Confessions Of A Laundry Goddess

"I am hearing poetry when awake, dreaming poetry when asleep, breathing poetry with each breath, I am living in a poem."

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I Am a Key

I am a key searching
for an opening, a door
that leads out of the rabbit hole.

Framed portals line my prison.
I’ve been pressed into a thousand excuses,
peeled confessions from my metal,
but every door asks forgiveness
and I shrink with every why.

How tall is a heart?
How rusty is a lie?

I am the key to every door,
yet I still search for the answer to freedom.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Thursday, November 16, 2017

Coffee, Tea, or Wings

Tipping Point by Anne Byrd

“Who would deduce the dragonfly from the larva, the iris from the bud, the lawyer from the infant? ... We are all shape-shifters and magical reinventors. Life is really a plural noun, a caravan of selves.” ~ Diane Ackerman

Morning arrives on dragonfly wings,
and I wonder who I’ll be
when my coffee cup is empty.

Is there an edge I must walk, be a diplomat
when I want to enter the war of words,
bloom where worry tills stones?

My mind keeps writing script my spirit must edit.
Anger wants its outrage, laughter its comedy.
The wing shift brushes silver in my palms.

On the outside I look my scruffy normal,
but within I am a tea of tipping points.
It is hard to know which brew will win.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Ann Byrd has graciously given permission to use her art print, Tipping Point, for our creative inspiration at Real Toads. Please visit Ann on Facebook, at Ann Byrd Art or her website, to see more of her incredible work.

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Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Orphaned Stone

The sky empties its womb
into the November night
in light burst limbs that reach
through eternity to glitter
eyes hungry for wonder.

Monotony, war, the mudslide
of divide is the swamp dreams
walk from sunrise to sunset.

Bloodshot eyes travel the rift
searching for a miracle and heaven
gathers every orphaned stone
into fire streams to delight the forlorn.

Thanksgiving builds its nursery
beneath the arch of stars,
willing hearts bend toward gratitude.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

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Tuesday, November 14, 2017


sundowning arrives
with agitation and tears
night is her sorrow

her weathered hands reach
for yesterday’s window sill
strangers block her view

squeaky wheels wander
echoes whispering from rooms
hell is paved with tile

©Susie Clevenger 2017

For those who might not know the term "sundowning" I have provided a definition. My mother had Alzheimer's and every evening she suffered the trauma of sunset. My mother died in November, 2007. I still grieve.

Sundowning, or sundown syndrome, is a neurological phenomenon associated with increased confusion and restlessness in patients with delirium or some form of dementia. 

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Sunday, November 12, 2017

The War

The war is coming.
The war is near.
The war turned
young into ancient.

He was too young
to know confidence
can shrink with a bullet.

Chest wide into the brag
he marched the swagger
of a man of eighteen.

War became real when
life walked a target
of kill or be killed.

Buried in blood, mud,
and dreams of a Missouri sunset
he crawled toward an enemy
to keep horror from booting
its way to home and front door.

The war came.
The war left scars.
The war turned youth into hero.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

The photos of are of my father-in-law. He was only seventeen when he enlisted. The army was supposed to only take young men who were eighteen, but war being war he went. He turned eighteen in a bunker in the Philippines taking on enemy fire. 

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Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Eye On The North

We’re all carrying keys
believing we own the door,
but truth moved just
beyond the alarm.

are digging a fire line
so unity can’t build a bridge.

Peace keeps its eye on the north
hoping sanity will silence hawkish tongues
foolish enough to threaten winter.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform
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Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Scissoring of Malice

The glory of her hair
falls in a rippled sacrifice
to the scissoring of malice.

Jealousy grinds its quarrel
into petty glass to wound
the spirit until it bleeds sorrow.

A mirror reflects but doesn’t own
golden locks echoed in its silver.

To wish is hope…To believe is trust…
beauty grows in grace with every note
sung from an insolent choir.  

©Susie Clevenger 2017

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