Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

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A Question

October 25, 2010

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A question asked
An elephant sitting
In the room
Its weight crushing
The answer

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Melancholy is a Season Not a Sentence

It’s not just a feather but a wing note begging to be translated with eyes of ink that sees poetry before it’s written. It’s not just a thing left to be bruised by a footprint but a sign healing defies gravity. It’s not just a reminder of how much was lost but the voice of wind encouraging the spirit melancholy is a season not a sentence. It’s not just a plume but hope that waits patiently for you to remember you already know how to fly. ©Susie Clevenger 2024 What's Going On - Just a Cup of Tea

The Ink in the Well

Within me there is a well both empty and overflowing. There is dust, summer rain, the sound of my voice, and the echo of others. I often fear it isn’t poetry, only words held until I choose to dip my pen into troubled water. There is no way to escape breath if I choose to live. Every poem I write resuscitates hope the journal in me will find the soul who needs the breadcrumbs I leave for them. Rarely can I write in rhyme because I have no talent to not make it sound pitiful or childish. For me it is torture, a duty I’m not qualified to perform. Poetry is my therapy, impertinence, anger, joy. It usually has no form, no blueprint, just ink pulling what I see, hear, and feel to the surface. Inspiration is as close as the cat sitting at my feet to as far as the moon is from my window. When I am stuck, it is because I overthink, tie myself in a knot trying to force what should flow. Poetry, you are life, death, the amazing space in between. When I am lost you bring me home, comfort me,

Dance of Leaf Flames

I dance with the dead, revel in the fallen splashes of color as they haunt the wind. Oak leaves that summer stained blue sky with paint brush leaves of green now fall in cascades of orange and red. Limbs stripped to their wooded bones speak of winter coming to frost night with sparkled shivers of dreams roaming indigo. Caught in swirls of leaf flames I feel my childhood open its door of wonder to memories of the oak cradling my secrets. Standing on sturdy roots I let them feed my spirit the power of resiliency to grow even in a world that seeks to mold me into something other than myself. Dear Oak, you mothered me when I had no voice. Taught me how to bend without breaking, find the song in my tears and find grace when smothered in drought. ©Susie Clevenger 2023 What's Going On? ~ The Tongues of Falling Trees

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