18 December 2014

Imagine


Come into my arms and let me love you.
Earth, sky and I exchange greetings daily
cognizant of what we are not saying:
we are one.  And how could it be other?

Wise, we still pretend to oblivion—
flaw of our divine tragi-comedy—
to ignore our kinship in the Kingdom
we say we want but do not find ever.

You are my arms, forehead, ever-seeing
gaze.  No other God nor Heaven exists,
yet we make this Hell with a frustrating
willfulness, eager to avoid the signs.

Why? 

          Think how joyous for you and me just
to open our arms and let life love us.


Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast




17 December 2014

Joining the Chorus


Chagal: Stained Glass memorial at UN


Notes that run through silence up from earth and out out—
vibration that moves from planted foot to lifted mouth—
yes, those—strum that signature, sing the song that is self.

True self often surfaces as age wears us down,
but you dug swiftly through bling, hype, expectation—
as if you had a key—you are the key, singing.

You opened doors as you passed them by so eager
to meet more like you singing their true songs in key—
in time—for melody, harmony, symphony.

Prelude to the Age of Capricorn, you lead us
fearlessly past judgment into justice itself—
a community reel complete with violins.

Notes that run through silence up from earth and out out—
vibration that moves from planted feet to lifted mouths.




Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast



16 December 2014

Tuesday

File:Abbey, Edwin Austin - Potpourri - 1899.jpg
Potpourri, by Edwin Austin Abbey, 1899



Like a broken rose, this day waits to be discarded—
not worthy of display in the bouquet of God’s gifts.


It is a line-backer day, taking one for the team;
it is a buffer rose, one bruised so others might grow.


Neither distinguished as first nor last, yet Tuesday's blessed
just as broken petals, stepped on and pressed, perfume best.



Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast\




13 December 2014

Pink for Girls


An adult queen conch shell with the lip completely intact


Conch shells can be pink
as a girl’s commercial bedroom
which can be pink
as certain roses, sunsets, or healthy gums
which can be as pink
as a lake in Australia named Hillier—

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads


Truly pink like silk scarves piling
up up up, pinker than the flowers
blowing in the wind at the birth of Venus,
a divine pink beauty that lasts until
custom drapes women with its taboos,
shame, ownership and revenge

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli


Privilege doesn’t alter the message
but apologizes for it earlier with pink
canopy beds and lots of pink toys,
with gentlemanly manners and
rosy valentines that open like
scallop shells and mean well.

Advertisement forPrang's greeting cards, 1883

(An added verse, maybe unnecessary?)  

The startlingly pink Lake Hillier
is inaccessible to tourists except
visually from above—yet conch
and the shells delivering Venus
and youth remain fragile,
accessible and exploitable.



Written for Hannah's 

Transforming Friday with Nature's Wonders

at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads


Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast



10 December 2014

In-Hale-Ex


You would think breath would be pretty basic
in the pantheon of in-alien-
able human rights,
but it’s not
a given.
At least no one
was hung at dawn today,
but I heard someone gasp—no—maybe
I doubt, therefore I am a citizen of the United
States of—
                   You know—this poem would
be completely different if—
keep breathing—
if I hadn’t read
highlights of the U.S.
Senate Select
Committee
on
torture
yesterday.
But I needed
to be educated
to our brutality—ours—
though I never agreed to it as a tactic
for police or military or secret service or parents
or animal trainer.  I think. I. did. not. agree. 
I breathe regularly, intersperse
breath signs in music
I write, intend
to link to all
humanity
through
this rhythm,
note that the rising
and falling—expansion
and contraction—is the same
in animals, in plants, in the earth’s
aliveness: Breath is basic, is prayer, is touch—
gentler than choke holds and marching,
gentler than thinking.  Gently.



For my prompt at 



Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast



09 December 2014

The Old Daze

        (1) 75-word revision:

Hear?  Here 
it rains 
on the reigns
of those holding 
reins the longest.  
Kings once sighed
at how un-fair their current 
fare of blueberries 
and currants was,
but now they 
don't dare—except  
sideways in odes,
an homage owed
to the grown
and the throne
to decrease groans
and lessen what’s  
thrown down.
There’s a lesson here:
to stay in charge day and night,
Knights must not
cut the knot
between them
and their Queen.




             (2) The original poem:

In Elizabethan times, the pun ruled—
at least from the evidence of the stage
from where oral culture was recorded
under great pen names like Will Shakespeare, Chris
Marlowe, Ben Jonson and Walt Raleigh, friends,
perhaps, all delighting in raining puns
down on Queen Elizabeth whose reign marked
the last British benevolent holding
of reins to mutually support kingdoms. 

How writers must have sighed to see people
side-lined when power centralized and plague
raged.  Popular sports, fairs and theatres closed
and fear, not laughter was the fare of troupes
who used to troop into towns with their odes
ready to pay on the boards what was owed
so no grown listener got bored and no
one groaned or was overthrown by the throne.




Written to capture the homphone for Words Count With Mama Zen at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, my poem was way more than 75 words.  But I tried to make amends.

Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast