Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Friday 55 ~ December 2017


3:00 a.m. stews me in its terrors
of sightless moon and breathing shadows.
In this hull of bones I pick my skull
trying to mine enough halcyon
to fairytale my eyelids into soundless sleep.

Hours hang from the ceiling fan in a dust mobile
teasing lullabies with sand.
Thanatos puts his ear to my chest.


“Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum” 

December’s moon sings a lullaby
to the childless, but anger roots in
tongues nursing words of resistance.

Autocracy spins the coffers will go dry
if patriots don’t produce a cradle roll
large enough to sustain the wealthy.

Love will not hive a womb with worker bees.
No rages against the icy call of twisted procreation.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Friday 55 ~ Holiday Edition

Thursday, December 21, 2017

New Age of The Robbin' Rich

Morning shrinks into headlines
black lettering another day
into the shrinking wallet woe.

Politicians sing their hallelujahs
into an empty cup and dream raped
millions gather stones for the reckoning.

Speech is free until the disagree…The constitution
crawls through the swamp of bloated purchased
crying foul, but red letters claim Jesus doesn’t like the print.

Merry demands its holy and Happy opens its arms.
Welcome to the New Age of The Robbin’ Rich and the foot army
of dime strained dreams… January dust pans its glitter.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Friday, December 1, 2017

The Violent Bleak

Quicksand thugs my backbone with struggle
and I grieve October took you.

I can hold your voice in the palm
of my hand, raise a fist in rebellion,
rally against hell’s gate, but
fear brings a loaded weapon.

The Violent Bleak keep growing
an army of the demented.
Let me drink courage from your echo.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Saying goodbye to Tom Petty was tough. I need an infusion of his grit to not back down.

Friday 55 ~ 12/1/17     &   Real Toads ~ A Skyflower Friday ~ Goodbye

Saturday, November 25, 2017

First Knife Cut of Ritual

Related image

Memories sit at the head
of the table waiting for the
first knife cut to announce
the ritual has begun.

Never a family to worship fowl
they sacrifice appetite to traditional
and carve Thanksgiving into turkey leftovers.

Basted in what is expected they
mimic gratitude prayers, and internalize
their abhorrence of consuming
slivers of congealed cranberries.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Claws on the Lock

You’ve put your Adam lock
on every door.
Placed that sign
“Admission is by Submission”
right in the middle of the back
of the line.

There’s a whole lot of female
sitting on those clock hands
you keep trying to tie an apron on.

Moving backwards is not forward.
Staying the same won’t progress.

For every bolt you place on a door
there are claws ready to pick the lock.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

I am very blessed to have a husband who has treated my daughters and I with respect, encouraged us to dream and walk our own truths. I am also blessed to have incredible males in my life who support and work for equality in all aspects of life. Many women don't have that support. I fear where we are standing and where we our heading in the United States. Silence is not an option.

Real Toads Weekend Mini-Challenge ~ Doors

Friday, November 17, 2017

Among Visions

November skeletons itself
into the pumpkin remains
of ghost walkers, and raises
its bare limbs to summon
thanksgiving from its cave
in the apple pie crumble.

Pens, poets, and prophets
kneel among visions searching
for candles that still have enough wick
to support a match strike of wisdom.

Spirits of resurrection cackle beneath thin ice.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Saturday, November 11, 2017


A drink won’t hurt
You might get a bit dizzy but
a drink won’t hurt.
Because you are such a bold flirt…..
I’ll pour enough to silence consent.
If tomorrow brings a lament,
a drink won’t hurt.

Abuse won’t end
until a woman wins freedom.
Abuse won’t end
because women have to defend
what they wear doesn’t equate whore.
With minds steeped in Jezebel lore
abuse won’t end.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ Fussy Little Forms ~ Rondolet

Friday, November 10, 2017


She tinkers with art,
turns wine into ink,
sings with a hoarse growl
louder than rejection.

Barefoot is her couture because
calloused soles carry more trust
than the pinched toe wobble walk
of heels chasing cliques.

Gossip and drab bore.
She’d rather BE herself than join the cloning.
Crazy keeps bullshit from her door.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Friday 55 ~ November 10,2017

Friday, November 3, 2017

Temple Moan

Shadow prayers steeple hands
into a temple moan of unknown tongues.

