22 September 2018

Sonnet for Night



Mosaic Nacht by Hans Escher 01.jpg
Mosaic Nacht (night) by Hans Escher created in 1960-62
Photo by 
Herzi Pinki


How swiftly each day passes!  Already
equal to night, and then more swiftly yet
into autumn.  It is night’s turn to get
attention, to greet us with her dark tea.

What a gentle host!  She shares our harvest,
magnifying it so gratitude comes
as easily as smell and taste, so tongues
speak happyness for each and every guest.

Night shows us how to touch both root and sky.
In her embrace, we rest our illusions
of separateness and see how we are one.
It takes a dark night to demystify.

It is enough, we are enough. Night sighs.
Each autumn she must this lesson reprise.   



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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast


18 September 2018

Face Lift







A sweat-wet shirt fallen in the stairwell,
sharp smell of fresh paint held in humid air,
startling wet gleam from stain-free window sill—

Steps creak-sigh with an edge of contentment.
Delighted treads and risers smile and sing
as they escort three climbers to their rooms:

we who at last attend to space and skin
of home—reflection of the souls it holds—
face that greets us as work releases us.




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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast


15 September 2018

Watching Imaginary Paint Dry


File:Art-wall-brush-painting (23698214684).jpg
Source at Wikipedia


Waiting.
Changing one letter to get writing.

Writing.
I’m waiting, and I’m trying to write.
A contractor is an hour late.
I feel anxiety rising.

I’m writing a poem.
Changing one letter to get waiting.

I imagine the ceiling patched and painted.
I agreed to $25 an hour.
What was I thinking?
The scraper and sandpaper—

and putty and paintawait
a skilled human who’s elsewhere.
My arms can’t reach up and
my hands cannot open

the can and hold the brush.
I’m willing to pay $25 an hour.
This poem is an invocation
for the patcher and painter to appear.

I’m willing. 
Change two letters to get waiting or writing.

This poem is an invitation
for a skilled human to appear
and enjoy applying putty and paint.
Hello out there!  Does anyone hear?

This poem is a meditation
to infuse willing with calm spirit
to let go of expectations,
to cease waiting. And write.  




Being literal and silly sure helps with disappointment and forgiveness.
BTW:  The painter came and is doing a great job and is worth every penny.
But I like this poem and I'm keeping it anyway.

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast


11 September 2018

As If There Were No Sun

Clarice Beckett - Pavlova, Dying Swan, 1929.jpg
Pavlova, Dying Swan, oil on canvass by Clarice Beckett (1929)


Today rain hides sunset.
Night's darkness arrives
as in a stage setting
a long fade out of light.
We actors exit stage 
right and left, quietly,
as if we had rehearsed
in this very playground.

Yet two or three of us
bungle—trip over
the furniture and howl
in protest how unfair
the coming of the night—
as if the slow fade was
not sign enough, as if
there had been no warning.

I lag behind and listen
to whispered acceptance
and voiced denial, to
swishing legs, and to 
the eerie silence of birds.
I watch our colors dull
and our forms disappear—
even my grasping hands.





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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast



04 September 2018

Charity/Communication


image
Figure 1.3 The Transaction Model of Communication



Both giver and receiver must be in the loop—
without the one, the other expires—or holds
and holds and waits for some enlightenment.

How can I take?  How can I give?  What will complete
the circuit?  Guardians could ask when they dress their
children in neighbors’ hand-me-downs for school.

Givers could practice not shaming the poor.  Yearly,
bullies find their fodder and relentlessly aim
their jibes to kids’ guts, so charity fails.

Inspire, expire—inhale, exhale—again.  Direct
energy into growing pains.  Eat, defecate,
and everything between.  Health beats out shame.

We live through it and grow. No harm, no foul.  Now each
of us have giveaway routines.  We lovingly
fold almost new, and pay forward with sighs.

The child inside—who’ll never be outgrown—nods yes.
She feels the giving as a gift, a hug—circuit
complete, both sides a single beat.


For my prompt tomorrow at Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Charity

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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast




01 September 2018

Today’s News: Taking God to Court


St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Ballarat, Australia.* 



 the sacredness of confession versus
the sacredness of our children’s bodies

the sacredness of priests’ respect versus
the sacredness of humans’ trust and faith.

the sacredness of hierarchs versus
the sacredness of all living on earth.

the sacredness of trees and plants versus
the sacredness of chairs and flags and wealth.

the sacredness of yesterday, versus
the sacredness of all our tomorrows.



(I am so angry!)   


*The country’s Roman Catholic Church issued a lengthy response to a government inquiry finding widespread sexual abuse of children by priests.  
*Photo Credit Asanka Brendon Ratnayake for The New York Times



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

© 2018 Susan L. Chast