10 December 2017

Empower Grief: a prayer



Image result for fire in snow
source

First snow muffles
tires’ sound fully,
shuffles to the top
earth’s whale-like yearning.

In contrast, fire—
town-crier like—
admires its own
ire, burns desire.

Let snow smother
fire, assert grief’s
power to rule,
stir empathy,

discover life
under the knife
midwives use to
guide forth new birth.



Prompted by Fussy Little Forms: Than Bauk at Imaginary gardens, posted in Poets United Poetry Pantry #382



My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast


08 December 2017

Finding the Way Out

The Story Behind the Woman You Don’t See 



Of course you hear a lot about that elbow cut off in the lower right corner
Feminism loves its absences, how we first learned to read

We victims of sexism and racism read the environment before all else 
We are vigilant and silent until someone finds our body parts

We bullies leave a bold trail of bruises and signs because we know 
How to perform for those who reward us with precious memberships 

Of control.  With belonging in our pockets, our souls slide down 
The toilets and into the eddies of sterile universes

The cure is to learn to read from those who know how. We victims
Are our saviors.  Hear us describe our way out of absence.



For

Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman ~ The Silence Breakers



My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast



06 December 2017

A Sad Tale of Self Love

Image result for narcissus and daffodil
Source

A single Narcissus,
a single Daffodil
slipped from the crowd aslant
in steady wind and chant
that whisked along the road
to dance upon the hill.

They caught each other’s gaze
and stood quite still, amazed
in perfect negative
reflection—one’s yellow
to the other’s whiteness. 
Both of them were dazed.

O beautiful flower, you’re neither in deep streams
nor my daydreams?
                                  I’m here, alive, alone, extreme. 
Ah, you’re like me--one whom I can truly esteem.

The single Narcissus
and single Daffodil
decided not to move
too near for fear they’d wake
and lose the double take
of perfection’s thrill.

And if they have not moved
they’re still beneath the hill
where there is not a chance
they’ll learn to love the dance.
Or they might since have died,
plucked for a vase inside.





My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

29 November 2017

Bittersweet Tango



 Bittersweet adds a pop of color to an otherwise drab winter. . . . 
(Photo and caption by 
vastateparksstaff)



Let's tango like there’s no tomorrow.  Let's converse
in dance, walk arms entangled, improvise romance.

Bittersweet leans on its plant friend as a scaffold,
tangling and strangling it--yes--in lust for growth.

Closeness may have a price, but it takes a looong time
for holders-on to dominate and age and kill.

At first, two walk and talk. Romance ensues, pairing
green leaves with orange, red, and yellow blooms and fruits.

Here is autumn in early summer! and certain
winter, yes.  Love weighs heavily on a life time.

And yet, come on!  What is time worth without the dance?
Without visual delights to surprise hungry eyes?

Let's take the risk, my friend, and grow upon each other.
Let's take the bitter with the sweet, and tango.



For my prompt at Poets United.



My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

26 November 2017

Fallacy: Closing the Book of War


Image result for War and Peace
source


The novel, the poetry collection, the memoir, the biography-- 
I transfer one from work docs to a template for publishing.

I could try to get it out this season, or take my usual
v e r y l o n g t i m e and then maybe forget to do it.

I prefer theatre which goes up and runs, then closes.
A book is ... is ... it is.  For a v e r y l o n g t i m e.

Writing a novel is a labor of love.  I don’t remember
not writing.  It has much in common with war: 

They both take a v e r y l o n g t i m e, and last 
a v e r y l o n g t i m e.  I don’t remember no war. 

(Though war’s metaphor is theatre, and love’s metaphor
is eternity—or the life cycle of a butterfly or of an oak tree.)

I prefer theatre which goes up and runs, then closes.
War takes a v e r y l o n g t i m e, and we never forget it.

A book is ... is ... it is.  For a v e r y l o n g t i m e.
Butterflies are disappearing, but war goes on and on.

Shorten time and shorten war, or don’t even begin.
I could write the novel quicker, or forget to write at all.

I could forget poetry if
it hastened an end to war.





My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast



22 November 2017

Witching an Old Rose Bush


knockout-roses-007-copy_phixr-e1427309335546.jpg
'Pink Knock Out' rose. Photo: Steve Bender in Southern Living



Let’s be an old rose bush whose countless blossoms look
plush with six-petalled blush.

Not stately to accent bouquets, we'll woo us with
fragrant fiery intent and kiss on stone walls near,
put petals in our hair, speak our hearts sincere.

We'll watch passers-by, count generations, sigh,
wave our own blooms goodbye.

And say year's end to earth: Ah! so we’ll have no dearth
of blessings and rebirth as long as we inspire love 
within our human race, we will survive with grace.



Posted for Sumana's Prompt 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ 

The Flower: Rose




My blog poems are rough drafts. 
Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast