The Sound of Ink

Art should be served for breakfast, over easy or hard boiled, oatmeal or Danish, or a cup of black coffee poured into an astronaut cup demanding it needs more space. I love the mania of my insomnia is greeted with the weird on my walls, the odd on my shelves, and the bright splash of painted hearts dancing with shadows in my living room.  There is an anthology of quotes placed like easter eggs in frames for me to search when I can’t decide which mood to wear with my pajamas. An early riser wired with ADHD the squirrel cage in my brain attempts to conjure focus, but fails to leave crumbs for me to follow so the helter skelter  of my décor is the storm I find calm in. I enjoy my museum eclectic. It has bits of quiet and fever for attention. My curiosities, creations, and ink run cage free feeding on dust and fingerprints. Yes, art should be served for breakfast. I can sit amongst my gaggle of muses, spoon a teaspoon of cackles in my coffee, and ponder how many flowers it will ta...

Poetry inspired by art piece: Mirror, Mirror by Rosary Unate  used with permission Should I surrender my mirror to the eye of someone else? The truth in the glass is for me to see, to love, to search my spirit for strength, and acknowledge my weaknesses. Beauty is as unique as a fingerprint. I have no wish to bully myself into broken, to destroy my original to be a copy. Should I surrender my mirror? No! My mirror is mine. It is my choice what it reflects.  ©Susie Clevenger 2024

My wings are feathers of ink and pages, spines of titles, wonders that form from every sentence and exclamation.  In late autumn’s  storm of leaves I will be your umbrella so you won’t feel their tears. A thousand clipped blossoms spilled across the sand from an open car door. I suppose someone thought it was romantic, a gesture to awe a heart. In the dust mirror of summer all I could see was a garden grieving it could no longer hear the honeybees. Winter watches from the horizon. It’s barren antlers of oak limbs writing gothic poems across brittle grass that can longer feel the color of green.  He tossed his hat into the wind trusting fate had a warm heart. Silly man never considered fire takes a spark, not a sliver of ice.  If I lit a candle for each of my mistakes, I’d have every bridge burned before I could cross it.  open me to ink there are a thousand stories buried on my tongue ©Susie Clevenger 2024 Word Crafters Prompt  

She sits on my shoulder,  a feathered sage whispering to my dreams about a tomorrow I can’t see and doors yet to be open. With the gentle touch of my hair resting against her owl feathers I feel the caress of angels who  watch from Capricorn’s moon, and loneliness feels less empty. Outside my window trees write their wind stories across the glass. Without a sound the owl stirs  the silence with its wings. Within me the knowing forms, it is time for her to leave to write her own page in the journal of midnight. ©Susie Clevenger 2024  

I’m a dandelion seed, an astronaut trying to find home in a world that views me as a weed. Among the thistles of human judgement a free spirit is labeled hostile to the maintenance of status quo. Different is called demon, a light to be extinguished, a disruption  in the religion of forced definition.  ©Susie Clevenger 2024

Sylvia Path 1932-1963 Dead Grass It is agony to feel irrelevant.  I wonder if the earth swallowed me  anyone would worry I was gone or be more concerned about why the grass won’t grow any more.  Walking Dead The sun on my arms feels lonely. As much as I hunger for light my spirit has grown too comfortable with shadows. I’m the walking dead, a candle without a match. Blind Paper I beg ink for something to say. The blind eye of white paper frightens me. So Many Crossroads I took a long walk out of my mind. Insanity had so many crossroads I could never find my way back to me. ©Susie Clevenger 2024