Tuesday, May 13, 2025

Don't Corner a Poet


It’s just me, out of my mind
sipping on helium, pondering
why a tuna fish sandwich
is on a vegan menu, and how
to install a security system on
a dollhouse without a door
or glass on the windows.

I’m not pretty when I’m backed
in a corner, but hey, there are
those who don’t listen when
I say my vocabulary has teeth. 

There aren’t any caution signs
on a poet … They can hop from
a flower poem to beneath an umbraculum
so dark with honesty a reader will
seek a priest even if they’re not catholic. 

So if you don’t have a tornado shelter,
don’t create the storm … I’m not pretty
when backed in a corner, and not timid
about writing with my teeth. 
  
©Susie Clevenger 2025


 

Wednesday, May 7, 2025

Not Much Gets Past Louise

 


He makes me as comfortable
as a crow sipping gin in a guillotine.
I’ve never been moonstruck enough
to get blushed cheeks when a snake
calls me Sugar.

That wolf in Wranglers is more
like a piece of gum in the bottom
of my purse than the Romeo
in a mirror he sees with that comb over.

Now I’m not one to judge a man
who’s been saying goodbye to his hair,
but when he comes with a Bible
and thinks every woman is born
to submit, I’ll put on a black robe
and sentence him to leave. 

This isn’t the first time he tried
to Genesis me at my cash register.
Hell, most every Tuesday night
he slaps down a six pack of Bud Light
on the counter along with an apple.

Wal-Mart expects me to be polite
so I keep that smile on my teeth,
take his money, but not his crap.
I politely inquire, “Brother Don,
does your congregation know
you like to take a bottle to visitation?

©Susie Clevenger 2025





Monday, May 5, 2025

Results of a Ribectomy

 


Hey, it’s me
that ribectomy
because you 
were lonely.

Is it working 
out for you,
that not being
lonely part?

I thought, being
made of a rib,
you’d want me
to walk beside you,
but you want me
watching the back
of your head.

That worked for a bit,
but not so much now.
You just keep walking
us toward war.

I’m moving in front
so we can stop
walking the dead
end of your treadmill. 

Remember
 that time
you were lonely?
I’m not sure it was
made clear to you
the rib was given
 her own voice. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025



Thursday, May 1, 2025

Black Coffee and a Tin Halo


Coffee black, cactus tongue sharp,
and a tin halo makes Louise
Mother Mary of the only
Wal-Mart that can brag
bear spray is their biggest seller.

It doesn’t take an Einstein to guess
Kodiak Alaska wasn’t named after
a cattle ranch in Texas or a chicken farm in Arkansas.

Up in the chill where remote
doesn’t describe an armchair controller,
Louise is the best glitter on ice for miles.

She brags the doll ambulance (make-up section)
is where a lady can paint her cheeks tulip pink
to tease a man into believing she’ll stay longer
than a bikini strut on Homer Spit Beach in January.

No one really knows how Louise ended up in Kodiak.
She doesn’t talk about her past or wink and flirt about the future.
It seems to the locals she’s a unicorn in the rough,
a salty angel with a southern drawl who dropped
her wings in the Wal-Mart parking to hold court 
in a kingdom where you can buy a gun and plastic ivy. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025

I really don't know how my poetry arrived in a Wal-Mart in Kodiak, Alaska, but my muse took me there.  So I did some research, (yes, poets do research), and I found my Louise. :)






 

Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Brain Trust


I have two brains,
one housed in bone,
the other in nest of gut.

There are times they
cooperate, agree, 
but when they don’t
I’m left to decide
which one I trust.

My brain loves 
me to take a seat
in overthink, parade
scenarios, insist 
superiority, argues
logic should guide
every decision.

But my gut, my intuition,
my premonition, my compass
in what to do, avoid, give,
and deny has wisdom I don’t ignore.

My gut has been sending a lot
of messages these days.
The one in my skull is attempting
patience, but its bullishness
doesn’t care for overriding 
so, there are days I suffer its petulance. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025


NaPoWriMo  Day 17


 

Solving Didn't Pass I.D. Check


Ever tried to brainstorm
in a bar where coke courts Jack
and the luck of the draw will
find a monkey on someone’s back?

In the broken neon ambiance 
much of the thinking isn’t worth
a penny, and the only one taking notes
is a waitress keeping tabs.

Serve enough pitchers of beer and some 
guy will think he’s Einstein and a woman
may get lit enough to think she’s Poet Laurette 
of the bathroom wall. 

There’s a lot of problems at The Sticky Pony,
but Solving didn’t pass the I.D. check
with the bouncer at the front door. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025

NaPoWrMo Day 16


 

Monday, April 14, 2025

Sisters of the Crazy Life


Through cigarette smoke
I can see every yesterday
blush her cheeks sassy. 

Bold pearls on her ears,
turquoise rings on her fingers
decorate her audacity 
to be herself in the AARP chase
to assign her a tombstone. 

Livin’ La Vida Loca
blasts from a speaker
in the background
in bright colored notes.

Neither of us speaks,
but we communicate through a stare.
She dares me to be a rebel…
I reply with a wink, “I already am.”

As fast as it appeared the
magic in rhythm and haze dissipates. 
She turns to order tequila.
I walk out with a match I’ll never burn.

©Susie Clevenger 2025

NaPoWriMo Day 14


 

Monday, April 7, 2025

Little Shrines and Madness


Hello…

“We’re all mad here. You’re mad. 
You must be or you wouldn’t be here.”
Cheshire Cat- Alice in Wonderland. 

I have poetry books
in every room, formed,
deformed, hardback,
paper, from Edgar Allan Poe
to my scribblings. 

There’s not a day that goes
by I don’t hollow out a space
in my ribs for another poem.

When I think about it, my
poetry collections are little
shrines because there’s
always a candle close, some
incense, and a prayer for
a bit of talent to slip into my ink. 

I skip prayers when
It comes to poetry forms.
Most of the time when
I attempt to write one it feels
like I’m forcing myself
into a push up bra that’s
never going to work. 

Oh,
 and those 
shrine rooms
have no mirrors.
I do enough digging inside
 myself reading and scribbling
 I don’t need to peer into glass 
to see my madness. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025


NaPoWriMo ~ Day 7


 

Saturday, April 5, 2025

Chasing Nightmares to Feel a Dream


She has lipstick eyes
and plastic intentions. 

The blood of her days
living on erased has
her chasing nightmares
to feel a dream.

Before 2022 she had
the right to choose
her body’s direction.
Today it’s been sharpied
into the decision of men.

No one asked her.
No one gave her the choice
to decide if a God without Jesus
or no god at all had the 
right to force her to live by
a faith or plan that had
outsourced compassion. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025


#NaPoWriMo Day 5


 

Thursday, April 3, 2025

In the Haunted Spaces


I live in the haunted spaces of my art
where eyes write themselves blind,
and ink goes deaf from trying to hear. 

The madness of creativity is
it doesn’t fear ghosts or the voices
that speak through paintbrushes. 

I roam tombs and fly on butterfly wings
while my feet walk crumble floors in need of a broom.

The water of imagination may be where I drown
or a sea I sail to totally unexpected.  


©Susie Clevenger 2025

NaPoWriMo Day 3


 

Wednesday, April 2, 2025

Whiskey Cigarette Lines




There’s a smile that wants
to dance across my lips,
but I taste its sweet,
and I haven’t an urge for sugar.

I do find humor in the
civil war on my face,
and the audience
who’s not sure if I’m angry
or simply (if simple ever fits) insane.

My husband swears I’ve been
reading Bukowski again,
those whiskey cigarette lines
keeping his bluebird from
nesting in my chest. 

It’s a day… Just a day.
I‘ll get through it, around it
or over it.

But that smile, hmmm,
I’ll keep it to a smirk. 


©Susie Clevenger 2025

NaPoWriMo Day 2


 

Tuesday, April 1, 2025

If There's a Spotlight in Hell (Day 1 NaPoWriMo)

 


How do I glitter empty
when leather words
are all I hear?

You know the kind,
cracked, broken, 
overused, beyond repair. 

I waver between rage
and whatever while staring
into my coffee cup searching
for a crystal ball in the caffeine.

If there’s a spotlight in hell,
I know a few who would 
burn the lightbulb into their image. 

There’s not enough school in a politician
to read a room or hear an opinion
that hasn’t fallen out of their own tongue. 

I’m having a moment among many.
Today I’m feeling like the news is
filled with a pack of rabid children
I’d like to chase with a needle
so they won’t put their teeth
in anyone else. 


©Susie Clevenger 2025



Monday, March 24, 2025

Birds No Longer Sing in Our Spring



I left no letters or scarf
to warm your memories.

The end of golden came
on a burnt Thursday
of bitter words and mistrust.

We turned to shell, empty
vessels too cold to hold warmth,
and too angry to rebirth kindness.

©Susie Clevenger 2025






Monday, March 17, 2025

No Sugar or Honey



With my tattered zombie hands
I force my redundant to chase
a cursor that doesn’t care I’ve
complained my way through
another white page. 

The fruit of most days isn’t
plucked from a tree of success,
but the callous repetition
of what I won’t release.

Honesty is a bitch.
She doesn’t baby my feelings.
There’s no sugar in my ear,
or honey on the bread of
my confessions. 

In the rawness of an untouched Monday
I look into a mirror I can’t manipulate,
or fool with a rose-colored tactic my bitterness
can be erased with a  gentle air brush,
and wonder if I have enough
lipstick to paint a smile. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025

Sometimes you just 
have to work on yourself.
Welcome to my therapy. 



Monday, March 10, 2025

Melting Doesn't Need a Match


I wish I could imagine
sky filled the space
between his skull,
but that would insult
the window to the moon.

