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
reminds me of that old saying, pray not for an end to the troubles, but for the strength to endure them.
ReplyDeleteA toothbrush for the mind. I think you should invent one, patent it and grow rich. I love it! Yes, we have walked this way before and somehow kept our sanity. It gets fricking disheartening though to have to keep fighting the same battles over and over. Werent humans intended to evolve? I love your lines about the sparrow. I think I will model myself upon her example. (And yours.)
ReplyDeleteOh goodness, a toothbrush for the mind! I need one! I have been paying as little attention as possible to the giant mudslide that is Elon and first lady Trump, but some seeps under the door, fouling everything it touches. As you say, though, there will always be tyrants, they come and go. It's just the heavy cost of getting rid of them that terrifies me. I am too old for major changes.
ReplyDeleteSuch wonderful imagery to describe a terrible scene and yet we must all be like sparrows
ReplyDeleteOh, how I wish there were a toothbrush for the mind sometime! And yes, I too have some dreams that hang in the mind like rotted meat. Wonderful imagery!
ReplyDeleteDreams are the dark mirror of the mind, the language dreams aspire to and the lament of the dead -- too much freight for any human understanding and certainly beyond me -- but what a lens and echo chamber for singing back insides of the day's news to a rare snowfall. Helps for me to know I just this rag and bone poetry snowplow. My Mister Master Shaman dead brother Resilience is at the wheel.
ReplyDeleteBrilliant. The metaphors of quicksand and bricks on chests work so well in this poem, Susie. Yet Shakespearean tragedy haunts and sparrows fly over snow uncaring of the chill. Life seems to lie in the paradox as well as the hope found in the testament of small sparrows.
ReplyDelete