Where is peace in this cigarette world
of light a bomb, and smoke a nation?
Fingers doom scroll until minds go blind,
and eyes flicker as apocalyptic night lights.
I often find myself between hell and moonlight.
Honesty stalks me with my own addiction
to the thing in my hand that I try to deny
is the cheerleader of chaos.
Like an ink pen hungry for confession
I journal pain, exclaim anger, and cry
until pages are smudges even I can’t read.
I’m not a tree, but I’m a daughter of earth.
I’ve watched leaves dance, green grow brighter
when lashed by wind and assaulted by rain,
so the forest is where I run when humans
strip the flesh from my smile.
In the shade of an oak’s generosity, the potpourri of pine
I am quiet, hold every why inside my chest, and let
wonder dance through my spirit, open my brokenness
to joy and listen to the voice of limbs.
In the calm of my own heartbeat, I feel my ancestors,
human, and woody roots, sing light still comes
when you’ve burnt every candle.
©Susie Clevenger 2025
Comments
"Like an ink pen hungry for confession
I journal pain, exclaim anger, and cry
until pages are smudges even I can’t read."
I understand this. Sometimes writing is a mixed blessing.
It is a way for us to channel our thoughts (which is good),
but when doing so, sometimes we open up in ways that
cause the dam to burst
I’m not a tree, but I’m a daughter of earth.
I’ve watched leaves dance, green grow brighter
I journal pain, exclaim anger, and cry
until pages are smudges even I can’t read."
Wow! This poem is incredible, Susie!