Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

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Voice of Hate

February 02, 2011

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The voice of hate
is the weapon
of mass destruction
sent to destroy peace.

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Spun into Glory

“In the end, we'll all become stories.” Margaret Atwood Everyone wants to be the flower, not the vase molded from clay and bone. On the dark side of moonless vanity art is assigned to be a stage prop to adorn ego, and not speak the vision of muses. I am a vessel…the curved spin of eye and hand formed from earth and fallen stars…tangible grown from the unseen to be visible. My imperfections are the glory of a thumbprint no one else holds, the flame of a dreamer never extinguished. I am the keeper of life until the blossom succumbs to the wilted rest of a memory. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #164

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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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