Gin and Keats

He whispered

in my ear

as I was sleeping,

“Tomorrow is already

in its sunrise somewhere.

You’re dreaming through

a thousand hellos while

yesterday still sits on

your eyelashes.”

I wish I could have heard it.

He’s always a poet when

there’s gin on the table.

Last night I was too tired

to wait until the bottle

was empty to hear a kind word.

In the morning quiet of alone

I found his journal, the back of

a grocery receipt, sitting next

to the coffee pot.

Somewhere in the fiction 

there’s truth…Maybe someday

he’ll speak words to me,

and not be Keats straining

poems through a shot glass. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025

I just followed my muse.

A phrase here or there will

lead me to a poem.

 

Stones of Virginia

 Were the stones
Virginia Woolf filled
her pockets with chosen
or just convenient?

She walked years
of sun and moon,
but couldn’t find light.

It is lonely in madness.
It is a cell that doesn’t
have a key or enough
food to feed its skeleton.

Peace teases with hope
while mania plays with matches.

Toxic positivity hammers
obsidian melancholy ignoring
pain should have its voice,
and not turned into knives
from smiling everything is sunny.

©Susie Clevenger 2025

Clinging to Moss

 How much can I take
is always answered with more.

Sunny is hard to find in pain.
Hope swims my tears,
and darkness stalks light.

I’m getting through this journey
on weaker legs as silence grows
wild in the corners of each room.

It’s hard to stay resilient when
I am walking tundra clinging
to moss and fighting cold wind.

Honesty isn’t always welcomed,
but I’ve learned to validate my
depression because denial uproots strength.

©Susie Clevenger 2025

Fifteenth Floor

I’m leashed to a pole

that buzzes and gasps

its needle tube into my arm.

Time means nothing 

when there are no shadows,

only neon watchkeepers

that pry my eyes open

with a flip of a switch. 

I’m asked, “Do you know

where you are?…Name three

things in the room…What

is the sentence you said you’d

remember?…Write it down.

I order food, but it’s not food.

It was warm somewhere in the kitchen,

but at the lifting of a lid by my bedside.

It is cold, foul, and my stomach rebels.

You have a fever. Here’s a Tylenol.

Do you still know who you are?

An eraser board tells me it’s a new day.

Maybe today I will go where they can

get me strong enough to walk again.

There is so much waiting.

I ride the waves of minutes

and masked faces.

It’s noon, I think…I still know my name.

I remember the sentence I chose

to repeat a week ago and can still write it.

The eraser board black inks it is Friday.

My doctor tells me I’m doing well.

Why am I mourning there are no shadows?

©Susie Clevenger 2025

I wrote this about my husband who is going through CAR T Cell Therapy for Multi Myeloma. The questions and writing are to check for neurological side effects. He's been experiencing some fevers and a lot of brain fog which can happen with the treatment. He's been in that room for two weeks now. Who wouldn't be confused?

 

A Rib and August

 August is filled

with dead

words from 

a narcissist.

A curled tongue

of “I am” brags

accomplishment

without knowing

how to spell it.

How did

breathing

failure 

ever rise

above

his bloat?

I suppose the worst

in him gave freedom

to spill the worst in others.

If it wasn’t so dangerous,

I could find humor in

holders of tissue paper books

and pulpit men not understanding

they’ve surrendered leading to following.

I 

enjoy

being 

a

thorn

when

so 

many 

think

I’m

only

a 

rib. 

 

Susie Clevenger 2025

Needles Without Ink

 

Saturday opens

its book of pain.

I’m tired of reading

the same story.

I search for an ink pen

to write a new chapter.

All I find is needles

searching for a vein.

©Susie Clevenger 2025

The Fading Yesterday Me

I don’t know the yesterday me.

She walked paths of bubble gum dreams

wearing skirts too short for crosses to bear.

I still have long hair, but gray has invaded

golden blond, and I look more hag than innocent.

Oh, my younger me tries to break the 

shadow door, but the creaking bone chain

that holds the key doesn't like to rattle history.

I live in the moment…Doesn’t that sound enlightened?

It’s not. I’m practical because my tomorrows are shrinking.

The yesterday me thought she knew everything.

Today I’m always on a hunt for my phone,

because it holds lists of what I’m sure to forget.

©Susie Clevenger 2025

You can also read it Here at Hello Poetry