There’s no veil, no shaman, no holy path
through pen strangled words to light switch
the tunnel of unanswerable.

Alone in the heartbeat thump I become
one with freedom, move from the house
horror built into the ancient strength of woman.

Peace supplants war.

©Susie Clevenger 2017 

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Feral Ink

She pealed the flesh
from her poems
until all that was left
was the sapphire night
of revelation.

The bones of her desires
burnt on tongues silly enough
to speak words pillaged
from every mistake
she claimed as freedom.

In her chorus of hims
she broke broad chests
into ribs too weak to carry
the boldness of a woman
who listed demands before
she melted into a fever.

Her poetry didn’t bleed submission
or spills sighs collected from inadequate.
It was raw claw marks through pink words
that looked pretty framed, but couldn’t
stand up to feral ink.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Word list I used:

Friday, October 27, 2017


They chopped down a forest
to burn me from their throats,
but innocence argues escape.

Double trouble your world’s in rubble.
I only hid behind your teeth until
the flame spoke my name.

Today’s a dagger…Tomorrow a lock.
You drank white robed from a bigot’s cup
forgetting poison carries the stench of its roots.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Tomorrow Is Not Promised a Wick

I bloomed on the edge of the swamp,
a blossom swimming in spells and secrets.
Every petal fought for the sun, but daylight
didn’t like to pay the witch for real-estate.

Mystra dripped night into my palms
until I grew dark enough to haunt
light seekers who thought a cross
had paid for all their sorrows.

What’s planted in darkness
will grind the tongue into fear.
Beware of shadows rooted in screams.
Tomorrow is not promised a wick.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Mystra is known as the goddess of midnight

Friday, October 20, 2017

Sharp Enough to Bleed

Eris drips discord
into open throats
until words are
sharp enough to bleed.

A suggestion here, outrage there,
is more than enough to salt an open wound.

When bark turns to bite
she releases howls
to infect accord
with rabid tongues.

A penny for your thoughts
a million for a senator.
Freedom's just another word.

©Susie Clevenger 2015

Eris is the Greek goddess of strife and discord.

Friday 55

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

The Tongue of the Spin

They don’t like to kiss and tell.
Once private finds its way
to the birdcage it revolves
on the tongue of the spin.

Gossip likes to twist
what is into what isn't.
It slanders in hashtags,
jollies with trending,
supports the scrape
in the bottom of the barrel.

It isn’t about hiding.
It isn’t about dividing.

Love is love …
They don’t need to debate,
attach labels, dance beneath rainbows,
closet to soothe the unforgiving.

They don’t like to kiss and tell.
Private isn’t shame … It’s refusing
to tarnish bliss by placing it
among dirty laundry.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform

Friday, October 13, 2017

Refusing Cinnamon

She was a southern diamond
polished with hairspray
and expectations.

“Girl, stand tall when looking down.
You come from generations
of carrying vinegar on sugar tongues.

Sell them what they think they want
and steal what they need.
It’s only apple pie politics.”

Daddy cut her from the will
because she wouldn’t live the recipe.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Friday the 13th 55

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Mason Jar Tongue

Everyday there is money
dropped in the swear jar.

I don’t know how much
strength there is in a dirty mouth,
but I’m not going to let bile
dine on my gut because
I had to swallow their words.

Every time there’s a quarter clink
in that clear jar I feel a bit of redemption.

It is visual proof I still have
a lot of fucks to give about life,
and this mason jar confession
is earmarked “charity.”

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Friday, October 6, 2017

Swamp Tears

Swamp tears inch down my cheeks
in a black stream of spoiled moonlight
searching for the hallelujah scream.

Oh, there’s dancing to do, but it takes
time to drown dove cries in freedom.

Ten years of walking whispers needs
to hold a wake for leaving so no soul raker
 can resurrect timid from the grave.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Plucked To Dry Moans

I gathered my damndelions,
plucked them to dry moans,
and planted their howls in your pillow.

Crystal and gin, never and again,
a liar is never sorry until caught.

Yesterday’s a corpse.
Tomorrow’s hollow eyed.
The knife harvests drops of blood.

She wasn’t me…I wasn’t her,
but you were always you.
Ashy prayer braids us as one.

The grass never stays green
when lust prowls scarlet light.
Two women purr louder than one.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Note: Yes, I wrote damndelions.... my made up word. :)