tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-507331280664166592024-03-25T06:26:27.976-07:00Susie's SentencesFill your paper with breathings of your heart~William WordsworthSusie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.comBlogger247125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-27456722899562526072024-03-25T06:24:00.000-07:002024-03-25T06:25:57.069-07:00Twila<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5W-Xp3eBKSU_BjW_zUQzZrduELgbhxKhsQGvncvEuW3SC9NkdVWet7s3229Nb3zrJuFwjayDJChR1SZBO1-PdrbFbNcm4zFrLVNt5camDJjgHODmAJEkrR4ZbARCisNOThRq7BVvziAWn5E_jKYwKWCWM-M7V1czMaADwE8QKSZ_mnku2BJoB4cagw/s1024/1ea886a803f24bad826ae95249b98a3c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO5W-Xp3eBKSU_BjW_zUQzZrduELgbhxKhsQGvncvEuW3SC9NkdVWet7s3229Nb3zrJuFwjayDJChR1SZBO1-PdrbFbNcm4zFrLVNt5camDJjgHODmAJEkrR4ZbARCisNOThRq7BVvziAWn5E_jKYwKWCWM-M7V1czMaADwE8QKSZ_mnku2BJoB4cagw/s320/1ea886a803f24bad826ae95249b98a3c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When you’re a child born from the womb of secrets, life is much harder than a blue-eyed girl who only wants to be cute enough bait to catch a boyfriend. Twila knows more about alligators than she would ever care to know about flirting. Listening to girl babble is about as much fun as getting a flu shot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Twila is everything she should be</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">and all busy bodies wish she wasn’t.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It is tough to be twelve, drink life</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">from swampy imagination, and have</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">voodoo pouring through your DNA.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There are some that say she’s</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">the granddaughter of the Rougarou,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">a wolf man hybrid haunting the Atchafalaya.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">What people don’t know; they imagine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The truth is no one knows the depth of the child.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She’s as skittish as a newborn colt, and as old</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">in spirit as Voodoo Annie, the mamba who</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">can read the water like it was a story book.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The child’s eyes are mirrors…Any wrong</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">you’ve done will look right back at you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Twila doesn’t talk to strangers so if one</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">is unlucky enough to be captured in her</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">silver stare, they get prayer kneed at her feet</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">begging for absolution. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The child, one footstep from being a woman,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">is a question no one can answer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In truth Twila doesn’t care.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She’s always walked the edge of a shadow</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">where there’s more to see than a sunny day </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">filled with couyons thinking they have God vision.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">©Susie Clevenger 2024</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p><br /> </p>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-75590964310813943382020-09-13T11:21:00.004-07:002020-09-15T13:18:03.879-07:00Voodoo Annie - Part 9 - The Twila Series<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKqQ5NAs11Xm01EK-P58933kbkBx0W_YY_NGztlN53eI2jHbrbnBiXMn6qTt5s3zBlnt51kmdIBDbAIFu4tBYQAq4TIFqRzE3AZYcXRdnYLBmYOKRf70RIT2NpTbYLm7Gsqu4s5IwQA/s1920/marsh-396601_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKqQ5NAs11Xm01EK-P58933kbkBx0W_YY_NGztlN53eI2jHbrbnBiXMn6qTt5s3zBlnt51kmdIBDbAIFu4tBYQAq4TIFqRzE3AZYcXRdnYLBmYOKRf70RIT2NpTbYLm7Gsqu4s5IwQA/w400-h300/marsh-396601_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">I sat up straight in my chair as I heard a growl from
Daddy. He leaned over the table until he was nose to nose with Mama and spit
out, “I don’t need YOU correcting me! If I was anything like your brother,
Dylan, I’d slap that word right back down your throat!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">Mama didn’t flinch. She stared back at him and answered
with a growl of her own, “If you ever touch Twila or I you will be in a prison
cell next to Dylan. I’ll call you Sir when you deserve it! Did you forget I
have your mama’s journal hidden away? Cara Mae suffered every day of her life
living with your dad and was broken hearted when you followed in his footsteps.
She poured her spirit and tears into that inky journal until the day she died
four years ago. The week before she passed, she called me into her room, and told me she wanted me to have it when Jesus came for
her. She told me to keep it safe because it had secrets Sheriff Richard would
love to find out about. I didn’t ask any
questions. She was in so much pain all I could think about was praying her
suffering would end soon. It wasn’t until Brother Rouse took me aside at the
wake, handed me a key, and told me to ask Voodoo Annie about a journal, I
remembered her words.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">I’d never seen such evil in anyone’s eyes until I looked
into Daddy’s as he stepped back from the table. He stood clinching his fists,
and shouted, “So that swamp witch has the damn journal! You shouldn’t have told
me. She won’t have it much longer!”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">Mama slid her chair back, told me not to move, and walked
around the table to stand in front of Daddy. She put a finger in the middle of
his chest and started speaking, “I’m going to tell you this once. I have the
journal now, and I’ve made a copy of it. If anything happens to me, Sheriff
Richard will have the copy before my body’s cold.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">She then turned to me and spoke, “Twila, go ahead and
call this man Father. He’s never been a Daddy.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> ©Susie Clevenger 2020</o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p>I have a link at the top of my blog for the entire Voodoo Annie story for those who would like to read it from the beginning or step back and catch up if you missed any of it.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/09/writers-pantry-37-rise-of-stink-bugs.html" target="_blank">Poets and Storytellers United Writer's Pantry #37</a><br /></o:p></p>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-14795556438077281612020-08-19T13:35:00.002-07:002020-08-19T13:41:19.097-07:00If I kept a Diary ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeIITP9gkRba6xekWfFPHWwXC1iUKvZYRVo0sfeUIHg8c1CDNq8h_eA_jkHjk5qBA2APlKHwfTAuYBGU3630V4dPh_fA0DwgS_Z22EAALbGLgsHXG0KJ341PJ_G_Fk-lg-UfoLiLbuA/s320/dorothy+golden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeIITP9gkRba6xekWfFPHWwXC1iUKvZYRVo0sfeUIHg8c1CDNq8h_eA_jkHjk5qBA2APlKHwfTAuYBGU3630V4dPh_fA0DwgS_Z22EAALbGLgsHXG0KJ341PJ_G_Fk-lg-UfoLiLbuA/s0/dorothy+golden.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">There’s always someone trying to put lemon in a wound. A sunshine
salt cookie wrapped in, “Life is a test, and you can’t always expect to make an
A. Perhaps you’re not close enough to God”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My face can never hide my feelings. Lately I’ve been
speaking in Dorothy expressions, a Golden Girl feline with my attitude rubbed
the wrong way. Covid has been keeping me pretty much at home, and with a mask
my smirk is caged when I go out, but I’ve battled my fingers to keep them from
spitting ink at people who can’t read more than a meme. If outrage were a soup,
I’d be swallowing screams for dinner. It’s hard walking on eggshells when
people are serving assumptions for appetizers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Time is a clock I can’t rewind or rush forward where agony isn’t
my daily companion. Anger is part of the path of grief. I am barefoot raw with
it now. To keep it from consuming me, lashing out when I should be silent, I am
turning to art. When I am lost in the act of creating, anger doesn’t have a
seat. Art calms me, anesthetizes my wounds, gives me peace, and leads toward
healing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">the devil’s needle<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">prick’s the spirit with bitter<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">hope removes its sting<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">©Susie Clevenger 2020</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>Samples of my work</o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1Yc_WOm8wRvLFrL7YieobibjXhB5IrkQp-1ku-IWpht1n28x7NwtGEfiucKmwQFOmo8b9bFCIQoSGNwNbmP4Qz7Z536PHu4DC_GMJzAVoC5exZDP1VOpe2MUFLj4OlmTMEjtuUKT6w/s2048/Among+Bees2+logo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1932" data-original-width="2048" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1Yc_WOm8wRvLFrL7YieobibjXhB5IrkQp-1ku-IWpht1n28x7NwtGEfiucKmwQFOmo8b9bFCIQoSGNwNbmP4Qz7Z536PHu4DC_GMJzAVoC5exZDP1VOpe2MUFLj4OlmTMEjtuUKT6w/w410-h386/Among+Bees2+logo.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><o:p><div style="text-align: center;">Among Bees</div></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAi4gW0FpP8qylE9B4ExIWBORO1sInEeTdMOIjWBdkkFLaPFS8VeHoJZuETM-KtCp-KKo5jb8F1ctTSqdER3g4O6N2W8eW1rsQ0j4V3xdTiPvolBGpI_M-60n4mOuZaWdNqx9o8oXFXg/s2048/Deadline+logo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1473" data-original-width="2048" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAi4gW0FpP8qylE9B4ExIWBORO1sInEeTdMOIjWBdkkFLaPFS8VeHoJZuETM-KtCp-KKo5jb8F1ctTSqdER3g4O6N2W8eW1rsQ0j4V3xdTiPvolBGpI_M-60n4mOuZaWdNqx9o8oXFXg/w513-h368/Deadline+logo.jpg" width="513" /></a></div><o:p><div style="text-align: center;">Deadline</div></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> My art is all done digitally. I search for images to recreate the vision my muse paints through my mind.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/08/weekly-scribblings-33-swallow-screams.html">Poets and Storytellers United ~ Weekly Scribblings #33</a> </p><p></p>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-44239720284060655122020-07-26T09:01:00.002-07:002020-07-26T09:01:38.071-07:00Voodoo Annie ~ Part 8 ~ The Twila Series<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YQGvFUgRhCiKFxufUVi0htiqGkFZQgkazKRtyYWsy90gUaDlg4n7vXIROToGd0sr231OcqACU71MpIj64QmUVC8kcUuFbw5qa8gYvpkD7VmLIFtviDKdeTXeJDCn78JBVH3bZS4huQ/s2048/animal-snake-reptile-closeup-23817.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YQGvFUgRhCiKFxufUVi0htiqGkFZQgkazKRtyYWsy90gUaDlg4n7vXIROToGd0sr231OcqACU71MpIj64QmUVC8kcUuFbw5qa8gYvpkD7VmLIFtviDKdeTXeJDCn78JBVH3bZS4huQ/s320/animal-snake-reptile-closeup-23817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Running, it’s been in the back of my mind since I stepped on
Voodoo Annie’s property. Just a bit ago I’d been searching the swamp for the
devil. Now that one is standing behind me my feet are planted solid on the
ground. Father, funny how I still think of him as Father. He was Daddy from the
first time I learned to say it. When I was eight, he came back from one of his
bar trips demanding I call him Father. He and his buddies had held a keg come
to Jesus about how their women weren’t showing respect. None of them went to
church any more, but Tom, a former preacher, knew the Bible book of Ephesians said
men had the right to tell women what to do. Drunk and religious riled they made
a pact to go home and set their women straight. Daddy came through our front
door that night tongue triggered, woke Mama and I, and told us to come to the
kitchen table. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I can still see Mama’s eyes. They were shooting darts I
thought the blind could see. Her teeth were grinding to say something, but Mama
knew when it was time to fight. That night wasn’t one of them. She walked both
of us to chairs, pulled me down next to her, and told me to keep quiet. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t think I understood a thing Daddy said until he stood
up, threw a chair across the kitchen, and yelled, “Clara, get our Bible! You
and Twila have some learning to do!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Mama picked a piece of thread from her pajamas, and said, “I
don’t know where it is. I haven’t seen it in months.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">That wasn’t what Daddy wanted to hear. He started mumbling
so low I could barely hear him, but then he sputtered out, “I don’t need the
damn book! I can tell you what Eph-eshur-ans, says about a woman’s duty to do
what her man tells her to do. I got a lot of telling, but right now I’m telling
both of you I’m the boss! Clara, you will call me Sir. Twila, stop calling me
Daddy. From now on you’ll call me Father.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Daddy, umm Father, slapped the table, and as calm as the swamp
on a windless day Mama looked into his eyes, and said, “The word is Ephesians.”
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> ©Susie Clevenger 2020</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html">Part 1</a> </o:p><a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html">Part 2</a> <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-3-twila-series.html">Part 3</a> <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-4-twila-series.html">Part 4</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-5-twila-series.html">Part 5</a> <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-6-twila-series.html">Part 6</a> <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-7-twila-series.html">Part 7</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/07/writers-pantry-30-first-paulownia-fruit.html">Poets and Storytellers United Writer's Pantry #30</a><br /></p>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-24394877090698920032020-05-24T09:13:00.000-07:002020-05-24T09:18:27.342-07:00Voodoo Annie Part 7 - The Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHT9Rf6F3bf7x3cGlNwvq6-rM6V-iNRyyJzRlMc1siAc34d7Bnn2Gxz73m0Zmcn_fmsCJ4t43y3dHmAc9usEkYoX5ZnQvkpgu4sTqMDL9d2c51psrbyl_EfiGIu2uy2wu9imvzrA4fw/s1600/silhouette-of-a-man-during-sunset-1114897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHT9Rf6F3bf7x3cGlNwvq6-rM6V-iNRyyJzRlMc1siAc34d7Bnn2Gxz73m0Zmcn_fmsCJ4t43y3dHmAc9usEkYoX5ZnQvkpgu4sTqMDL9d2c51psrbyl_EfiGIu2uy2wu9imvzrA4fw/s320/silhouette-of-a-man-during-sunset-1114897.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Blue jays talking? Where? I don’t see even one of those
winged squawkers. They never sit quiet on a limb. They complain about
everything from snake to June bug. I feel a slight tug on the sleeve of my t-shirt.
Voodoo Annie puts her left finger to her lips to keep me quiet and points her
right hand toward a dead tupelo tree behind her house. Three spots of blue sit
statue still watching us from the top of the tree. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We stare at them for what feels like the length of an
evangelist’s hell fire rant, when Voodoo Annie gives a nod in the birds
direction and starts talking, “Twila, the jays told me the man who killed my
Jenny is close. They said they were here the day he fed her poisoned chicken. He’d
been stalking Jenny for a while and studying my habits. He knew on every third
Wednesday of the month I would go to town to pick up my mail at the post office.
When I left on my usual mail trip last month, he was watching from his pirogue hidden
in the cypress stand across from my boat dock where Jenny was sunning. He paddled
close enough to toss her a chicken leg which she ate as quick as a blink. It
must have been powerful poison because in less than an hour she was gone. He
then crawled out of his boat with a wet rag, cleaned her up, and placed her on
the bank where I found her. The blue jays told me they had kept silent about it
until they could find out who he was. Jenny, you know him. He’s….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Before Voodoo Annie could say another word, we heard a
whistle behind us, and a man say, “Why Twila you’re as pretty as your mama. You’ve
changed since I last saw you three years ago.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My whole body went dead squirrel stiff. No! It’s my
imagination! It can’t be him! I feel Voodoo Annie’s arms go around me and pull
me closer to her side. Trying to catch my breath I force one word across my
tongue, “Daddy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Voodoo Annie - The Twila Series<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html" style="color: #009eb8; display: inline; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part One</a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Two</a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-3-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Three</a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-4-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Four </a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-5-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Five</a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-6-twila-series.html">Part Six</a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/05/writers-pantry-21-change-of-plans.html">Poets and Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #21</a></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-87899986331850471182020-05-17T11:17:00.000-07:002020-05-17T11:17:41.603-07:00Voodoo Annie Part 6 - The Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2gUMfK5Q7rIiC3_o-thhb9dKHAr2bslwDpcZoKcUE-xw7kwzPGQaU8LcIYGj8Oy-P4tg4FZCSI6qghYfW8UTWOhhMkkeyG84gyFSq86xx7VN8qez5pyEbaVoGi3byVcF6RImq-fXKQ/s1600/blue-jay-5066151_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2gUMfK5Q7rIiC3_o-thhb9dKHAr2bslwDpcZoKcUE-xw7kwzPGQaU8LcIYGj8Oy-P4tg4FZCSI6qghYfW8UTWOhhMkkeyG84gyFSq86xx7VN8qez5pyEbaVoGi3byVcF6RImq-fXKQ/s400/blue-jay-5066151_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Grabbing me Voodoo Annie huffs out, “Twila, what are you
doing? If I hadn’t caught you, you would have plowed right into that cypress
post.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Panting like a hound on a chase, I squeak out, “I was
trying to see what evil might be walking up on us. Miss Annie, I don’t feel
very well. My stomach is tumbling like mama’s clothes dryer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Guiding me to a stump so I can sit down, Voodoo Annie
pats my head and says, “Twila, there’s nothing to be afraid of. No one is going
to bother you. Whoever is up to no good has me as a target. If anyone should be
afraid, it is the one who thinks they can scare me into doing their bidding.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Calmed by Voodoo Annie’s unusual tenderness my stomach
returns to its normal hungry grumble. All’s well for a few wiggle moments on my
stump stool until I spot jelly jars scattered in the grass. Visions of mayhaw
jelly oozing from broken glass cause my heart to thump in my throat again, and quick
as a spring popping through a mattress I make a leap toward the jars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Before I can get two steps in a run my bottom is forced
down on the stump with Voodoo Annie spraying spittle on my cheek shouting, “Child!
What’s wrong with you! Didn’t I just tell you there’s nothing for you to be
afraid of? You’re as wild eyed as a rabbit in a trap!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Squirming to run again I point toward the jars and cry
wail, “Mama told me to get that mayhaw jelly safely in your hands! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to be in all kinds of trouble when I
go home to tell her ants are the only things eating her jelly!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Voodoo Annie eases her grip on my shoulders and speaks, “Twila,
they aren’t broken. They’re nestled in that grass like swamp sparrow eggs
waiting to hatch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be eating your
mama’s jelly on toast before the sun sets.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I want to believe her, but still uneasy I slowly rise to
go check for myself when I feel Annie clutch my shoulders again. She leans to
whisper in my ear, “Twila, be still! Blue jays are talking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Voodoo Annie - The Twila Series</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part One</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Two</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-3-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Three</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-4-twila-series.html" style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #009eb8; display: inline; font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light", HelveticaNeue-Light, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; outline: none; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s;">Part Four </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/05/voodoo-annie-part-5-twila-series.html">Part Five</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/05/writers-pantry-20-name-by-any-other.html">Poets And Storytellers United - Writer's Pantry #20</a></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-30131980483986950552020-05-12T10:00:00.000-07:002020-05-12T10:00:39.355-07:00Voodoo Annie Part 5 - The Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gQtuPdsN1g0FRZW6gGV-84yktQYyrh2_GIoI8Whp-7xhaJ3PHnoFtHKl-RwtG84CV3YY71rRjjZcHDhYz0FnIup5tmeO3fOelaTS0QlMut8VrgmhX_D9eC8yGlQm8PlEj95_vpJI0Q/s1600/big-cypress-mangrove-swamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gQtuPdsN1g0FRZW6gGV-84yktQYyrh2_GIoI8Whp-7xhaJ3PHnoFtHKl-RwtG84CV3YY71rRjjZcHDhYz0FnIup5tmeO3fOelaTS0QlMut8VrgmhX_D9eC8yGlQm8PlEj95_vpJI0Q/s400/big-cypress-mangrove-swamp.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
I hate being scared, scared can turn you into a crybaby. Voodoo
Annie sensing it is a human who killed her Jenny is a whole different level of
scared than the bump in the night kind. People are hard to read. They can reach
out with one hand to pat your cheek and carry a switch in the other one to bloody
your leg. My whole body is twitching with the urge to ask Voodoo Annie why she thinks
flesh and blood is the reason for Jenny’s death. I’ve pinched my right arm so
much trying to keep quiet it will be a nest of bruises tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
Voodoo Annie goes bone stiff and says, <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“There’s a lot of gator hunters who don’t like I own some of
the best swamp hunting land in the county. I’ve got one old gator, Brute, living
about a mile from my boat dock that’s every bit of fourteen feet long. Hunters
start bugging me as early as July about hunting that part of my land for a
chance to catch him. Brute has managed to take down everything in his way for
years. So far, he hasn’t ventured too far from his kingdom, so I let him be. Also,
the men are working their teeth about a woman having so much power over a hunt.
That’s nothing new. It started the moment I bought this bit of swamp. These
days the harping is getting much darker. Whoever killed Jenny is trying to
scare me into letting him hunt my land. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
I find out who it is, there won’t be enough mercy prayers to save him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I
don’t like the look in Voodoo Annie’s eyes. She’s seeing things in her head.
Mama says when Voodoo Annie’s eyes go cloudy, she’s looking into the spirit
world. Annie already told me she thought it was a human causing trouble. So,
why is she searching the unseen? A new set of goosebumps crawl along my arm.
Moaning I spin in a circle to search our surroundings for anything breathing
that could be creeping up on us. Dizzy, I trip over the basket with the jelly
in it, and pitch headfirst toward the fence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Voodoo Annie ~ The Twila Series</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html">Part One</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html">Part Two</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-3-twila-series.html">Part Three</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-4-twila-series.html">Part Four </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/05/writers-pantry-19-birthing-hope.html">Poets and Storytellers Untied ~ Writer's Pantry #19</a></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-52996836760219340952020-04-27T14:34:00.002-07:002020-04-27T14:35:23.146-07:00Mama Didn't Know There'd be Days Like This<img height="360" src="https://wallpaperplay.com/walls/full/1/7/a/70817.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There are days I feel like an empty house filled with
echoes. I know there is a tomorrow outside my window but sitting on the pause
button feels like a test, an exam I’ve been given with no notes to review. Does
it matter how many shoes I have in my closet with the sidewalks quiet? Will I
need to learn to talk again when words aren’t funneled through a mask? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Also, there are days when I am as mad as Alice’s hatter. Even
now as I write this my mind has taken a paisley trip to my eye color. My driver’s
license has my eye color as blue, but let me walk in with a green dress, and my
eyes chameleon themselves into a shade of green. Oh, and earlier today I fell
down the rabbit hole examining a bug crawling on my chair. I swear it looked
like moving garden mulch…. My mind is a cat with ten legs trying to
squeeze through a button hole. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
the madness in me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
has an overactive tongue<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
it spills through my eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/04/writers-pantry-17-growing-safety.html">Poets and Storytellers United ~ Writer's Pantry #17</a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-2363238646523006362020-04-19T10:22:00.000-07:002020-04-19T10:22:19.393-07:00Voodoo Annie Part 4 - The Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6A4XRbmf9u1FGGcYxERaCQV8fsd94xCgyY_5-MuQzS-zouEJEfkBuium_MIMvK2R-HtX9UQf67utkKJ4AvgFE8ducZZkkFsXpe0IsXfSS5f5SjRWDXaSV8ymoZGmqy69zqbVatv5vw/s1600/5884909936_3f4c9c0c4c_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="799" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6A4XRbmf9u1FGGcYxERaCQV8fsd94xCgyY_5-MuQzS-zouEJEfkBuium_MIMvK2R-HtX9UQf67utkKJ4AvgFE8ducZZkkFsXpe0IsXfSS5f5SjRWDXaSV8ymoZGmqy69zqbVatv5vw/s320/5884909936_3f4c9c0c4c_c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
With eyes saucer wide Twila becomes unnaturally still.