There is coldness in the weeds
that cover his tongue, tiny barbs
he hopes will leave scars.

He hates I never buy a ticket
to his Meme and Repeat, and
that I have a library card where
shelves of history books prove
he’s only a bit actor in a theater of rerun.

It is funny to see him stand naked
while screaming he’s wearing Armani.

Mute is more threat than answer.
The man just doesn’t understand 
I know where and how to use my words.
There’s no use in striking a match
when a snowflake is already melting. 


©Susie Clevenger 2025


Wednesday, February 26, 2025

The Weight of an Apple



There’s lovely messiness with romance.
At least that is what the flower poets
plant on pages inamoratas harvest.

Elzeth is more practical.
She knows no matter how beautiful
the fruit looks on the apple tree
there is one that fools you with its rot.

Even stars with their diamond glitter
will lead you astray if your eyes aren’t
schooled in lessons from a telescope.

She is not without a wink and flirt,
but she has gathered too many stones
in her heart to not be cautious of
the illusion handsome means tender.

Yet ice will only stay frozen if heat
doesn’t bring its thaw, and Elzeth
is not immune to the right flame.

In the garden of sighs she is vigilant.
A kiss on her lips could be a path
through Eve’s Garden where there isn’t
a serpent to lead her to truth. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025





Tuesday, February 18, 2025

Angel of Absurdity


Let turtles roam my tombstone,
invite wild, wicked lightning
to be the moon above my grave.

Plant nettles at my feet
where their sting can strike fools,
and their medicine can draw healers.

I will be a mongrel at rest,
a nest of ethnicities that
confuses Ancetry.com with
a plethora of connected non connections. 

Engrave my granite headstone or failing concrete
with, “She was once alive and sarcastic,
now she is Pheme the revealer of all your secrets.”


©Susie Clevenger 2025

In Greek mythology, Pheme is the goddess of fame, rumor, and gossip. 


 

Friday, February 7, 2025

Check Bounce of Greed



They’re wanting you pale,
a darker shade you go to jail.
 
This is the same old,
lighter skin owns gold.
 
This is America growing billionaires,
picking and planning the never share.
 
The Eve of Destruction
is always under construction.
 
If you’re a woman,
you’re less than human.
 
Sadly a pregnant womb
is both life and tomb.
 
So many guns, no humanity.
Bullet brains feed insanity.
 
The Eve of Destruction
is always under construction.
 
Money says it can never slip up
because it always banks on the give up.
 
Streets are bleeding voices,
angry as hell they’re losing choices.
 
Different faces, different races
growing community, sharing spaces.
 
The Eve of Destruction
is always under construction…
 
But this time money slipped up
because it bet it all on give up.

 
©Susie Clevenger 2025

Wednesday, January 29, 2025

How Far Is Far When I Can’t Get Past Here


the stars are all ash
bit coins drank all the water
and free costs too much   
    
There’s little in the frig,
only a bottle of rage 
because the last peach
on the tree only lasted a day.

misogyny’s knack
for division and attack
replays same music

As a woman I don’t trust
the bats in his belfry 
don’t know my name,
because I’ve never played nice
or danced under a man’s thumb. 

so I question here
with my eyes focused there
plotting my escape


©Susie Clevenger 2025

Tuesday, January 21, 2025

Resilience of a Sparrow

There are some dreams
that hang in the mind
like rotted meat, foul
yellowed voices void 
of mercy. 

I woke up this morning
chewing on last night’s
Shakespearean
play of a dystopian king,
and pondered if there
was a toothbrush for the mind.

Growling my mood through
the early morning shadows
I found myself at my front door
staring out at the rarity of southern snow.

The white anomaly chastised my spirit
with wonder, and made me see
how the smallest sparrows were
not hindered by the powdered chill
assaulting their wings. 

Providence (Mother God or Sister Resilience)
whispered, “You know the fate of kings. 
You’ve walked quicksand before, and rose
when it tried to own your feet. 
There have always been tyrants.
For every brick placed on your chest
you’ve found the strength to break
through their mortar.” 
 
©Susie Clevenger 2025

Tuesday, January 14, 2025

It's Lonely in the Birdhouse


 I bought this glass house
thinking exposure would bring connection. 

In this curtainless cube
the traffic outside my window
is much like a flock of birds
feeding on the view, but never
knocking on the door to deliver a voice.

Surely a doll in a box will at least
bring the curious, perhaps a single person
who would want to know if there is
human flesh on the arm that waves,
but GPS doesn’t allow veering
from programmed directions. 

Is time still real? Is it selfish
to feel broken enough to cry, 
or wish for a pen so I could
imagine myself through poetry?

I’ve lived long enough to reach
the future…It’s so much colder since
caring about one another became obsolete. 

©Susie Clevenger 2025

“The question is not whether intelligent
 machines can have any emotions,
 but whether machines can be intelligent without any emotions.”
—Marvin Minsky, 1986