Friday, January 26, 2018

Black Dirt Doesn’t Ask Questions

Bury me east of the moon.
Let my bones rest beneath
the cottonwood where
dreams dance with the devil.

In the death rattle of stained glass
black robes already gather
in the choir to sing of my damnation.
I suffer their notes,
but freedom doesn’t need
to glory paste confession.
 Black dirt doesn’t ask questions. 

©Susie Clevenger 2018


  1. Wow, like this very much,,"black dust doesn't ask questions" Indeed. The poem and song are a good match :-)

  2. The first line sets the mood--classic in its simplicity and pathos. Death is much on my mind these days--physical, spiritual, cultural...and this poem draws a red circle around what its freedom really means. Thanks so much for writing for the 55, Susie. You always excel in this form.

    1. Thank you! I really like the form, and it seems to work especially well for me on this blog.

  3. A veritable spiritual.A song of freedom's cry of itself.Amazing.

  4. Black dirt is always the answer in the end... love this

  5. I had a professor who used to say that some lines are pure poetry. Your first line is just that. Pure poetry at its yummiest.

  6. Fuck 'em and feed 'em fish heads, I say. Sanctimonious creeps.

  7. Love your words too.
    Re-reading several times (whilst listening to the song) sent a chill down my spine.
    I guess the dirt will get us all in the end...
    Anna :o]