Hope is work

 

A sculpture of Jane Goodall and David Greybeard outside the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago  (Source)

 

Hope is the work of a far-seeing woman
who still teaches past her death.
Jane Goodall was barely on my radar,
so wrapped up was I in the politic of war
that rocks my country and other countries
of the world.  But stand under a tree,
stand in the arid land of drought, or stand
in the life of chimpanzees like Jane Goodall did,
and other windows open to see earth, and
to see how we humans are part of nature.
 
We have roles to play as part of the natural world.
What matters?  Look out the windows to see
what living things need, to see where there is pain: 
All life needs water, clean air, food, a planet. 
A home for the future.  Is there evil to be destroyed? 
Yes, but is it the primary work we have to do
for hope to thrive?  Along with a ground-swell of
respect, non-violence, empathy, and cooperation
to build hope.  That is the work which
we cannot give up, according to Jane.

 

For Sherry's prompt "A Message from Jane Goodall" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

After sunrise

 

source

Bright sun exposes everything.
Fascism spreads terror city by city.
Fascism creates its necessary villains and then strikes
Democrats, immigrants, children of immigrants.
 
Bright sun exposes everything.
Cities keep on living around the terror.
Bystanders witness and make noise
that resounds in the canyons of minds.
 
Bright sun exposes everything.
Maple leaves change from green to yellow
and drift down to where late tomatoes grow
and to the green grounds around safety zones.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Weariness sets in

 

Girl sleeping by Domenico Fetti (1615)
source

Weariness guides feet into the forest.
Weariness guides steps into the city.
Weariness sits with me on the bus and in my living room
where I open my laptop to check email and Facebook,
and feel my nose and chin fall to the keyboard, eyes closed.
I’m wiped out from the moments I get dressed in the morning
to the hour I climb into bed—nap or bedtime—and I sleep.
Sleep deep. 
I’ve tried cures: vitamins, breathing more air in fewer breaths,
aerobic exercises, and physical therapy.  I haven’t tried pills,
but I’ve tried “summer reading” instead of listening to news.
I’ve pretended all is well in my nation: that experts and scientists
run the departments of government with enough employees
to do the job, that we value our treaties and promises to those
we’ve allowed into our country.  That we value democracy.
That we value women, that we value the rich diversity of us.
And it helps.  It helps to get angry
imagining how life could be, anger
overrides the weariness enough
to make one more effort
before weariness sets in again.
Then I look for anger again, or for one friend who gets it,
who maybe brings over another mailing list, or another picket sign,
because we can’t give up.  We are the resistance.
We are the non-violent, alert and enthusiastic, revolution.

For my prompt "Weariness" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Light and Coffee

 

7-17-1923

The dated Sony clock-radio

and TV are still with me.

The ceramics—an Italian folk-art

lamp and a cat footprint cup—

were victims of poor packing

during my last move.

What is timeless?

What is not?

For Sumana's prompt "Capturing an Image" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

The Gift Ride

 

source

 

Riding from Philadelphia to Cincinnati
in a new Rivian R1S, taller than a car,

I viewed the tree-filled mountains of
Pennsylvania, the flat fertile plains of Ohio,
and the endless sky from the backseat
under a dynamic glass roof set on
transparent rather than opaque.
 
Ten hours in a gift of a ride with my brother
and the driver—his son—two people
I hadn’t seen in quite a while—exchanging
memories, arguing politics until we couldn’t
agree to disagree mildly, hearing about the
occasion we had been gathered to attend—
the Bat Mitzvah of the oldest daughter.
 
The green of summer mingled with the red,
ginger, and orange of fall.  An occasional clump
of white birch brought yellow leaves to the fore.
And the bare fields lay harvested and waiting.
We stopped every three hours to recharge the
car’s electric, to stretch our legs, and to snack. 
Sated, we trusted ourselves to GPS, and moved on.

 

For Mary's prompt "Through the Windshield" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Women's Rights: The 1970s

 

T

The 1970s!

What a time to be alive!

     Like young saplings we were

discovering who we might become. 
 
I was 21 years old when we gained the right to use contraception. 
I was 22 years old when Roe v. Wade became law, with better care for women.
At age 23, I gained the right to use credit and borrow money without a co-signer.
At age 24, I joined the women’s movement that made it possible for us to be people in the eyes of the law and society. 
By age 25, I understood that these rights were often out of reach for people of color.  

But, the women’s movement made headway
in healthcare, legal matters, and women’s employment.
 
And now, we seem to be going backwards, and I admit
I sit down.  I’m ready for the old-style consciousness-raising
groups to help propel me along the way.  The anti-women
stance of many voters bewilders me.  Both men and women
benefitted from our victories, and hidden gender
identities began to find a place to stand.  The old ways
of fighting aren’t working anymore, not for people and not
for the environment.  Not if we want to survive together in
a non-fascist, diversity- and inclusion-loving world.
 
This withered tree strains
under the weight of today,
but it will not break.

 

For Sherry's prompt "Women's Rights: Then and Now" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast