The Sound of Ink

  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

  “No my friend, darkness is not everywhere, for here and there  I find faces illuminated from within; paper lanterns among the dark trees.”  ―  Carole Borges In the midnight cavern where voices smother stars she is the lantern muse of poets who hunger to write a path to open sky.  ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #129 Theia ~ Greek Goddess of Sight and Heavenly Light

Image: Alexas Photos - Pixabay   The dead in me joins October leaves in their decaying crush to crumble toward spring.   With every raking of unnecessary I deny night monsters their insomniac delight in watching me pace hours I can’t reclaim.   Raven wing shadows usher Poe’s ink to coffin daylight’s misery so sleep can write its poems across my weary eyelids. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Friday Flash 55

September gently rustles dry leaves of August’s drought, and I hear it urging me to rest.   Just as it must deal with the cackle of summer’s dusted leavings, I too need to surrender the weight of months to a past I can’t unravel.   The ninth month has always birthed a hunger in me to learn, to search the unknown. This year I will nest in the breath of dreams and let peace teach worry lessons in unburdening.   ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Word Crafters Prompt ~ Favorite Month Poets and Storytellers United Weekly Scribblings #35    

  I love dragon fields spewing August dust into rain barren clouds.   The anger of summer at the end of its rope is theater I understand.   Inevitable chokes with its curse, and the rib shredding of change doesn’t earn our applause.   Sisters of sun and steamed pudding moon we know Autumn will soon arrive to taunt us with winter. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #121

We’re praying between bullets, fed pepper to season our screams, and dodging puppets who dance on an orange string.   Change came like a lion, stalked our lungs, then locked us down in a twitter nest of failure.   What will we look like when hell is over? When tomorrow doesn’t arrive with a black coffin sun?    ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Friday Flash 55

Ribbon highways tempt with destinations,  bright electric exits without melancholy brooding in the rear-view mirror.   I normally don’t look back, mind rake my yesterdays to garden good times, but stuck in non-direction even images of my overweight self are sunlight on a monochrome Sunday.   Sitting at my table of wishes I watch a cardinal through my window, drink another cup of tea, and ponder if a journey begins with a single step, how do I reach Shambala by pacing quicksand? ©Susie Clevenger 2020 I was honored to have my photo as inspiration to spark poetry at The Sunday Muse. The Sunday Muse #116 Poets and Storytellers United ~ Writer's Pantry #28