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

Reflection on Home

"Artist's view of Utopia" by Efthymios Warlamis

I’d rather not mirror today’s world in a poem

turning as it does toward fascism and genocide.

Instead, I’ll reflect the here and now, a picture-

perfect landscape that keeps me anchored.

Home is a tree-surrounded haven. We hear muted

traffic roaring beyond the trees, but crickets and

bird calls are louder. We see planes pass over

now and then. We eat, chat, and feed our souls.

Those of us who read the news spend extra time

with the trees. We cannot swallow the killing

in Gaza, the chaos of ICE here. We cannot

stomach the destruction of a sustainable future.

Some go out to rally with home-made signs: Honk-

if-you stand-for-democracy, Save-social-security,

No-Kings, Bring-home-the-hostages, Keep-our-buses-

running, and more. We study non-violent action.

We know our idyllic anchor is vulnerable. We know

it's not the only one. Our poems smell of horrors,

fear, and responsibility. They reach far for hope.

At home, we rest and age while praying for sanity.

For my prompt "Mirror(s)" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

The USA, 2025

 

source

 

The tree of our country is split in two
by the lightning of fascism, but roots
still touch in the rock they ground down
during the imperfect democratic revolution
of the 18^th century and the liberation
movements that followed: 
 
Who can talk to each other?
Fascists are anti-communication.
 
Left, right / People, dictator
Workers, owners / compassion, greed
 
The fascist power rift
is having its day.
The first strike is chaos.
The second is compliance—after all
we knew the potential existed.
The third strike is radical revolution
from the roots we developed over time.
 
Splitting the tree
doesn’t kill the tree,
it simply weakens it for a moment

of backlash in the 21st century.

For Sumana's prompt "RIFT" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Love poems to the dead

 

All the people I had sensual
love with are dead—both lovers and non-
lovers who shared in my heart.  So,
I wouldn’t be able to stay here after
death like Andrea Gibson writes in
“Love Letter from the Afterlife.” I’ve
no one to touch.  Instead, I write love poems
to the dead.  And in death, would we be
reunited?  I don't believe in that kind of afterlife. 
Alive, I have poems.  Love stays near me in
poems, letters, photos, and memories. 
Tears come.  And smiles.  I want
to hug all of them and converse for hours. 
I wish to be moss under their trees, a tree
over their moss.  I sighed reading “Love Letters,”
grieved that I had no one alive to write
a love letter to, worried that I’ve been too
closed to love, too invulnerable
for health.  And I don’t know.  I'd like to
find out, but not enough to pursue it.

For Sherry's prompt "Love Letter from the Afterlife" at What's Going On? 

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

Thinking ahead

 

When will it be my turn to die?  Mom told me that
I always wanted to be first, would rush to get
as close to the front of a line as possible, would lean
far out of line to see how far back she and you
brothers were.  But dad and mom were first to die,
and I expect to be up next.  I’m not worried.
 
I expect to see more beautiful landscapes than I
was able to in life.  I expect to visit each of you
in sweet moments and funny ones, each of you
a landscape, too, among the ones I rarely see.
I will sit weightlessly on your shoulders to feel
the world as you do, without a comment, soundlessly.
 
Will you notice I’m not talking?  I hope it makes you laugh!
I’m rubbing your neck and shoulders, a small gift that I
didn’t offer when alive.  I will drink you in
with all your work and play, hoping that when I touch
the shoulders of your girls and boys, I’ll get a sense
of what I missed when they grew up not knowing me.
 
If you feel a happy tear fall, don’t frown.  Smile!
I’m proud of you already.  This hello/goodbye
will leave us richer, with my blessing like a good
ice cream cone in the flavor of your choice—or a
bag of chips. With your blessing a smile in my heart,  

I’m looking forward to what comes next.

 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast