Who's Calling, Please?

rolodex

Name recognition has a second lag

for the rolodex of mind to flick ‘round

until ding ding ding  ding!  A match pops up

with face and voice, at one hundred percent

DNA certain, albeit younger—

This computer of a mind constantly

whirls to match and to adjust images,

and light flickers all the while—light and dark

alternating until the catch and pause—

a nano-second of rest and aha!

It’s you, ah!  I re-member you again

from meetings, photographs and impressions,

from dictionary definitions and

heart palpitations, from eye-opening

and mystic experience and from love—

Or—lack of recognition, but deep dark

newness that is luscious discovery

unless—caress rejected in a flash –

there is no pause, no touch, no rest, just empty

space floating dangerously near the edge

of Light, so near that the mind’s rolodex

backs up—reverses—slowly retracing

its steps—dark light dark light—resisting flight

or fight by reaching past instinct to sense

and non-sense, praying for courage to risk.

What did you say your name was?  I can’t quite

catch it.  Waiting for a friendly gesture

to stop resisting the pull of the void.

Turning to the next in line.  Already

a next word wanting to be recognized.

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

Who Praises the Seed?

source

 

Who praises the sunflower

when its seeds hide underground?

Who praises scenic artists

when actors take their bows?

How easy to overlook

the greatness in creation

if neither heroism

nor fame provide elation.

Myths, legends and folk tales grow

to make the invisible

visible, to laud the One(s)

we see as original.

Time then to tell stories of

hidden witness and cycles,

of workers and protestors,

of ones who face tough trials.

Those who show up have greatness

as much as yearly seasons,

those healing and those cooking,

those standing up as beacons.

Let’s see the squash in the seeds

as we plant four per hill, see

the artistic products

in our creative ideas.

 For my prompt Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Greatness

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

Where Poems Come From

source

Poems don’t come from depression anymore—

they wade thru shallows to a deeper water

or to a higher ground.  It’s worth the wait.

Truth drowns or climbs. Only when it meets an

other witness on the path will it rest

between extremes, to find some common ground.

At the rest stop, under a breezy tree,

witnesses read some poems aloud, coming

up or down for air and words to chew.

In these conversations, new poems take root.

Little sprouts who need nurture and silence

drop like crumbs, pocketing the muddy earth.

From hermitage to hermitage, poems

travel.  The path is long but covered with

first lines and scented with chamomile buds.

Milkweed pods and yarrow part to provide

silk and good health to poems who use them

to stuff hermits' pillows and cradle dreams.

Poems don’t come from the shallows anymore,

but from the depths and the heights, and from chance

encounters that are the food and drink of life.

Possible last verse:
This one is now.  Let's take this drying log 
to be our bench, and dig our truths out of 
their hiding places.  Dear one, feast with me.  

Posted in Poets United Poetry Pantry #411

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

Wildness in the City

Philadelphia seen from the Art Museum

Trees line the avenue

that leads to city hall.

Lovely to look at, but

don’t let them fool you. 

Only ancient ones speak tree—

those deep in wild-way parks

and in the spacious yards

of once stately mansions.

Car fumes and cigarette

smoke choke up newer ones—

though birds do their best to

restore their consciousness.

We try, too.  We befriend

them, hug and confide in

them, needing tree wisdom

and wild companionship.

Maybe they need us as

much as we need them.

Once, one stirred in my arms

and refreshed my tired soul.

For Sumana's Prompt 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ City

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

My First City*

Philadelphia seen from the Art Museum

Compared to

the peephole

country town

I came from,

HERE was a picture-window view

with sidewalks leading from the door

to most anywhere. You didn’t need rides,

didn’t have to walk against the traffic.

Pedestrians had their own roads

to art museums and bigger schools,

to part-time jobs and friends’ houses,

to movie theatres and stage plays.

Compared to

the stay-home

4-H town

I came from,

HERE was excitement with book stores

and universities, public

transportation and libraries.

Did I say you were free to go

wherever you wanted? Part-time

employment paid the way downtown

to serve ten-cent cups of coffee

fried egg sandwiches and donuts.

Compared to

the unlocked

gossip town

I came from,

HERE was watching out and lying

to protect family from shots

and whistles and discomforts of

walking alone.  As counter girl,

you had an island of safety

with lonely seniors and out-of-

work hang-abouts—mismatched

and grumpy allies—not strangers.

Compared to

the spread-out

square-dance town

I came from,

HERE was anonymity when

wanted and diversity, too, as

time swept life swiftly forward

full of adventure and freedom.

Decades and many cities passed

before I recognized I saw

with eyes and soul shaped under trees,

with heart shaped by my country town.

For Sumana's prompt 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ City

*My First City was Worcester, MA.

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

What Did You Do this Week?

source

This week? 

Wore clothes, washed laundry. 

Some weeks are exactly like: Use dishes, wash dishes,

repeat. And wake up, go to sleep, wake up,

go back to bed.  But then, the sun also

rises and sets, rises and sets again.

And breath goes in and out, and hearts bu-bump

bu-bump, bu-bump.  Perk up with such nurture

of blood and breath and food and drink and crap—

and food and drink and pee, and wake and sleep—

and one and two and three and four, and one.

This week?

Awareness of lifespan longer

than mosquitos and mice, with ample time

between repetitions for un-patterned

actions, relaxed seconds here and there for

catching a break and casting an idea.

How long can we keep this going?  Dragon-

flies get four months, and houseflies get four weeks.

Mayflies have only twenty-four hours.

We have just long enough to learn, create,

converse, commune, advance and inspire.

I wanted to express the idea in here that we differ from the sun and breath, etc, by variations between the beats being desirable, while we want the former to stay the same.  We hope they don't get bored with the same-old, same-old--while we want humans, to a certain extent, to vary and change. But that would take another stanza--and I'd have to find a way to put in that in matters of romance, less changeability is desirable--that we want and deserve, to some extent reliability and grooves, and to be able to take the relationship for granted like breath and heartbeats and the sun.  Don't know when and where to put that.  This poem is half done.

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast