Sunday, March 28, 2021

More Than Likely I’m Not the Feather in Your Tea


I am thought to be a devil,

running wild among wings and curses.


Muddy clay, oak limbs, and blue sky

hold me in their spell where words

are formed in feather strokes of ink.


Grown from roots of ancestors who survived

on plucking impossible from stone scarred bare feet

I trust the voice of earth more than the tongues of humans.


I am as old as yesterday’s eternity and as young

as the first rays of sun on a new day.


Beware or rejoice…It isn’t my journey to make

you feel comfortable with my freedom.


©Susie Clevenger 2021

The Sunday Muse #153

Monday, March 22, 2021

Escaping the Window


What offense your eyes hold when you look through me

to a window that mirrors only your reflection.


Anger shapeshifts through the sea of blue dreams that sail

my eyes where tomorrow is not our horizon.


Does love expire like moldy bread ignored on a shelf

or fade when sunlight turns bitter on your lips?


The coldness of detachment marches cigarette burns

through my mind as I fight demons dancing on scars.


I hate goodbyes, the breathless lingering hope feeds

that one more hour can rewind a broken clock.


I am enough…more than enough…Your blindness

is not my curse, not a sentence to serve because fear is my familiar.

©Susie Clevenger2021

The Sunday Muse #152

Sunday, March 14, 2021

Not Every Cage Has Bars


Why look before you leap?

The fall may give you wings

to flee the glass they insist

you walk to pacify their bitter.


Wise is the one who trusts escape

is a better journey than pasting smiles

on a circle that never ends.

©Susie Clevenger 2021

The Sunday Muse #151

Saturday, March 6, 2021



Sunday was turned inside out

like a favorite sweater abandoned to shadows.


Expected comfort, the monotone of routine

became a scream in the cocoon of my wingless day.


There was no escape in a Zombie world of locked doors

and words funneled through lips wearied by counting days.


Stay safe, stay safe, stay safe… It’s crowing rant squawked

from the nest built of torn hours rooted in the back of my mind.


Madness sat its chair in my palms taunting me with careless

until my ancestor spirit tapped my spine with drumbeats.


Gnashing teeth and broken eye tears pulsed freedom

into the wounds I’d handcuffed to my spirit.


With fingers pressed against the river of my pulse

I let hope into the dark mirror I’d lived in for months.


 ©Susie Clevenger 2021

Word Crafter Prompt