"I am hearing poetry when awake, dreaming poetry when asleep, breathing poetry with each breath, I am living in a poem."

Friday, December 23, 2016

Untitled (Spoiler)

A clean sweep,
dirty tongued lies
dust panned
into a book.

Grand gets grimed
by fiction sold as truth.
He’s not half of the whole
his billfold bought.

The writer’s a ghost
The words are black
The spine will only hold
until the fiction rots.

©Susie Clevenger 2016
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Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Nest of Spring

I hold this nest of spring
where sky wraps wings
and wonder if the child
I carry in my womb can fly
free of the cage a dogmatic world
is already building for him.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2016

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Sunday, December 18, 2016

Last Eve of Empty Tongues

“So this is Christmas and what have you done?” John Lennon

A starless night, an empty moon,
another 365 days around the sun,
and love is a tea light flame
trying to burn a hole in heaven.

Silent night sings from lips
stamped with a tradition that
pantomimes peace for pageantry
while a child’s cry in Aleppo goes unheard.

In a season of a manger, a savior,
the land of plenty chooses
a Christmas tree battle over greetings
instead of simply treasuring words of good will.

As the world burns on the last eve
of empty tongues, tomorrow prepares
to raise its voice of peace to prepare
hands and hearts to silence war.

©Susie Clevenger 2016


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Saturday, December 17, 2016


Lalamilty ties boredom
with itchemis bows
so can’t will get a rash
and fingers will scratch
scars into no.

She doesn’t like don’t
and she sneers at won’t.
If a rhambangle can climb
the pickimous tree
on only one knee,
 then spoiled children can walk
where the snardiffanous squawk.

So she passes out socks
to protect toes from rocks,
and puts tryhardous candy
right where it is handy.

With a whistle through a thistle
she marches tiny feet that balk
through purple gigglemist stalks.

When the very last whimper turns into a song
Lalamilty tells the wee ones they now belong
to the Wizardlet Order of Rhambangle Strong.

©Susie Clevenger 2016

This makes more sense than politics. :)

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Thursday, December 15, 2016

The Song Of Father's Shoes

A poor boy’s song
sings from my father’s shoes
in strains of hunger and rock soil.

The lyrics of a church hymn
play across scuffed leather
where a young boy stood tall
to reach Jesus in harmony
with his mother’s voice.

Tightly tied shoe laces try
to fill the gap between moving on
and the pain of a motherless child
watching six feet of dirt separate
him from the warmth of gentle arms.

My father’s shoes are an empty nest
where secrets roost and tears never dry.
I talk to the ghosts, who linger there,
but silence eats each bread crumb I drop
until unanswered questions erase footprints
that will never lead me home.

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Saturday, December 3, 2016

Suitcase Thinking

I am packing my suitcase
with more than I need,
and less than I know.

It is hard dressing for tomorrow
when today is still tied to my shoelaces.

Weather reports attempt
to fortune tell how many
raindrops will drown concrete.
It could be a downpour of drizzles.

I am planning for cold, but the sun
could deny winter’s freeze and
have me sweating in sweaters.

I am a pessimistic optimist,
thinking the worst while
planning for the best.

Everything fits when the zipper zips.
My suitcase is packed with more
than I need and less than I know.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2016

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