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About Susie Clevenger
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Author Updates
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Blog postShe walks barefoot across the moon,
her toes curled into visions
plucked from insomnia’s madness,
and poetry’s blood ink channeling secrets.
A collector of shadows, notes left
in the gray wool of a stormy sky,
she folds words into origami sails
trusting night to carry them safely
through the river of eyes.
©Susie Clevenger 2022
The Sunday Muse #214
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Blog postEvery yesterday tells its stories
in hands gnarled from braiding sunlight
into dreams the devil cursed with ashes.
Ancient ones listen to the strands of hair
as they rope dance their history across
fingers entering the passage of wilted roses.
Like warriors, braided tresses drop along the spine
to remind the grim reaper, no matter how deep the grave,
it will never silence the voice of ancestors. -
Blog postA bit of sky rests in my palm in sunrise feathers, and nesting moon songs.
Tufts of trust read my lifeline
through wings barely formed,
yet ancient with the knowledge of enemies.
© Susie Clevenger 2021
Word Crafters Prompt
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Blog post“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.
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Blog postShe was a young girl
when she first played the cello,
a giggling nymph who hadn’t
yet dreamed in music notes.
With each passing year
the instrument spoke the poetry
of her change from child to woman.
Now grown into curves she dances
her bow across strings to an audience
who needs to feel wings where empty has lain
its path of stones.
©Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postPetals lace the sky
with pink drawing
sunlight closer to the heart.
Jealous winter pounds its chest
to rally icy clouds to storm the horizon,
but songbirds drown its tantrum
with the melody of Spring.
In a frosted huff winter retreats
to its tomb of dry leaves leaving spring
to transform the ashy cheek of earth into
bold brushstrokes of O’Keeffe.
Susie Clevenge -
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Blog postWindow shades
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d
in weary blinks
as night taps glass
with intrusive eyes
preying on exposure.
Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postWings thread my hair
with dandelion seeds
empowering me to trust
even a desert wind
will not stop me from blooming.
Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postMy impatient shadowraces ahead of me.
In silence it paintsthe sidewalk withan ebony caricature of the flesh it draws life from.
Wandering concrete that marsmy lawn with boundaries I feel the touch of inky felineat my ankles purring her wayinto my sunlight silhouette.
Joined in communionwe become temporary artwaiting for wind and lightto turn us into a memory.
Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postA yellow mane of petals
boldly breaks through asphalt
claiming its bit of earth
to grow its own field of dreams.
Susie Clevenger 2021
The Sunday Muse #157
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Blog postBeyond my fence trees speak
the perennial tongue of limbs
and budding leaves of newborn green.
With palms lifted to the mist
I pray the song of days in the sing song
voice of a mother clutching feathers of an empty nest.
Time is as kind as it’s cruel, as light as it’s dark,
as short as the years it grows on a calendar.
My heart cradles dreams in the heart of the oak
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Blog postwaterdrops romance leaves
outside my kitchen window
in a spring ballet
h
bold restless pacing
taps a staccato drum beat
across Tuesday’s brow
h
tiny warblers dressed
in lemon chiffon feathers
summon Rembrandts’ brush
Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postShe grew up among plastic,
and media screens with cold lips
teaching her to smile.
In the imperfect airbrushed perfect
a girl child is measured by selfie critique
and how many likes strangers tap onto
frantic gardening of faux reality.
Too much of too little value teaches
selfishness is a gold medal for tantrums,
but the old soul in her tiny frame rebels.
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Blog postshe is a rose grown
from film’s inky reflection
forever blooming
Susie Clevenger 2021
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Blog postMadness files my nails
to repetition…I look for
answers to form from
dried ink on my fingertips,
curse their silence, and
tap them together in
hollow applause hoping
to encourage flesh
to see what I can’t hear.
Minutes turn into hours
as I doggedly repeat
what doesn’t work,
and blame the clock
for what my mind can’t speak.
Have you ever tried to write
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Blog postThe perturbing constancy with my efforts with patience
is the ice that forms on the tip of the match
I try to drown.
When there is no resolution but gluing myself
to a calm I don’t feel, time turns into winter
and no matter how hot my cheeks burn,
my body is an iceberg handcuffed to pretense.
My patience isn’t pretty nor inviting.
What I don’t say with my voice my body speaks
from eyes -
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Blog postShe wears wings,
crimson feathers stained
with the blood of poppies
brooding in a sinner’s field of dreams.
Ignoring the curse assigned
to Eve’s gown of apple rinds
and devils, she dresses in the
ruby linen of rebellion to open
a garden padlocked with blame.
A scarlet crow in a murder of men
she disrupts the nest built
from the myth of ribs and
stemmy thorns of manipul
