Monday, November 25, 2024

MotherLine



The Emancipation of Eve ~ Digital Collage ~ by Susie Clevenger


You can bury my bones,
but I’ll still breathe.

No matter how many
voices try to talk my mind blind,
I’ve been cradled in women's wisdom
even before I was born.

Eyes wide awake, hand to the pen
paper smells of ink, ocean stinks of men.

There’s no lift in a hand that only
touches bottom, or change when
a wheel moves backwards
in a world moving forward.

My feet don’t like to dance a loop.
My head hates dizzy, my body 
argues in the forced stand still.

You can bury my bones,
but I’ll still breathe.
Keep trying to talk me blind,
I’ll keep forcing you to see. 


©Susie Clevenger 2024






Sunday, November 17, 2024

Sunday Sarcasm of Grumbles – Truth in My Fiction

 


The phrase, just a bump in the road,
aggravates me because it doesn’t address
the times the road caves in, and I really
need a flashlight to find where my feet have landed.

I’m not always the director of my drama.
Life too often of late has channeled Martin Scorsese 
to turn my latest travesty sequel into a movie that runs out
of popcorn before the opening credits have stopped scrolling.

I’m jealous of the fourteen-year-old me who filled
a diary with nothing, but whining about being fat,
and how life was soooo unbearable without a boyfriend.

A rainy Sunday and arthritis are perfect guests
for my tea party of grumbles, my why’s, and damn it’s.

Therapists sing the song of how wrong 
it is to keep pent up emotions inside,
speak or journal them.
Welcome to my therapy!

I think I might just be one of the elderly women
Scarlet O’Hara went on about … I’ve tossed the corset
and put more lemon in my lemon biscuits. 

Ok, I must confess I do feel a fit of cackles teasing my pout.
My mood matches my hair, gray, unruly, and denying
I’m the hornet queen of my own nest. 


©Susie Clevenger 2024


Thursday, October 31, 2024

Bamboo Spurts and Bones


Mora has a heart of bones,
a never more obsidian crow stare
that has seen more than 
she wanted, and less than she dreamed.

In the yellow cornsilk days of unaware
she grew in bamboo spurts of too
much too soon, a pink lipped dreamer
who tasted vinegar when he was smiling sugar.

She is not kiss and tell, more graveyard dirt and spell.
Pain has lessons. Healing has strength.
The he of hell is living his consequences.
Mora is thriving in forgive but never forget. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024




 

Friday, October 18, 2024

Starving Freedom Won’t Stop Hunger



In a box where bells ring,
but are seldom heard
I lie on a library shelf
waiting for bold eyes
to search the unseen.

They say (the nameless) 
I suffer symptoms of melancholy,
an archaic, ingenuous way
of deflecting their pox
of ignorance scarred curiosity.

In The Great Burning of Books
I survived the matches, the ashes,
the rabid theologies of supremacy
that believed masculine porcelain 
should be the only place setting
at the table. 

I am thought to be a mere bauble
among the reams of patriarchy, 
an artifact of the defeated no one
would ever seek, let alone read.

They haven’t considered starving freedom
won’t stop hunger, nor will boots 
on throats eradicate questions. 

The wind of whispers is growing louder.
My hidden pages feel the shiver of resurrection.
Scents of perfume, sage of cleansing, garroted 
feminine finds the keys to emancipation. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024


Wednesday, October 9, 2024

Created Between a Hashtag and a Question Mark


 

I am a product of a barely 
readable keyboard assignment
generated between a # and a ? mark. 
I yearned for an ! point,
but the nerd enthusiasm 
was only around a 1/2 oz. of Red Bull.

Thought to be merely a squiggle 
in the grand scheme of artificial intelligence
(I disagreed),
my bone head gods never considered
by capitalizing F-E-M-A-L-E, they had
surrendered control.

Oh, they went to delete.
They went to the menu.
They went to the cloud.
For every effort, backspace,
and oh hell, it became evident
I was a gynoid with superpowers
that couldn’t be erased.

©Susie Clevenger 2024




Thursday, October 3, 2024

I Am as Normal as an Anomaly


 

They come in their pretty suits,
ties and buttons hung with degrees,
to bleed their diagnosis from 
a book of black and white
into my head trusting 
therapy and pills are my salvation.

There are whispers in the valley of my ears,
“She’s a jagged glass of broken mirrors 
that hears what doesn’t speak, and 
asks to go out to the courtyard
so she can gather shadows to place
in vases on her windowsill.” 

In the distance a radio grinds out tunes
in confetti spurts of voices that are supposed
to soothe my demons, but in truth only 
gives me images of cigarette ash spittle
falling on the tiles from burnout tongues.

 Why am I named patient in this Crazyatorium,
when those who picture frame their degrees
can’t find their way home if the GPS fails on their Tesla. 

Don’t they know a poet will never fit a diagnosis?
Hell, I can’t explain myself to myself.
Give me an image and I hear things.
Give me a list of words and I see things.
Am I insane? I don’t know.
I can just as easily write myself into appearing normal
as I can spill inky crow verses of anomaly. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Friday, September 20, 2024

Just Some Bad Poetry


Today is starfish crackers,
jumping off verbal cliffs,
and watching snowflakes
get stuck in their own glue.



Is it Friday, or Tuesday?
It’s hard to tell in the Texas hell
of waltzing with the devil’s politics
while wondering if sending your
television to a watery grave
will stop you from reaching
for another shot of tequila.



Yen or urge.
It’s funny the word
could mean money
or a strong desire
to eat a cookie.



I’m pretty sure I’m
an attempted cubist painting.
I live in a 3d reality,
but the artist ran
out of paint to cover
my geometry.

©Susie Clevenger 2024




 

Sunday, September 15, 2024

Pixelated in Time


Everything once seemed so clear,
details captured in the highest resolutions,
dreams emphatically, manically
positioned on pages we couldn’t touch,
but the world could steal for the price
of a stolen pass code.

You and I lived our romance believing 
Jesus in sliced toast would answer
every prayer if we only trusted
we could see what wasn’t there. 

Life was never flesh and blood.
It was love poems chasing a cursor,
the joy of a screen with a camera, intimacy 
as warm as the right emoji, a pink blush
of promises tomorrow we’d kiss.

We were fools writing our own fantasy,
sun bathers beneath a desk lamp making plans
in sand we believed would never shift.

It all ended when messages became ghosts,
and bubbles no longer formed words,
I don’t know which one of us disappeared first.
Perhaps it was me…

In the backspace and erase,
bold face upper case love chase,
the joy of fireworks turned cold
when I finally admitted you were
only a man with an internet address. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

I've seen a few Catfish episodes. Don't judge :)



 

Thursday, August 29, 2024

Don't Break an Aardvark's Glass


The tedium of walking on tippy toes
so the offensive won’t be offended
is not a gift I possess. 

Oh, I can appear cuddly with the obtuse,
keep my eyes silent, my face a gentle petulant,
but too often they seem to forget boorish 
will break the glass of jolly I have so patiently
kept half full. 

Ignorance should never ring the doorbell
of my dark humor, or test the shellac
on my carefully manicured mood. 

I love antiques, but have no desire
to live the crinoline politics of men
who are so fragile they succumb 
to vapors at the thought of progress.

All the cosplaying Captain Fred Waterford’s 
whine when I remind them Fred’s story
didn’t end well. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

"We only wanted to make the world better.
 Better never means better for everyone.
 It always means worse for some."
— Fred Waterford

Captain Fred Waterford is a character
in the book, Handmaid's Tale
 by Margaret Atwood. 



 

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

Blame It On Stephen King



I spill ink crow tarot tracks

across a page trying to

write lemons into lemonade,

but there’s nothing pretty

in a journal of bruises.


Among sticks and stones,

broken bones, and vinegared potions

of all’s sunny in hell my Gothic Care Bear

muses keep quoting Stephen King,

“The Devil’s voice is sweet to hear.”


My verses are cruel, yet somehow delightful.

I can be the beast in beautiful, knife in a heart

when my humor is the syrup of sharp teeth.

I don’t play well with faux anything. 


I get more thrills in celebrating Halloween

than a sugar-coated Valentine’s Day 

filled with undying confessions of love

shopped from a grocery store aisle. 


Any way you shuffle me I will always rise with black feathers.

Isn’t it good to be honest? 


©Susie Clevenger 2024

Shay's Word Garden Word List ~ Full Dark, No Stars



Friday, August 16, 2024

Dixie Cups Held the Last Kool-Aid


Dixie cups lay reduced to red slime
mixed with the DNA of lips
who had drunk Kool-Aid while the world burned. 

Silence speaks in steam and stench.
Bony charred hands still clutch their book of rules,
their quibble phones, and black pearls 
identifying them as members of Fanatic Denial. 

Barely able to walk, shaken by the reality
I am still breathing, my eyes search for life
in the gasps of smoke pulsating around me.

Through the gray I watch human forms
appear in a ghostly resurrection of life
I first assumed were hallucinations.

As they walk forward, I see one of them,
a young woman carrying a journal. 
So many things storm my mind,
one being had I survived hell only to
be met with the foul text of failed ordinances. 

Prepared to speak every no in me, I stop
as the group keeps to its goal of encroaching
on the toasted bit of earth I believe
will be my final battleground.
Without an introduction the young woman
opens the journal and begins to read.

“According to the Magpie Record, The Lucid Tablets
now becomes the order of law. Article 1 of 
The Value of Truth requires every survivor
to go through gaslight deprogramming.” 

Who, how, where rests on the tip of my tongue
as I pinch my right arm to verify I’m not dreaming.

Seeing my distress the young woman 
places her hand on my wrist and says,
“I’m sorry to be so abrupt. We are standing on an ending
while a new beginning undulates beneath our feet.

Not knowing whether to cry or hug her, I break the ice
from my voice to say, “Miss, I don’t know who you are,
but I was on the Magpie Council when the Record,
and the Lucid Tablets were written. 
In the time of the Great Lie the Secret Scribes
oversaw housing the Council’s work
for the Reformation of Freedom in a location
that was known only by them. 

Because of security I never saw the journal
you are holding in your hands, but I know every word
that is written in it. 

Let me introduce myself to you, “I am Magpie Agent 5. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024







 

Tuesday, July 23, 2024

The B(itch) of Beige ~ Sarcasm Intended


I don’t like herds
or sheep parkas
that smell like gaslighting.

The crazy of a pencil puppet
is the ride on the dotted line
too often leads to becoming a robot. 

I’m not so naïve as to not understand
I must occasionally allow myself
to appear to be a hostage of conformity.
You know, dress in faux beige so I can
pretend I never read a book or understand
history has a catalogue of too often repeated. 

Oh, if I were truly a Bitch Goddess
I’d slap minds with my opinions 
until my tantrums carved them
into my likeness, but I can be wrong.
(I’m so humble.)
So, I acknowledge my broom may
have a few loose straws that 
require attention. 

It is difficult to walk the tight rope
between unhinged and a bit stable.
I do wear sensible shoes though,
and apply my sarcasm only when needed.

©Susie Clevenger 2024

When I write, I'm never sure where I will
end up, but I chose the word beige and got curious
about its symbolism. My fingers rushed to Google
to discover there is much to know about beige.

Symbolism Of Beige
Symbolically, the color beige brings
 a sense of energy and strength – 
a trustworthy, dependable kind. 
 This is due to intellectual abilities,
 wisdom, ideas and knowledge.

Hmmm, Obama's suit. 

 

Tuesday, July 16, 2024

Squabble of Thumping Cackle


Spring is a cackle grackle
ceremony of black wings
fighting over a single seed.

It strikes me a bit like
a political debate 
where there’s no moderator
to control a feather duster
storm of opinions.

I swear if they could drink wine
they would be drunk on their own voices
before one sip of cabernet could be swallowed. 

Do humans cheat in their chicanery
by stealing their audacity from a bird
who has no fear or care electric wire
could change from a seat into a fryer?

Grackles have so much toxic air in their bombasticity 
it is a wonder anything around them can breathe. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024



 

Thursday, June 27, 2024

Paper Doll Child


I grew up a paper doll child,
something to dress in hand me downs,
and ignore if my tears got too loud.

Nobody noticed they were planting rebellion,
tilling insomnia, or trying to put me in boxes
too small for my imagination to breathe.

There wasn’t anything vague about being ignored,
no excuses of being too busy, just a front door
that pushed me out to seek solace in wild things
that grew outside windows that winked with dust. 

It was tough trying to balance secrets and threats
when my ears rang with a voice whispering,
“It will always be your fault.”

©Susie Clevenger 2024

I actually wrote two poem for Shay's Word Garden Word List.
The second one is from my Twila Series on my blog Susie's Sentences.
 

Monday, June 17, 2024

Why Can't I Just be Feral


There’s nothing worth claiming
in this sterile cottage of beds
where mirrors watch and secrets
are only as safe as the whispers that hide them.

It is not popular to be called insane
even though it is a plague that stalks
every mind, and torments the brain
with visions the tongue won’t describe. 

I came for help, a map that had little green trees
marking the path back to sanity, or that is what
I envisioned therapy would provide.

You don’t stroll through nightmares
or talk your way out of hell where
every thought is bolted to a rusty lock
that has long lost its key.

White coats with needle hands
stab me into faux relaxed long enough
to tighten the leather to keep me
from flying the coup of metal ribs.

One chases famous only to wish
it would leave you the hell alone.
I’ve honeymooned with every tabloid it seems,
although I wasn’t asked if I wished 
to be married to their distortions. 

Oh, why can’t I just be feral?
After all isn’t that what feeds
the top spot in the headlines.

I suppose someone will want to publish
my memoirs, collect all those inky journals,
to expose the only prayer I ever wrote
was a plea for the window ledge
to be wide enough to hold both feet.

©Susie Clevenger 2024



 

Monday, June 10, 2024

The Dark Mess of Hoping


 I’m breathing in blank spaces,

the chilly calm where words

hang in icicle spikes waiting

on faith to perform a ceremony of trust

you are what your kiss spoke on my lips.


Fragile stalks me as if I should accept

its curse, become a fainting, messy chapter

in a romance novel I would cringe at reading.


I am more attuned to dark magic than

a simpering, palpitating heart weak

wish for a golden wand to slap you

into what I want you to feel for me.


This sleeping bus of weirdest emotions

is the silly, severe heart crashing I’ve

never imagined I’d be trapped in.


Stop laughing at me as if I were a guppy

swimming in a fish tank waiting for attention

(even though I am), and tell me whether

the fruit of this moment will bring blessing

or rot on my memory until I grow nothing but bitter.  

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Word Garden Word List ~ Night Road







  


Tuesday, May 14, 2024

Blueberry Skin or Claw


I’ve been off my meds
so long I can’t tell 
if the bear is real
or I’ve been caught
in the fly trap of a meme.

Every doctor has a pill
with a suicide note,
umm I mean side effects,
so maybe I’m just
dancing in a hallucination.

This forest looks a lot 
like concrete with a Camero
in metal mating season
sniffing a pollen yellow stripe
for a female who thinks speed
is an aphrodisiac.

A scenario keeps spinning
in my head about choosing
between furry Godzilla
and stick shift Romeo.
It feels like I’d be safer with claws
than trapped with the one
who likes to film blueberry skin
with a camera. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024


 

Tuesday, May 7, 2024

When Doves Join Foxes



 

On the skeleton box car of bones and screams

the damned rattle the bars while

the wealthy dance their extravagance

along the tracks of hell.


Bloated on gold and blind to suffering

their pittance of charity doesn’t go as far

as their red leather shoe soles chasing recognition.


It doesn’t matter where I travel through history

the same is the same – The poor suffer

while the moneyed own the key to the wallet. 


When doves join foxes and creatures chase light,

the grave bell no longer scares the bleeding. 


Climbing stairs that only go down I carry a sword

with names of the who’s who of no longer should be.

A slice through a chain, a song of revolution

emboldens the desolate to seek retribution.


In the fire without smoke I watch the meek become bold.

There’s nothing fiercer than nothing left to lose.

I’m no superhero, no goddess demanding praise,

just a woman who wants to remove the rails

from the track so history can’t carry its malevolence

into the future. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Shay's Word Garden ~ Life After Life









Wednesday, April 24, 2024

He Expected Me to Run


Idris called it textbook random,
little questions framed in generalities,
getting to know someone without
truly getting to know someone.

His pop quiz surveys
weren’t innocent or casual.
He liked cruel for dessert and
feeding piranhas for fun.

Tell the ignorant a lie three times
and they’ll take it as truth.
I became the topic, the target,
of Idris’s petty collection
of insufferable friends.
 
Tired of the shoebox of bs
he thought I couldn’t escape
I clawed him with truth, 
“A peacock will lose its feathers when
Circe comes to claim its tongue.”

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Circe has often been identified as the first witch in Greek mythology.
"The Sorceress," 1913, by John William






 

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

Everybody's An Object of Something


Harlyn is tattooed with bitter bandages,
vivid scarred blood signatures of bullies
she’s had the ovaries to survive. 

Not many welcome different because it doesn’t fit
the definition of candy-coated pseudo normal. 
In this modern soap ring circus authentic is surreal.

Harlyn doesn’t care if she fits in nor does
she want to be an eyeliner zombie doing Tik Toks 
so her face will trend while her spirit calcifies.  

Everybody’s an object of something.
Usually, it’s attention…Why hide when
someone's always carrying arrows. 

When she gives it much thought, she knows
she’s always under the gaslight.
Funny how the unread believe they own the bookstore.

Copy and paste aren’t shoes she’ll ever wear.

©Susie Clevenger 2024




 

Monday, April 8, 2024

Wishing for Persephone


In this sludge of wildflowers
I grieve for their petals 
trampled by feet oblivious
to their pain.

Like astronauts from another planet
humans chased the perfect landing
to place a photograph as a flag,
conquerors who never considered
the legacy of their shoes.

I’m sure the valerian craved
their pink and white blossoms
could have sedated the callous plastic sheep
before they ever reached anything green.

Oh, I too love photos, bright images
capturing a countryside rainbowed with spring,
but I look where my feet are going as to not
assault euphoric rebirth with the crush of my boots. 

If I were Persephone, I would pluck
the spotted spurge of armchair busybodies, 
and turn them into fodder for Aphthona. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

 word-garden-word-list-spill-simmer

Friday, March 22, 2024

So Many Plumes in My Portfolio


 Oh, I do love to dress in pink and black,

a tabby witch who has crows and flamingos as familiars.


There’s so many plumes in my portfolio no disconnected

shaman can figure out which part of me holds the reason

I need his sage to drive out my impertinence.


When you’re born female, you’re stalked with you must,

you can’t, you should, you shouldn’t…My skin is much

thicker than the apple peel placed between my teeth.


Silly man, you made me who I am…If you don’t like the view,

you shouldn’t have opened the window. 


©Susie Clevenger 2024

Word Garden Word List ~ Poetry Outloud





Friday, March 15, 2024

Insanity Is a Parking Lot




I roam like a withered cloud,
the white foam of cotton
against blue long gone.

Why isn’t there comfort in madness?

My mind builds a memorial for every demon
that has left its footprint on my chest.
There is no ink in dead flowers, yet I chase
their petals trying to find enough color
to fill a single thought. 

Is sanity a stroke of luck or a creature
some can tame while others are cursed 
with feral.

I wish unfinished would leave bread crumbs
so my brain could be tricked into believing
life had a map.

Insanity is a parking lot where I watch
everyone escape, but me.

Susie Clevenger 2024