Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

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

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Bending Normal

Rules, they put up barbwire
and I’m hell bent on getting cut,
lining up for absolutes is like
drinking Kool-Aid with Jim Jones.

Oh I look suburban enough,
two dimes in my pocket, conformed enough,
but I cut my teeth on bending normal.

I was the fat child jumping hoops until
I cried enough tears to stop giving a damn.
Kids either picked on me or didn’t pick me.
There’s a lot to see when you’re on the outside.

People have been tossing up “You’re weird” as far back
as when name calling got its first number 2 pencil.
I have too many voices in my head to worry about
those who suffer from lost imaginations.

When people are planted in their chairs,
I am the one dancing alone in the middle of the room.
Oh I know how to rein it in, calm it down, sit still, listen,
but I also know how to bolt when the room gets too stiff
to step outside the lines…Life is too short to not break crayons.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2016

Day 26 #NaPoWriMo 2016

I found this poem from 2016 on my blog in drafts. For some reason I never posted it. 

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Sunday, December 3, 2017

You Can't Quibble About Harvesting

Reginald Southey
Lewis Carroll (1857)
Fair Use

You ape my bones
with your humpbacked muse.

I am buried under the glass
of all the mirrors I tried
to cut into reflections
I could never carry.

I stare at the twisted glory
traveling up and down your words,
and I find mine are grossly inadequate.

Every haunting needs a host
so I will slip between your ribs
where the moan needs ink.

If there is nothing new under the sun,
you can’t quibble about harvesting.

What’s yours is mine.
My cup is full…Yours is empty.
I can turn your art into gold
while feeding you pennies.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

As my muse would have it this image took me to Spotify. I have a lot of music friends and the business of music is grossly unfair to them. "Songwriter Would Need 288 Million Spins to Equal Average Spotify Employee Salary." Read about it here.
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Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Poetry Doesn't Quarterback

Poetry doesn’t play well with football.
It prefers a glass of wine and silence
to bleed from, not a tackle or concussion.

I cannot Plath, Neruda, or Cummings
to beer commercials targeting testosterone.

There doesn’t seem to be a door
impenetrable to the noise or sturdy
enough to keep a cat from clawing opinions.

I’ll just add this to my list:
She wrote but didn’t create.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Note: I watch football at times, but Monday night my muse and I couldn't take any more poor ball play from the Houston Texans quarterback or the noise as it continued to vibrate from the other room. Disclaimer: No husbands were harmed in the writing of this poem.

Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform
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Thursday, November 23, 2017

Blessings in Ordinary

Morning arrives in its routine
of aches and grumbles, but I welcome
the sight of a coffee cup sitting in its usual place.

We are weathered, chipped friends
ready to perform  our ritual hand to handle
dance across tile to an oak chair.

There are blessings in ordinary.
I watch the wild life outside my window
with my hands wrapped around the warmth
of familiar, and gather strength from a companion
who never utters a word.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

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Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I Am a Key

I am a key searching
for an opening, a door
that leads out of the rabbit hole.

Framed portals line my prison.
I’ve been pressed into a thousand excuses,
peeled confessions from my metal,
but every door asks forgiveness
and I shrink with every why.

How tall is a heart?
How rusty is a lie?

I am the key to every door,
yet I still search for the answer to freedom.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Thursday, November 16, 2017

Coffee, Tea, or Wings

Tipping Point by Anne Byrd

“Who would deduce the dragonfly from the larva, the iris from the bud, the lawyer from the infant? ... We are all shape-shifters and magical reinventors. Life is really a plural noun, a caravan of selves.” ~ Diane Ackerman

Morning arrives on dragonfly wings,
and I wonder who I’ll be
when my coffee cup is empty.

Is there an edge I must walk, be a diplomat
when I want to enter the war of words,
bloom where worry tills stones?

My mind keeps writing script my spirit must edit.
Anger wants its outrage, laughter its comedy.
The wing shift brushes silver in my palms.

On the outside I look my scruffy normal,
but within I am a tea of tipping points.
It is hard to know which brew will win.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Ann Byrd has graciously given permission to use her art print, Tipping Point, for our creative inspiration at Real Toads. Please visit Ann on Facebook, at Ann Byrd Art or her website, to see more of her incredible work.

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Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Orphaned Stone

The sky empties its womb
into the November night
in light burst limbs that reach
through eternity to glitter
eyes hungry for wonder.

Monotony, war, the mudslide
of divide is the swamp dreams
walk from sunrise to sunset.

Bloodshot eyes travel the rift
searching for a miracle and heaven
gathers every orphaned stone
into fire streams to delight the forlorn.

Thanksgiving builds its nursery
beneath the arch of stars,
willing hearts bend toward gratitude.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

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