Everything in her is screaming run, yet she stands paralyzed as the wind moves
from the last chime to her hair. Slowly tendrils of hair slip out of her ponytail
until a tug causes all her hair to free fall down her shoulders. Her mouth dry
with fear she manages a hoarse whisper, “Miss Annie, I’ve got goosebumps
crawling all over me. I’ve never seen wind pick and choose what it wants to
move.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Voodoo
Annie stares out at the swamp and begins to speak, “Twila, for about a week the
swamp’s been too quiet. Most nights the bullfrogs are making so much noise a
person can hardly think, but I’m not hearing one croak now. Things have been
strange ever since I found my pet alligator, Jenny, dead on the bank a month
ago. I’ve been going to that spot waiting, calling for her spirit to come talk
to me. Her spirit’s come close. I’ve even felt her slap the ground with her tail
like she always did when she came looking for a handout, but she’s not given me
a message. Jenny was young when she passed, only about four feet long. When I
found her dead, there wasn’t a mark on her. It didn’t feel natural. I’ve been
dealing with spirits my whole life. They can be annoying and downright evil.
Jenny’s death didn’t have spirit work on it. The devil likes to give you a sign
and pester you with details. It stinks of human.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p> ©Susie Clevenger 2020</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/04/writers-pantry-16-april-prepares-us-for.html">Poets and Storytellers United ~ Writer's Pantry #16</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html">Part 1</a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html">Part 2</a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-3-twila-series.html">Part 3</a></div>
<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-22799848588285686162020-04-15T11:07:00.001-07:002020-04-15T12:22:58.209-07:00 Between Moon and Freakout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJx1X4e_MiLAQ8UJKQnmPaWT9iXGbL3XQJOIMsaQYLrIt5PBJd26kxHzkv1UlKy9yXYUXEJH4vl1HbiI78TKVqpvD4_dXJeIOw2H5hi3MtHiHbBLiC-g_kfOgs_867td0sBru3Rcbsg/s1600/moon+spiral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1237" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisJx1X4e_MiLAQ8UJKQnmPaWT9iXGbL3XQJOIMsaQYLrIt5PBJd26kxHzkv1UlKy9yXYUXEJH4vl1HbiI78TKVqpvD4_dXJeIOw2H5hi3MtHiHbBLiC-g_kfOgs_867td0sBru3Rcbsg/s400/moon+spiral.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s hard to know what day it is. Pandemic calendar dates
and the clock are strange roommates who hint at the future but lock you into pacing
windows to watch the sun crawl the horizon. I started a journal three weeks into social distancing so
I could have a historical record of my stay home mania. Started, key word,
because it sits on my desk without much input from my pen. Most of the time I’m
writing out my dark with poetry. Living in the mood pool of four adults there’s
a plethora of emotions to affect my ink. We are a loud family so high volume usually
isn’t a problem, but I’m finding my raw nerves are ramping up to freak out when
loud live humans mix with the TV volume set on rock star deaf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The volume gymnastics isn’t a pretty workout. It is a
flushing pant mixed with my insides jump roping with my heart. The introvert me
wrestles with my brash, “I got this" extrovert until “we” hear the bell to take it outside for a deep breath of alone and a cool
down ugly cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thankfully there’s only been a couple of times I’ve exercised
on the edge. Frankly, I needed it. It cleared my head and helped put things in
perspective. The truth is I <b>am</b> going to ride an emotional roller
coaster. There will be moments of hands up grabbing fists of blue sky followed
by the down slide into the snarky pool of foul mood. Today it’s a dark dip. My
pen is drinking ink with a raven. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
Folly of Unlucky,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
dark dance<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
of a blackout poem mind<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
scratching through Poe’s Diary<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
to find a rainbow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p>©Susie Clevenger 2020 </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p>#napowrimo2020 Day 15</o:p></div>
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<o:p>Inspired by: #skyloverwordlist - unlucky</o:p></div>
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<a href="https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/04/history-is-twistery-folly.html">Real Toads ~ Folly</a></div>
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<o:p> <a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/04/weekly-scribblings-15-poets-and.html">Poets and Storytellers United - Weekly Scribblings #15 - Covid19 Quarantine Histories</a></o:p></div>
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<o:p><a href="http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2020/04/april-2020-days-11-15.html">Real Toads - April 2020 - Day 15</a></o:p></div>
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Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-14559160029750034342020-04-12T14:34:00.000-07:002020-05-12T09:46:21.445-07:00Voodoo Annie ~ Part 3 ~ The Twila Series <div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="400" src="https://apis.mail.yahoo.com/ws/v3/mailboxes/@.id==VjN-Ib67KChlE2UKjEyuB0RyPi1xi54dMjuoLUK-nT5V8u2pxQtCVsWo4_H6_HNN2ffEBmBxuc2UTjmHlmQVvjcwMQ/messages/@.id==AHoUK0wL5mlFXpHtrQM8ICxxrsE/content/parts/@.id==2/thumbnail?appId=YMailNorrinLaunch&downloadWhenThumbnailFails=true&pid=2" width="300" /></div>
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Image: Susie Clevenger</div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Just
as I decide to bolt through the gate and pray Voodoo Annie doesn’t greet me
with a shotgun the hand gripping my shoulder drops down to rest on my left wrist.
Thank God I recognize the alligator bone ring on the left thumb. I take a quick
turn and come eye to eye with Voodoo Annie. Without thinking I blurt out, “Miss
Annie, you scared the life out of me! What’s wrong with your voice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When
the last word passed over my lips, I knew I’d crossed a line. Voodoo Annie
hates questions. If any are asked, she does the asking. From the tilt of her
head I see a storm forming. She straightened her back, dead stared me right in
the eyes, and let out a hoot that sent a shiver through me. I step back to get
out of Voodoo Annie’s reach and snake bite quick she lunges and wraps her
fingers in my shirt causing the basket of mayhaw jelly to fall from my right hand. Knowing better than to risk pulling out of her grip I
stand still. She continues to glare at me and without warning she lets go of
me, gives a couple of twitches and bends over cackling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Not
sure what to do, I remain still wondering what’s coming next. After a couple of
minutes Voodoo Annie raises up and starts talking, “Twila, you’ve more spunk
than anyone I know. There are very few grown men who will cross me by asking a
question, but I find you here uninvited, nosing around my gate, and right off
the bat before you explain yourself, you’re in my face with a question.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Cautiously,
I look down at Voodoo Annie’s hand on my shirt and say, “Miss Annie, you don’t
sound like yourself. There’s a lot of deep gravel rolling in your words.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The
smile on Voodoo Annie’s face disappears as she lets go of me to place her hand
on the gris-gris bag hanging around her neck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without a bit of a breeze the wind chimes
behind me begin playing one by one. Beside me I hear a dog growl. When I look
down to my feet, there’s nothing but empty grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
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<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html">Part 1</a></div>
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<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/04/voodoo-annie-part-2-twila-series.html">Part 2</a></div>
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<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/04/writers-pantry-15-all-about-that-love.html">Poets and Storytellers United ~ Writer's Pantry #15</a></div>
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Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-52093072047304557852020-04-06T09:37:00.000-07:002020-05-12T09:47:35.625-07:00Voodoo Annie ~ Part 2 ~ The Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqaFJRuZ4nKeiaVai2HuBOu4gT_WO7XeA7bPMHjeWmEZW5SytmXMN9A4PjV_wHgto4xl3L-q831N5Htncl2pjCoKNy-AymKC2YbWBQLc3skPQu28UD8J7N20Sq8dnAPQ5k3A1qDcEgCw/s1600/window-with-broken-glass-2724373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqaFJRuZ4nKeiaVai2HuBOu4gT_WO7XeA7bPMHjeWmEZW5SytmXMN9A4PjV_wHgto4xl3L-q831N5Htncl2pjCoKNy-AymKC2YbWBQLc3skPQu28UD8J7N20Sq8dnAPQ5k3A1qDcEgCw/s400/window-with-broken-glass-2724373.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I
wish I didn’t know any of the tales about Voodoo Annie, especially today. Mama
woke me as soon as the sun came through the kitchen curtains to send me on an
errand to take mayhaw jelly to Annie. The basket in my right hand only has two
jars, but it feels like I’m carrying a dozen with all the imaginings I’ve dropped
in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Voodoo
Annie protects her bit of the swamp like it was the last apple pie of summer. She
has a 30-foot warning circle around her cabin that doesn’t let anyone get close
without making a ruckus. Tin plates, wind chimes, and bottles hang jangle to
jangle on clotheslines strung above the cypress fence. She says she can tell if
it’s wind or warning when noise comes rattling toward her door. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t care for the few friends she has
let alone allow a stranger to get a toe on her front porch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sure hope wind doesn’t turn to warning this
morning. Voodoo Annie recognizes me when she sees me, but I’ve never knocked on
her door before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Quicker
than a knee shiver the southern breeze stops as I look up at a crow chime
freeze above me. Like one of my old crybaby dolls I feel a whimper worrying
my throat. I look toward the house and decide I might as well start screaming
because there’s no way I can slip through the fence without waking the dead. I
start to call Voodoo Annie’s name when I feel a hand grab my shoulder and a
raspy voice whisper in my ear causing me to drop the jelly basket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Twila,
what are you doing here? It’s barely 7:00 a.m. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Pretty
sure doesn’t feel like much comfort when you’re debating if the bony fingers
digging in your skin are ghost or real. I’ve heard Voodoo Annie speak plenty of
times. Whoever or whatever is behind me doesn’t sound a thing like her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>©Susie Clevenger 2020</o:p></span></div>
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Part 1 <a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2020/03/voodoo-annie-twila-series.html">Here</a></div>
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<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/04/writers-pantry-14-silence-is-not.html">Poet and Storytellers United ~ Writer's Pantry #14</a></div>
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Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-28637594682718601932020-03-22T11:01:00.001-07:002020-05-12T09:38:50.739-07:00Voodoo Annie ~ Twila Series<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3M0TnuEjsG_Ojgt-dpmRcKBJJEpM7YIpZRZ0NCSqJ6LdaZ4JgnA70MXvVbXitMhUc9ptA8ABMXjWWKjUaIMBZq7z6SRa2mZ2hXKwOnpQwdbko5Lm92EZL2R70jTsVZcmRDgKsbI-SqA/s1600/brown-reptile-3311093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3M0TnuEjsG_Ojgt-dpmRcKBJJEpM7YIpZRZ0NCSqJ6LdaZ4JgnA70MXvVbXitMhUc9ptA8ABMXjWWKjUaIMBZq7z6SRa2mZ2hXKwOnpQwdbko5Lm92EZL2R70jTsVZcmRDgKsbI-SqA/s320/brown-reptile-3311093.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I never use big words. There’s not much need of them when you’re fifth generation swamp born, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty of them sitting in the back of my mind. Just last week in Mr. Timms history class he was discussing British hierarchy as it applied to royalty. There’s a king, then queen, prince, princess, and on and on until the bottom seems to me to be nothing more than hungry crawdads fighting for food in a mudhole. He told us we don’t have that sort of system in the United States because we’re a democracy. That may be true, but here along the Atchafalaya there is a ladder of sorts people line up on. Voodoo Annie owns the top rung with people pushing and clawing to sit on the second one. There’s not a single soul who wants to roost on the bottom of the ladder. It earns as much notice as a single mosquito in a mid-August swarm. </div>
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Mama told me Annie looks as old as she did thirty years ago. Some say she was born old. Mama’s Grannie Tessie played with Voodoo Annie when they were both children. Annie was wrinkled as a brown, dry apple even then. No one knows who her parents were. She toddled out of the swamp around four years old, naked, carrying a tiny alligator in her hands. People along the Atchafalaya river and into the swamp took turns letting her stay with them. Way I see it they were just too scared to cross her. Ear worm gossip carries tales Voodoo Annie was birthed from a spell. </div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
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The beginning of a story I'm working on for my Twila series.</div>
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<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/03/writers-pantry-12-you-gotta-know-when.html">Poets and Storytellers United: Writer's Pantry #12</a></div>
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Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-22560059005150256752020-02-12T14:55:00.000-08:002020-02-12T14:55:26.414-08:00Clichés – I’ve Lived a Few<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3w1o2tASgxGF1YJgGjrOmPYZBb2YpK6CeYgDF4xwapolC9Z7HTzcm38G5mF3z2NeO2ekPq317FMMIQPMjQtQLwnrsYQpTusXxJ8wUfH0t_HZfofRfCKi90U32rZkbM5c1keGNTMeig/s1600/close-up-dark-drop-of-water-droplet-461337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3w1o2tASgxGF1YJgGjrOmPYZBb2YpK6CeYgDF4xwapolC9Z7HTzcm38G5mF3z2NeO2ekPq317FMMIQPMjQtQLwnrsYQpTusXxJ8wUfH0t_HZfofRfCKi90U32rZkbM5c1keGNTMeig/s320/close-up-dark-drop-of-water-droplet-461337.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
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"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter." e.e. cummings</div>
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I’m tired of making lemonade. Its acid gets to be too
much for my teeth and attitude. Smiling through storms that keep forming from
the “God doesn’t give you more than you can take” thunderheads are so wearying.
I’ve got suspenders on my big girl panties because I’ve worn out the elastic.
