The Sound of Ink

In the palm of eyes and the ear of skin days darken before they even begin. The sky bleeds crows in drops of black ink, leaves rise on the fall, wither and shrink. Neither here nor there mist laces bare limbs with droplets of dew, whispers, and whims. In the season of crumble the hours grow short, shadows grow longer, and wicked holds court. Beware of what you hear, be careful where you go. Witch and winter plot in sable and drifting snow. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 Poets United ~ Midweek Motif

At the Seashore by S. Anderson Winter grumbles its gray across the sky, but I dance in the sea spill of blue racing across the sand and summon July’s spirit to pinch my cheeks with summer. Beescape by P. D. Laine Concrete molds me into its city hum of traffic growl and chaotic motion. Outside my window honeybees find their Eden in a small plot of purple and gold daises. I press my hands to the glass to feel the irony. No Title by O. Bentor bird of paradise winged blooms perched on stems color’s flight pattern Fire & Ice by S. Anderson Sunlight skinny dips in November’s chill                Daydreams learn to swim in the season of frosted breath. Green Paradise by B. Grimes Green stems cackle their song of June to yellow blossoms plump with sun. Flower Impression by S. Edwards Morning glories bloom the...

Image Source ~ Alastair Magnaldo There are many things I’ll never have in this circus of the sun. Days add and subtract, glow bright even in the sweater gray of grief. Not every ladder climb reaches a dream, but those that do imprint the spirit and keeps my heart reaching toward hope. Life is a high wire walk through light and darkness. I know I can make it if I carry at least one pocketful of sun. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 The Sunday Muse #75

Grandma’s kitchen didn’t have room for me. There were no warm fuzzies, honeyed memories, or even a space at the table. With her smothering, mothering of my cousins I was an end of the line, barely know your name, grandchild. My arms never reached nor did my lips ask for affection…Grandma didn’t have any urges to spoil an apple outside the walls of her orchard. Times were tough…I didn’t get a choice to be angry or sad…I slipped into the slot life made for me, and was taught my first dandelion lesson of how to bloom in drought. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 Real Toads ~ Weekend Mini Challenge ~ Grandma's Kitchen

Photography by Svetlana Belyaeva  Life is a party on the edge of tears. Red is the perfect color for kiss and cry. A rose would never bloom without rain. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 The Sunday Muse #71

For me to unmake the wild light that candles me would seal me in the darkness of another’s choice. Misery tried to form me from its clay of sorrow, but I refused to surrender to the sculptor’s knife. Waiting for the world to turn back to me, decide I fit in a slot I’ve outgrown is not living. I believe what you love you must love now because tomorrow could arrive empty. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 My poem was written from Kenia Santo's prompt to create a poem from a list of Post-Rock song titles she provided. The songs I chose are: Unmake the Wild Light, Waiting for the World to Turn Back to Me, and What You Love You Must Love Now. Real Toads ~ Kenia Santos

I’m going to dance, not care about stares, not care about glares. My happy grooves when music moves me to step up and step out. If I smile, you can smile. If I sway, it’s OK. If I clap, it’s no trap. Music doesn’t care how you look, doesn’t care how long it took for you to get over yourself. Bring on the band…I’ll take your hand. There’s no divide when happy glides right up to your seat to get you on your feet. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 Real Toads ~ Juice!