulls On Parade.]


Let’s see how others are rocking and slicing out this Tuesday…

Slice of Life logo

Slice of Life Tuesdays
Writing Challenge

Two Writing Teachers

To Sleep

Then you laid me down to sleep

In cotton coddled

For sweet dreams ‘til my eyes open

Thus days and nights wrap round the world

‘Till now I lay you down to sleep

In linens layered

But on your eyes I place a token


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #156

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Tonight Mish hosts at the pub and wants us to “wrap” things up in a quadrille.

A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “wrap”, or some form of the word, in your poem.

Loving You In Silence

Loving you in silence

Is seeing you so much
Talking with you so often
And yet knowing
For you there is nothing to say
Or anything to see
Of me at all

Loving you in silence

Is watching
Your heart grow fonder
For someone else
And I find I am honestly
Wishing you happiness
As the tears
I’d never cry without
Fall hard within

Loving you in silence

Is seeing the light of your smile
Shining so brightly
As we chat about the future
And that when you say “we”
You will never mean “us”

Loving you in silence

Is knowing the chance
Of what might have been
Is forever overshadowed
By the reality
Of what will never be
Loving you in silence

Is realizing
It is what it is
Because sometimes
The only way to hold on
Is to let go
And I can finally
Move on

Amicable

Faces
To sun
It’s over, done
We cheer and root
Grabbing all the Absolute

Long
We’ve waited
How we’ve anticipated
For this fine date
All the ways we’d celebrate

The
Finalized papers
Turn to vapors
All troubles we carried
Much better friends than married


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #155—Let’s Celebrate

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Merril hosts at dVerse and wants us to “celebrate” in a quadrille.

Some couples do celebrate their divorce amicably.

A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “celebrate”, or some form of the word, in your poem.

For The Last Time

*SIGH* I’m in a mood today…

It’s funny what things you remember

“I didn’t give you permission to go anywhere, young lady.” Me – 40 to a 71 year old. She left anyway.

“Don’t give me that look! If you don’t make it to fifty, whenever I catch up with you, I’m gonna make you SO sorry you married me!” He didn’t – jury is still out on whether I keep my end of the bargain – only time will tell.

“Man, I haven’t won a pot in two years. You fixing the scores or something. At least let a sista win a box or two, cuz! Or else!” Never won another pot or a box at least not in that specific football pool.

“Oh please! You better come to my birthday this year or I am not going to any of yours ever again!” As of last Saturday I know she won’t make it. The rest is now a given…

Because of the latest one I am remembering how I was just me, being me, leaving them laughing. Not knowing they would soon be leaving me, reminiscing on this earthly plane.

It is a silver lining. A faint silver lining. One feeling a little tarnished right now.

It’s funny what things you rememberit’s tragic what things you wish you could forget.


Let’s see how others are slicing it out this Tuesday…

Slice of Life logo

Slice of Life Tuesdays
Writing Challenge

Two Writing Teachers

So Easily Entertained

Here’s what must be my shortest slice ever: me being oddly amused by the local flying frack enjoying breakfast.

I was minded of when my sons were toddlers picking up and tossing food with their hands. I looked very much like this. Now, here is a sentence that you won’t read every day…. the pigeon was cleaner.

It’s been a slow week – what can I tell you? Apparently nothing.


Let’s see how others are slicing it what left of this Tuesday…

Slice of Life logo

Slice of Life Tuesdays
Writing Challenge

Two Writing Teachers

Memento Moirai

From Clotho’s components
All those moments

This life is made, with intangible string
My traits and gait by Fate compiled
A certain butterfly is already on the wing
I emerge from the cocoon voicing the wild

Thread in Lachesis clime
Will be lost in time

When born the days ahead seem vast
Each stich becomes a memory vapor
Yet all too soon those years are past
I voice them all, on pixels, on paper

Of Atropos’ domain
Like tears in rain

I must go in for the fog is rising
My words will speak for me beyond the snuff
Always verbally enterprising
Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: words of departure

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Laura Bloomsbury tends the bar and invites us to write a “deathbed,” poem with the inclusion of a quote from a selection provided. Typical of Muse – using just “a” quote wasn’t an option.

The following are in my take on the prompt where Fate/Moira may control my body but my voice will live on.

“All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain”
-Roy Batty, Blade Runner
“A certain butterfly is already on the wing.”
-Vladimir Nabokov
“I must go in for the fog is rising”
-Emily Dickinson
“Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.”
-Karl Marx

Quantification Feculence

I’m on my way to work. As I pass near a guy on a park bench, clearly taking a moment’s respite before continuing his run, I hear, “You’re pretty for a fat girl.”

Luckily, I have the earbuds in, so I pretend I did not hear that, ignore him, and blithely keep walking.  