How many lemons does it take to fill a life before bitter starts salting every
rainbow? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Whew! That’s a bit caustic, but I don’t think I have
enough incense or lung capacity to reach zen. Writing is supposed to be therapy
so welcome to mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Clouds have silver linings,<o:p></o:p></div>
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but I’m in a lemon storm<o:p></o:p></div>
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trying to find a cup of sugar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> ©Susie Clevenger 2020</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/02/weekly-scribblings-6-turn-cliche-into.html">Poets and Story Tellers Weekly Scribblings #6 ~ Turn Cliche into poetry or prose</a></o:p></div>
<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-53206457405304968262020-01-19T20:16:00.000-08:002020-01-19T20:16:52.969-08:00Tuesday's Recycle<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNYsdwCOs5JT_osVkHSYPTL3lQk7cYEdK6b-lQCL8VmsCJdC_nlc0dS2st5zhPlWsKHyRtmR5kvOosuDwmQJwcEYhLGn_fuXNIutD2rfm_C1ruSdswwaK4KpfFEKeHAketHxDhUpJ48Y/s1600/bottle+tree.jpg" /></div>
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I am the spectacle, the Tuesday oddity that draws gossips
to windows to watch my ceremony of recycle. With gloves and rosary, I approach
the live oak tree on my front lawn and remove the devil’s brew hanging from its
limbs. It is my bottle tree, my place to trap evil so my threshold is safe. Oh,
I know the sun has drunk its fill, burned hell from the glass so daylight is
safe, but I like to grow a little fear in a garden of eyes, so feet think twice
about walking opinions across the street. Reciting the “prayer of corks” I make sure each
bottle has a stopper before I untie it and place it in my receptacle of sins. Once
the task is complete, I roll my unholy recycle to the graveyard of curbs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With one task complete another one begins. Speaking a prayer
for new bottles to gather and keep I rehang my unsaintly sparkle to woo wicked
into glass it will never escape. Bowing to faces that look but can’t see I give
them one last plumb to sweeten gossip. I turn three times to dizzy their lies and
walk back through my door with crow latch and no windows. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I leaf my oak tree with glass<o:p></o:p></div>
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to bottle evil, a limbed distillery <o:p></o:p></div>
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where wicked crawls in but<o:p></o:p></div>
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can never crawl out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They sway and sparkle … Seduce to confine…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brew devilish into cackles shadows avoid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When the moon is full, and evil is hungry,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I dance my demons to the tip of my tongue,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and sing them into the throat of their prison. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/2020/01/sunday-muse-91.html">The Sunday Muse #91</a></div>
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<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/01/writers-pantry-3-be-warm.html">Poetry and Storytellers #3: Be Warm</a></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-83175700708652889332020-01-05T09:22:00.000-08:002020-01-05T09:22:30.042-08:00The Bark Ate My Poem<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBF7Aw_89bo51q8f0jhKuDTO7QRXDVTaRFsVUrqEK-9ZeuxfnV85ub0mG3JtuLk5Z5vnCMiJ3QiRWj3dn7kYbHzMF_5Uv4bQvFttdeFcWiUHChdyLap0EAGIXeyP8o4f4dXAZWcxLggg/s1600/brown-wooden-planks-889839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBF7Aw_89bo51q8f0jhKuDTO7QRXDVTaRFsVUrqEK-9ZeuxfnV85ub0mG3JtuLk5Z5vnCMiJ3QiRWj3dn7kYbHzMF_5Uv4bQvFttdeFcWiUHChdyLap0EAGIXeyP8o4f4dXAZWcxLggg/s320/brown-wooden-planks-889839.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The barking on the other side of the fence slams against
my window bullying every creative thought forming in my head until not even two
words can agree they should form a sentence. I have empathy for the animal, a German Shepard, sentenced to walk a fence with
the fragile hope a tail wag will at least win a pat on the head from its owner,
but noise insults my muse and she will sulk into dry ink if she has to compete
with distraction. Diva and canine leave me at a desk of frustration attempting
to complete what never gets started.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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chasers of ink<o:p></o:p></div>
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detest empty<o:p></o:p></div>
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desert minds<o:p></o:p></div>
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thirst for illumination <o:p></o:p></div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/01/writers-pantry-1-home-is-people.html">Writer's Pantry #1: Home is People</a></div>
</div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-58976425619085962292020-01-02T15:17:00.000-08:002020-01-03T07:58:52.384-08:00Not Enough Ink for Hysteria<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaNNZnIPR9Z5eB144UaNjFZpPN7J0807MlmvU1H1tpEAB9FzB_F5e1L0NJZos-hyxWOXDQOr_76RjfJtZObJYtgARinO-b49rJYkzlquSuugcRS6r_HIouf07EMwdzSuXgHlXJPC9og/s1600/brown-human-eye-2873058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaNNZnIPR9Z5eB144UaNjFZpPN7J0807MlmvU1H1tpEAB9FzB_F5e1L0NJZos-hyxWOXDQOr_76RjfJtZObJYtgARinO-b49rJYkzlquSuugcRS6r_HIouf07EMwdzSuXgHlXJPC9og/s400/brown-human-eye-2873058.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Little stiches of the sun’s gray quilt drip down my
cheeks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chilled damp air greets me on
the second day of the new year, and I feel like the lottery scratch-off
unfolding of a new decade has already plunged me into the river of why. Oh, I
could list a dozen woes, but I don’t like the smell of dull ink. How does one
channel hysteria into words? I am too strong to wade through pity and too weak
to carry vulnerable up the mountain I must climb. A new calendar can’t erase
what lingers or burn bridges if I never strike a match. It is so true that you shouldn’t
judge a book by the shine on a smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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bringing old to new<o:p></o:p></div>
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uncomfortable sweater<o:p></o:p></div>
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knitted with regrets<o:p></o:p></div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2020</div>
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<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-91452996828168124322019-08-16T15:40:00.000-07:002019-08-16T15:40:24.697-07:00Word Swarm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yMdkWnvpO3-Sk7okaR1B3nbBWHuaVRkzsiPyz-Ny9yEyFism8sVWvrq_10w7IAdAiWxdtu89Mt92URlUCYfJxPfr4AOGtcxGB55qrn4l8vXkbyxxnl8G9mSHGn4zQdb7GUkrz8sP0g/s1600/Listening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1538" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yMdkWnvpO3-Sk7okaR1B3nbBWHuaVRkzsiPyz-Ny9yEyFism8sVWvrq_10w7IAdAiWxdtu89Mt92URlUCYfJxPfr4AOGtcxGB55qrn4l8vXkbyxxnl8G9mSHGn4zQdb7GUkrz8sP0g/s320/Listening.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>
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I have found rejection and criticism comes with a poetry
book. Not everyone who writes one faces it, but my self-published, Indie
publishing, attend a book fair as an author self has had more than her fair
share of it. There are times I’ve felt I had the plague. People sidestep, don’t
give eye contact, or drop the occasional inquiry about what kind of books I
write only to respond when told it is poetry with their affirmation, I don’t
like poetry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had one author tell me, “Oh, you write poetry, it doesn’t
require research. It all just comes from your head.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, my head is full of lots of things. Things based on
fact, fantasy, emotion, dreams, harsh reality, and on and on. If I have written
a poetry book of one hundred poems, I have written a book of one hundred stand
alone literature pieces. (Excuse my boldness in calling my work literature.)
Oh, and the research thing, I do research when it is necessary to my writing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I think writing, as with any art form, takes boldness to
put it on public display knowing it can bring criticism. I have my pity moments
at times but refuse to give up my passion because someone wants to pour vinegar
on effort or content. I can grow from critique. Criticism is a word swarm of
gnats I don’t have to entertain or give validation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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by:<a href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967">Susie Clevenger</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/08/moonlight-musings-the-interactive-edition-1.html">Poets United ~ Moonlight Musings: the Interactive Edition, #1</a><br />
<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-75357382728745354522019-07-07T15:54:00.000-07:002019-07-07T15:54:54.910-07:00I Never Leave Home<br />
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<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCU4cjbBrUhhrjbYuGIHCaW_af_I7-9v145hjlJXIsU763AZCwJMW1b-dtbAc5qF8NMo2TaFKwgrqa-0_btL7_uo5716gRPLyNpmx_L7p9JoqAtYSF8obpnwAK2rspsLiNBluSZbf3tA/s1600/fractal-437399_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1185" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCU4cjbBrUhhrjbYuGIHCaW_af_I7-9v145hjlJXIsU763AZCwJMW1b-dtbAc5qF8NMo2TaFKwgrqa-0_btL7_uo5716gRPLyNpmx_L7p9JoqAtYSF8obpnwAK2rspsLiNBluSZbf3tA/s400/fractal-437399_1920.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can
go as we are and not be questioned.” </span></i><i>― Maya Angelou, All God's Children Need Traveling Shoe</i></div>
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I was born from a spirit who couldn’t find home. My
mother was angry tears, and a broken child searching for a heart to let her in.
In her agony she built a wall in her womb that separated us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When my own agony came from my uncle’s abuse, I was already
preconditioned to store silence. I should clarify it was a noisy silence. I was
a distraught, crying child who couldn’t be comforted. My mother didn’t know my terror,
so I drove her to an edge without an escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In roots where secrets are planted in life reasons never sprout
leaves so questions brood and grow thorns. It was in that void imagination
became my home. I took myself out of what I didn’t understand and lived in
books, a butterfly chase, or the wild path of untamed dreams. Within me was a
home where pain didn’t have a key to the door or shadows to keep me from
sunlight. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Even now at sixty-eight years old with all I’m blessed to
own it’s the home within that nurtures me. It is where I can travel in the
middle of chaos to find peace, the place where I can grow cackles on windowsills,
and no one complains my laughter is too loud or has the bleating of a goat. It
is rooms where curtains are words waiting for me to write them on paper. It is
a beautiful place where things don’t have to make sense because imagination doesn’t
care if you’re hearing voices in wallpaper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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©Susie Clevenger</div>
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<a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/07/telling-tales-with-magaly-guerrero.html">Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #5 ~ Away from Home</a></div>
<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-49716451432166502022019-06-02T16:17:00.000-07:002019-06-02T16:17:20.095-07:00Epiphany<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcAUVcQrutcHrlukbMa6A_ppVA4_1ObhDlFKG7FcUKS8f6XbA4yn5iihY2sxNajFuCyWy0L0AW-0bWK5CG5sACFrFHO7FGFovkTh5_MNCXGdWlCUeVRkZFpkVWtp9hTfYmQTgDxO0DA/s1600/IMG_1317-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcAUVcQrutcHrlukbMa6A_ppVA4_1ObhDlFKG7FcUKS8f6XbA4yn5iihY2sxNajFuCyWy0L0AW-0bWK5CG5sACFrFHO7FGFovkTh5_MNCXGdWlCUeVRkZFpkVWtp9hTfYmQTgDxO0DA/s400/IMG_1317-001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Clouds I’d watched form on the horizon are now above me
pelting me with wind and rain. The charged air matches my mood. With nothing in
my view except shingles lifting from roofs my thoughts turn to men’s eagerness
to collect gold to glitter wallets and thumbs, ignoring the truth I am the tree
that gives them breath. I inhale the vile air to exhale oxygen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their lungs and my roots branch the same
temporal, yet they sing their own funerals with every axe. My sisters have been
slaughtered to build human temples of vanity. I was spared to shade concrete, a
grand gesture to be their token of conservation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Angry as the spring storm shaking my limbs, I drop leaves
in green fistfuls hoping I will be left bare when the wind releases me. Through
a lightening strike I see a face framed in a window near my lowest branch. It
is a little girl with her hands raised as if she trying to push back the rain.
Her frantic gestures and determination shame me. She has often played in the
small plot of grass at my feet. Yesterday a woman lifted her so she could place
a dandelion bouquet in the center of the heart shaped scar on my trunk. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With limbs drooping I felt both the storm and anger
release me. The blond child in the window begins to clap and twirl. I realize
love had come to visit me almost every day. A child full of nursery songs and
stories about unicorns was a light I hadn’t noticed. My hours had been spent chasing
bitter when hope sat on a pink blanket knitted with giggles and curls telling
me tomorrow wasn’t lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2019</div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/06/telling-tales-with-magaly-guerrero.html">Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero ~ a pantry of prose, #4, From the Point of View of Trees</a></span></div>
<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-41990904192493152752019-05-05T16:15:00.000-07:002019-05-05T16:17:24.537-07:00Free From the Scent of Wet Plaster<br />
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Insomnia and I became acquainted when I was five years
old. It was in the time of monsters where pretend was sacrificed on the altar
of real. Innocence didn’t know how it would die, because it didn’t know hell
lived outside the castle of dolls in a green room of forced silence. It was
impossible to curl into a lullaby when evil’s voice kept whispering, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t Tell</i>, from every shadow dancing
across walls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There was no place to run when the house was sleeping; no
place to hide when nightmares were tied to the sun in a knot so tight starlight
couldn’t bring freedom. The ceiling was a mirror of the secrets on my tongue,
and curtains mocked my eyes that never closed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Years collected hours of wide awake until my body
adjusted to running on little rest. I once asked my doctor if he was worried
for my health.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Without a pause he answered, “No, that’s your normal. If
it had just started, I would be concerned. “<o:p></o:p></div>
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Insomnia has become a companion. I’ve tried to smother
her in a pillow, but she just laughs as we take another trip around the moon.
