Mar 18, 2016

Remember ~ #FWF

Credit: We Heart It

Small town America was a big thing in 1953, but Mama didn’t think it was the place to raise her girls. Home was a three room apartment behind a post office with a gravel alley view from the screen door. You could throw a rock at the grocery store, the telephone office, and with a good arm you just might hit the train as it pulled into town.

I’m not sure of the details, but I imagine Mama kept bending my dad’s ear until he thought it was all his idea to buy a tiny house on another gravel road two miles from hectic. I do know moving day left an imprint in my two year old memory. It came with a wagging tail and a yelp.


Gravel Is Gravel


Two years old…
the world no larger than immediate…
I found a house turned into a home
with the wiggle tail welcome of a dog.

Gravel is gravel and dust is dust,
but not to the little girl me who saw
through eyes glittered by magic.

With arms wrapped in fur
life was as gold as a promise,
tears didn’t mean pain, and
memories didn’t play hide and seek.

©Susie Clevenger 2016


(Written for Kellie Elmore's #FWF prompt ~ Earliest Memory)

Black Ink Howl

March 10, 2003 found the world buzzing about the Unites States impending invasion of Iraq. Natalie Maines, of the Dixie Chicks, exercised her freedom of speech and spoke the following words about George W. Bush which dropped the group into the center of a volcano.
As Maines was introducing the Dixie Chicks’ latest single, “Travelin’ Soldier,” she said, “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.”



Black Ink Howl


A song sings erased notes

until memory forgives

what it can no longer feel.




She sang of soldiers with open heart,

but damned the head who rattled a battle cry.



A stream of prophetic is never welcome

unless it is filtered through an approved tongue.



Not ready to make nice is a black ink howl

that can never be silenced while living in an open wound.



©Susie Clevenger 2016