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

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Refill Enthusiasm's Cup

You speak of your advanced years as if the creases earned by endless smiles could erase beauty. You are the wish your hope once hung on the northern star when faith chased dreams without fear. Whenever life took the narrow path of black and white you knew a yellow brick road lay beyond the monochrome.

Refill enthusiasm’s cup and drink the joy of being an ageless spirit in a culture obsessed with chasing youth. Wisdom is the silver in your hair; the lessons learned shining boldly in blue eyes, your words that heal. You are the today someone needs to guide them into their tomorrow.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

This was inspired by a revisit to Kerry's Wednesday Challenge, November 16, 2011, Prose Poetry.

Margaret's Play It Again Toads, #9
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Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Legally Aimed

I took a pledge for gun sense
and became a target.
People don’t like you messing with
their second amendment.

It didn’t matter another life
was taken by a legally owned aim.
I’m a bitch messing with the right to defend.

Yes, I support gun sense.
This isn’t some "do gooder" trying
to take the steel from your palm.

I am a woman who has lived the trauma
of seeing bad things happen to good people,
the agony you preface with unfortunately
then follow with your vow of no compromise.

Is it just unfortunate that my phone rang with someone
bearing the news a young woman I had known since
she was a child was shot and killed by an ex-husband?

Is it just unfortunate to have held a young woman
in my arms who was crying from the terror of being raped
by a boyfriend while he held a gun to her head?

No, I won’t keep quiet because it rocks the family boat,
has me twitter bombed or Facebook jabbed.
I am too grieved by the horror feeding on my silence.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

This is written from the inspiration of Alicia Keys' poem P.O.W. (prisoner of words. 

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Sunday, September 21, 2014

Tears Of Inevitable

The mountain peak sees the night
before the valley bathes in stars.

Its stone held secrets vibrate
in their unknown tongue along
prayer beads cut from the heart of God.

Standing on earth’s shifting flesh
it feels the future cutting a path
through the tears of inevitable.

Knowing that certainty can be
rerouted by hope, the mountain waits
to see humanity pulled from the precipice of failure.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2014

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Saturday, September 20, 2014

One Cat Away From Crazy

Lilly sat by her window
dropping forks and
bribing fate.

If one dropped fork
meant a man would visit,
how much better the odds
if she gambled all her pronged silver.

Cupid had failed with his arrows.
Love had been nicked, but never
bled enough to down a soul mate.

With all the flowers in her garden
sacrificed to the game, He loves me…
He loves me not…she hoped romance
would prefer eating cake with a spoon

She was one cat away from crazy,
and a knitted afghan closer to eccentric.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

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Friday, September 19, 2014

No Art In War




The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

To me there is no art in war.
A landscape tinted with blood
has no beauty, no redemption.

How does one fight a war on terror?
How much death equates success?
How do we keep monsters at bay
when we are fired upon with our once
peddled star bangled weapons?

To me there is no art in war.
A landscape stripped of life
to feed green profit into greed’s pockets
has no beauty, no redemption.

Why is there a call to fight for freedom
when we are losing our freedoms
under the guise of keeping us free?

To me there is no art in war.
A landscape littered with the collateral damage
of innocents that brings the world no closer to peace
has no beauty, no redemption.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

Real Toads ~ Get Listed ~ September
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Monday, September 15, 2014

Monday Is For The Birds

Standing at the back door
I watch the moon die
in the first glares of dawn.

Swirling cream in my coffee
I drug myself with enough
caffeine to exorcise lethargy.

Bone weary from lists
of all I must do, I bend
my will into procrastination

long enough to listen
to the birds greet Monday
as if it could never disappoint.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

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Sunday, September 14, 2014

September And The Moon

I want to hold hands
with September
and the moon
blooming in the sea.

For a few moments
life has been silenced
by splashing waves.

I don’t have to breathe
hectic, or sacrifice peace
to the rumble of traffic.

Night rocks me in its cradle
of misted stars until I forget
tears wait on my eyelids.

I am alone with September
blushing my skin with dreams,
the moon, and secrets.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2014

At Real Toads Grace asked us to write about our September sky

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Sunday, September 7, 2014

Dear Poets...My Poets

I am drawn to your words
like a moth devouring light.
When the world tears another
layer from shell I inhabit,
your words fill the scar and speak
another day into my flesh.

Dear poets…my poets…
Yes, I claim you as my own.
You speak the unspeakable,
take my pain, and leave me whole.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

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Saturday, September 6, 2014

I ~ You

“And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed.” 
― John SteinbeckThe Grapes of Wrath

I am hungry and
you feed me.

I am thirsty and
you give me wine.

I punch a time clock and
you answer to the sun.

I complain of cost and
you pay the price.

©Susie Clevenger 2014

Reflecting on the food I eat. It arrives at a cost far greater than dollar signs. Humbled by those who toil for so little to bless me with so much. My heart goes out to the migrant workers. Thank you seems so inadequate.

Marian over at Real Toads provided music by David Hidalgo as inspiration for our poetry. Real Toads ~ The Valley
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Monday, September 1, 2014

Withering ~ Triquain

from August’s paintbrush of
burnt umber, flowers surrender to
their garden fainting couch where dry leaves will comfort
them until winter’s chill seals them to
the slumbering breast of
promised spring.

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