Lothario has the effrontery to rise, and then jog backwards to catch up to me, just to inform me that most women say thanks when handed a compliment.

Wait… What? Oh, come the bleepity-bleep-oh-bleep-this-bleepity- bleep on! No!

To say I would not have been in the mood for such nonsense after my third cup of coffee is one thing. I’m dang sure not up for up at not even a quarter after seven in the feckin’ morn with not one drop in me.

“You’re right, and conversely most women don’t thank the person who back-handed insults them.”

I declare I can all but hear the crickets of confusion chirping in his head.

“How did I…?”

Le sigh…

“Most men know better than to make a definitive statement then quantify it with another that negates it.”

I try to be helpful, but oh dear Lord –three things I pray– I think the crickets are even louder.

Why am I doing this to myself? Oh, wait! I’m not.

“Nay. Nein. Nix. Nope. Nyet. I’m out.”

I start to walk away when he puts a hand up.

“El Sol’s ascent has not attained sufficient altitude to engage in such feculence, dude.”

This time I’m expecting the succession of rapid blinks from him as a chorale of crickets join in for harmony, and I am not disappointed.

“I’m sorry… I just don’t get how you’re insulted.”

I note he’s careful not to touch me even accidentally as I move forward; he only wants to continue the conversation. That is the only reason I entertain this.

“Look, are all your public declarations of perceived attractiveness to unknown women attributed with their body mass?”

Oh, that sweet, sweet cricket orchestra crescendos for a moment, but I see when the magical penny finally drops, “you’re saying I would not have added that last part if you were skinny. Fuck. You’re right.”

Certainement.”

“Okay” He sighs taking it like a champ, “I stand corrected.”

“And I exit, vindicated. Caffeination’s lack will soon make bitter my tongue. Better luck next time. Bon jour.” I give a short nod.

His amused expression tells me what I already know: my tongue has been bitter this entire conversation. I know he thinks it, but in this he is smart enough not to say it as I start to walk away again.

Points to House Lothario.

“Hey, one moment.” He calls out.  

Demerits to House Lothario.

“Dude...” I stop and turn letting my face show how that lack is not working in his favor. “…be succinct.”

“Is it next time yet?”

Points to House Lothario

“You are pretty. Perhaps join you on your quest for caffeination?”

Fast learner! More points.

“Thank you.” I laugh, “Alas, I suspect I can tick at least a score’s gap between our ages. That brings you to a vintage within the bounds of that which I brought upon this earth. Négatif. This conversation is fini.”

I wave my fingers and walk away in a manner the requires no further quantification, as I don’t look back.

If you’re asking: What’s with the French, Rai? So am I. I have NO idea; I don’t speak it – but there it is.

Au revoir!

[Side note: I do love the moments when my internal Oxford Dictionary overrides my internal Urban Dictionary, and it was in rare form considering my lack of morning coffee.]


Let’s see how others are quantifying their slices this Tuesday…

Slice of Life logo

Slice of Life Tuesdays
Writing Challenge

Two Writing Teachers

Let’s…

Sit back for a few and relax

Put our feet up with a most happy sigh

Enjoy these little moments for how quickly they fly

Laugh so hard it’s tears of joy we cry

Learn to love a quiet moment to the max


dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #154: Casting a Poetic Spell

Tonight at the pub Sanaa, aka adashofsunnya enchants or id that hexes us to spell out a quadrille.

A quadrille, is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “spell” or some form of the word in your poem. I do it acrostically.

Luna Sees

They sit on the roof drinking in the sight
Of diamonds twinkling in the witching hour
Alone at last on this shortest night
A blanket is beneath them, but heat scours

Tar and flowers scent this roof top tower
Fingers follow trails on skin damp with sweat
Where light cotton clothes have little power
And their slow loss causes no one to fret

Cool jazz plays on an old cassette
As the solstice weaves its most magic ways
Soft curls are set free from its shell barrette
As I softly smile on their loving plays

Throes of passion begins, they close their eyes
And breezes carry away their heightened sighs


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Sun, Sand, Storms, and Celebrations: Summer Ekphrastic

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Though it’s not technically summer (yet), here in the northern hemisphere, we’ve already had a few scorching days. Merrill who is tending the pub tonight, entices us to pick from a selection of paintings evoking a variety styles and summer themes to write a summer ekphrastic poem inspired by what you see or feel.

I chose: “Tar Beach 2” Quilt 1990
by Faith Ringgold, American, born 1930. Produced at The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia, founded 1977 Philadelphia Museum of Art. I can’t upload it, but you can see it here.

Before I even clicked on the link to view it, the title alone took me back to the days of rooftop barbeques, nighttime parties and things that happened in the late-late-late nights that only the moon sees.