Posts

The I Am of Wings

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  Whispering leaf bones of pines emerald my window as the last gasp of winter foams the horizon.   My heart lifts a psalm of spring in goosebumps along my arms.   The constancy of season’s change breaks the glue of grief I’ve been mired in.   For a few chords of hallelujahs I am the wings I begged God to send me. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #149

Brushstroke in Wonderland

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  In the pristine sparkle where footprints don’t mar sunlight or ruffle the coverlet of new fallen snow I am a mere brushstroke in wonderland holding space for poets who need to fill their eyes with ink. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #145

Glittering My Gloom

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  “The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence; the past is a place of learning, not a place of living.”  ― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart Yesterday loves to stalk me, haunt with mistakes, and braid my hair with fear self-revelation is a soap opera I’ll rewrite each day in my new season of blame.   I’m done wearing 2020 glasses. Lessons learned are humming through my DNA, surging through my ink and tying my shoelaces. I won’t dance through spilled wine waiting to fall.   I’m grabbing an umbrella, throwing glitter in the air and balancing on the sparkle. Why not? Every pool of optimism needs a hypomanic lifeguard when Eeyore comes to swim.   ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #143

Surviving Shadows

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  “Time flies over us but leaves its shadow behind.” ~   Nathaniel Hawthorne   Time doesn’t heal. It is the spirit’s ability to grow peace among scars that keeps the heart reaching toward tomorrow. ©Susie Clevenger 2021 The Sunday Muse #141

Of Glass and Straw

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  I’m swimming in glass… my crazy on display in wide eye view of those who ladle opinions over my skin to see if I can survive the undertone.   In a sea of stones it is the last straw that pulls me toward freedom.   ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #136

The Aftertaste of Kool-Aid

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  He was a fool, a money chaser with penny eyes and thin skin.   He sold his integrity for a liar’s promise politicians would pour gold into the rust belt.   He ignored every song had a dance, every leap a come to Jesus if bottom was a deflated balloon of hot air.   Hung by his ignorance on a conspirator’s flag, he cried foul when he was caught in his own trap.  ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #134

Wild Ride of Palette and Brush

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  The highway is a paintbrush and wide-open canvas. Talent doesn’t sit in the corner like a wall flower begging a dance…Creative likes the wind in its hair, wheels humming music through a landscape of star stunned palettes thirsting for revelation.   Do you think Dali, Frida, or Van Gogh had any F’cks to give about societal maps trying to plot their destinations?   I’d love to take a convertible ride with the three of them, slap conformity in the ass, and conjure daydreams from smoke rings storming the air.  ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #131