Friday 55 ~ December 2017

Hours 

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

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

Real Toads ~ Writing Exercise

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

First Knife Cut of Ritual

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

Friday 55 ~ Thanksgiving Edition

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

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

Friday 55 ~ November 17, 2017

Abusing

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

BE

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

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 

Friday 55 ~ November 3 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:

desires

night

flesh

poems

Real Toads ~ Get Listed ~ November Edition

Roots

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

Friday 55 Halloween Edition

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

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform

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

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

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

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

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

Friday 55 ~ October 6, 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

Real Toads ~ Fireblossom Friday

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