We joke about the irony I write in a green room when my nightmares where born in
walls covered in green paint. Oh, but we agree <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this room</i> doesn’t bring fear because it is filled with light and
doesn’t bear the overwhelming scent of decaying, wet plaster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
©Susie Clevenger 2019<br />
248 words<br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/05/telling-tales-with-magaly-guerrero.html">Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #3 ~ Phobias and Fears</a>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-32340062040118657752019-04-15T13:18:00.001-07:002019-04-15T13:18:30.891-07:00The Dust Parted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikcqHaax625MIQTtcltfN_YxekRbJ7LuYlNmV0Ul_RrT27eaPTj4LMj4vQ800netFaJHSjRxi3Y_KL3pZmSDJJ_IM4V2h2uTtloFX8PWm0fj40QYmj1r8TJaADfYVOArzQ5G1nZ5RiUw/s1600/Dirt+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikcqHaax625MIQTtcltfN_YxekRbJ7LuYlNmV0Ul_RrT27eaPTj4LMj4vQ800netFaJHSjRxi3Y_KL3pZmSDJJ_IM4V2h2uTtloFX8PWm0fj40QYmj1r8TJaADfYVOArzQ5G1nZ5RiUw/s320/Dirt+Road.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Solid floor held my legs until I was strong enough to
walk gravel. Swaddled and delivered to my first home of three rooms with an
alley view, I learned to toddle in tiny spaces, but I was always headed to the
screen door. Outside were motion, rock dust, and conversation. Too social for
silence I’d chatter in my unknown tongue to anyone who passed by close enough
to hear. One day the dust parted (my biblical version), and mama took me by the
hand to introduce my hard soles to the rock and roll of gravel walking. I learned quickly to decide if my destination was
worth the possibility of a fall.</div>
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</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>r</o:p>ocky ground</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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doesn’t hinder<o:p></o:p></div>
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born to walk on stones<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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©Susie Clevenger 2019</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
#NaPWriMo2019</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-touch-of-snow.html">Real Toads ~ The Touch of Snow</a></div>
Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-29481561536066783862019-04-10T09:54:00.000-07:002019-04-10T09:54:04.111-07:00Night of River Bones<div style="text-align: center;">
The Twila Series</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DLSmZkhXkc9OQmmrQkwXp5RYk-h99xX3R3z46Bnmfd3-_zgZIveRr308L0BnQZloJIQV8oEH2T-UcPc90yNZWvSECgMAerIr5_QlgoPyLw1HU1cRne6fRfCZWVL3TRaH7TwVL4Oe8g/s1600/4k-wallpaper-black-and-white-black-and-white-1366197.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DLSmZkhXkc9OQmmrQkwXp5RYk-h99xX3R3z46Bnmfd3-_zgZIveRr308L0BnQZloJIQV8oEH2T-UcPc90yNZWvSECgMAerIr5_QlgoPyLw1HU1cRne6fRfCZWVL3TRaH7TwVL4Oe8g/s320/4k-wallpaper-black-and-white-black-and-white-1366197.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“I heard those spirits again the night the river gave up
its bones.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bone River </i>by Megan Chance<o:p></o:p></div>
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The moon won’t come near the river<o:p></o:p></div>
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when the Wailers rattle their spines <o:p></o:p></div>
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against the cattails.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Spring has been summoning bones since<o:p></o:p></div>
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the butterweed tore a hole in winter’s lung.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m pink skinned and blood breathing, <o:p></o:p></div>
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and as tempted by darkness as a moth <o:p></o:p></div>
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clinging to a porch light bulb.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m more afraid of Tommy Landry<o:p></o:p></div>
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drunk roaming than sitting with skulls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It isn’t the first time I’ve danced with the dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was born in the bleached cradle of a doe’s ribs<o:p></o:p></div>
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because mama heard the lullaby of corpses<o:p></o:p></div>
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as soon as she felt my first thump in her belly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know what I’m supposed to know yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Patience didn’t leave a seed in me….<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s hard to translate when a voice doesn’t<o:p></o:p></div>
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have a tongue…But then there’s tongues<o:p></o:p></div>
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that are only campgrounds for blabbering.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>©Susie Clevenger 2019</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>#NaPoWriMo2019</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><a href="https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2019/04/open-book-poems-in-april-day-10.html">Real Toads ~ Open a Book</a></o:p></div>
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Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-35450077981161673062019-04-08T17:50:00.000-07:002019-04-08T17:50:08.962-07:00The Climbing Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The Twila Series</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJRKIh4oCnfPR_d3Or795Tfa_x_tuNT0vTa7evOtqeXeXFSI_dWX-qYOrlCPAYfFnfatC1OUZFbl56GQPkznYGp4G-ZTwrvCk5avqm5UPf9nD36-27pcn93Weo8Jmu9ptZTR49C2-oA/s1600/Studies-drill-down-to-how-elderberry-ingredient-provides-immune-support-via-microbial-reaction-in-gut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJRKIh4oCnfPR_d3Or795Tfa_x_tuNT0vTa7evOtqeXeXFSI_dWX-qYOrlCPAYfFnfatC1OUZFbl56GQPkznYGp4G-ZTwrvCk5avqm5UPf9nD36-27pcn93Weo8Jmu9ptZTR49C2-oA/s400/Studies-drill-down-to-how-elderberry-ingredient-provides-immune-support-via-microbial-reaction-in-gut.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The climbing tree loves to feel human skin against its
bark. Well, that is what Grandma Violet always tells me. She says the old elderberry
was planted on Rose DuBois fifteenth birthday. It wasn’t very big, but those
limbs wrapped around Rose’s leg like a puppy clinging to its mama, and her brother,
Jimmy Lee, had the hardest time releasing her from it. Story goes that after it
was planted if you sat next to it on a windy day, you could hear it whimper. <o:p></o:p></div>
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No one has ventured out to the DuBois place in years. Rose
left in 1950 when she was eighteen and moved to New Orleans. She said she was
tired of backwater stains on her shoes and singing hymns when her throat was
full of the blues. No one knows what happened to her after that, but they do know
the climbing tree missed her. Every time they trimmed its limbs it would sprout
a new branch to press against Rose’s bedroom window. It finally got so strong
it broke through the glass. One Halloween night her mama heard a crash and went
to Rose’s room and found tree limbs cradling an old photo of Rose sitting on a
dresser across the room. The next day the family moved out of the house and
told everyone they knew they’d willed it to the elderberry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m always testing. The climbing tree story has been swimming
through ears for so long no one questions it. I didn’t tell a soul I was headed
out to Rose DuBois’ old place. There would be so many no’s spilling from jaws I
wouldn't be able to find a path through them. I have about another hour of weeds to
struggle through. I want to find out if that tree can really feel skin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> ©Susie Clevenger 2019</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><a href="http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2019/04/telling-tales-with-magaly-guerrero.html">Poets United ~ Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #2 ~ Magical Realism</a></o:p></div>
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<br />Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50733128066416659.post-34779955700009915792019-03-26T07:27:00.000-07:002019-03-26T07:27:43.341-07:00Battling Crows in My Throat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The Twila Series</div>
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There’s not much peace in the swamp tonight, at least not
for me. I can’t hear the voices in my head because the bullfrogs swallow all
the air as soon as night creeps through the mist. Mrs. Jackson is always
harping at me to take my problems to the river bank where there aren’t any
tongues to carry tales, but those frogs are so drunk on spring I’m not sure
there’s a pencil’s width of moon able to see or hear me. I suppose that’s why ghosts decided to walk along my
worry nerve.</div>
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Spring air thick as lust<o:p></o:p></div>
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snakes along my skin<o:p></o:p></div>
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searching for secrets<o:p></o:p></div>
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trying to escape my tongue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The calendar is preaching <o:p></o:p></div>
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revival, but ghosts don’t<o:p></o:p></div>
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like wildflowers breaking chains.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Give worry a twig and it will build a nest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m battling the crows in my throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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©Susie Clevenger 2019</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2019/03/the-tuesday-platform_26.html">Real Toads ~ The Tuesday Platform</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Twila Series:</div>
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<a href="https://confessionsofalaundrygoddess.blogspot.com/2014/04/dark-hymns-of-live-oak.html">Dark Hymns of The Live Oak</a></div>
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<a href="https://confessionsofalaundrygoddess.blogspot.com/2014/06/swamp-jesus.html">Swamp Jesus</a></div>
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<a href="https://confessionsofalaundrygoddess.blogspot.com/2014/05/beneath-atchafalaya-moon.html">Beneath the Atchafalaya Moon</a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="https://susiessentences.blogspot.com/2019/03/devils-in-moonlight.html">Devil's In the Moonlight</a>Susie Clevengerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09239990133754328967noreply@blogger.com14