Quoth the Raven, "Gigolo!"

This snippet of mimicry was written in response to a waking inspiration to relate all things natural and mundane to the course and status of my life.  It started as an internal chuckle, and took off from there.  It has also been posted at http://dellasumbrella.newsvine.com/, my blog site dedicated to posts and articles about ovarian cancer.

Quoth the Raven, “Gigolo!”                                       By Wendy Wallin

On a morning gray and teary, as I wondered, blank and bleary,

What the raven, winging past my open window, saw below,

His resounding voice kept tapping out a clicking chant, wings flapping,

That seemed to be recapping not the "Nevermore!" portrayed by Poe--

Oft repeated by the rhythmic, rhyming Edgar Allen Poe

In his redundant tale of woe.

It was clear, while I was listening as the morning dew lay glistening

On the oak leaves, reminiscing on a verdant long ago,

That the word the bird was uttering 'neath the rain clouds barely sputtering,

Was a taunt--what he was muttering was an insult, "Gigolo".

What's a girl to think, on waking, to be called a gigolo--

The male equivalent of "Ho'"?

Whereas Poe thought he was tapping into some mysterious yapping

That might illustrate the texture of a truth no one could know,

What I heard was not a language spouting existential anguish,

But some baggage this strange corvid had decided to bestow,

So carelessly and randomly determined to bestow,

On the nearest sleeping so and so.

Fully wakened now I ponder, as I hear the taunt from yonder,

The unfortunate reminder of a lifetime spent in tow.

In recriminating tones, the fleeing raven made no bones

About eliciting my moans of scant success I have to show--

After years of pledging action to create enough to show--

When he scolded, "Gigolo!"

Ravens, thought to be quite smart, have also crafted quite an art

Of fooling people into noting all they opted to forego,

As if in scrutiny lay atonement for a lifetime of postponement,

When it's stone-cold dumb to rue what started years and years ago--

What could only be remediated many moons ago,

As one’s dull routine eclipsed one’s glow.

Is it theory of mind that makes the raven so unkind

And so disinclined to clarify the seeds he wants to sow?

Does he know that ambiguity results in ingenuity,

Suggesting incongruity to a mind that wants to know--

That has frittered away a lifetime endeavoring to know--

 How to catch but not to throw?

To Poe, the raven spoke of loss in terms that made him feel quite cross,

Engendering rage, exhaustion and the urge to holler "Whoa!"

But to me the bird implied my androgynistic side,

Allowing me to slide into a more agentic flow,

By hinting that I chose my life of regulated flow,

As he gently chided, "Gigolo".