There’s bats in the belfry and whiskers on the moon
in the imbalance balanced way out fourth year.
Ruby throated hoarse sings the same tune –
facts don’t matter if what is said is not what you hear.
March in streets, protest the stench of gas fumes -
today’s the tomorrow yesterday warned we should fear.
Blood of poet, vein of dread,
night grows darker with whispers fed
lie of tongues - the muse is dead.
Night grows bolder with wine of ink
that pricks the mind with a sorcerer’s wink
to expand the spirit so thoughts don’t shrink.
One word grows three,
a root a tree,
Calliope’s tablet answer’s plea.
Her perfume announces
her passage where eyes
don’t trust visions, and fear
twists imagination into a demon’s blink.
She was dance, April’s first bloom,
youth’s passion for invincible.
October came with skeletons,
and she carried their bones
until the beast’s breastbone
became the final cut.
She is now a ballet of narrow dreams,
the last chance haunting those
stuck in wandering spaces where timid
prefers the vinegar of same to wine
bubbling with temptation to change.
The buttercream sunset
spills across the horizon
camouflaging footprints
of wild sapphire shapeshifters.
Across the field bovine dreamers
lie dreaming of green grass,
and sunny days without slaughter.
In my human form I wait and watch,
an angel of sorts who counts the sacred breath
of life a gift no horror should trespass.
Alone in the valley of bones I am cradled
in the arms of stars candling courage from
their DNA pulsing through my veins.
The weight of hours builds its wall, and I pray
my charges and I will not suffer the knife’s wrath
or carry another scar when the Aubade sings us into
morning.
©Susie Clevenger 2020
Aubade: a poem or piece of music appropriate to the dawn or early morning
Raised in feather and wild
I travel moon shadows, and inky stars.
With feet pressed into the ancient loam
of Mother Nature’s cheek I feel the path of vixens
vibrate directions into my legs to guide me
through fool’s gravel that bruises but never leads.
A phantom of instinct, sister of the hunt,
I can hear the devil’s lie before it slither’s
across his lips.
He hunts innocence,
stalks moonlight
searching for lips
speaking the language
of Neruda stars.
What he doesn’t know
is Luna’s sisters have gone
before him to warn dreamers
to be cautious of charmers
who cloak darkness in the
simile of a wish.
