16 January 2020

Hearing the Present

source


When I labor over the birth
of poetry, remind me, please,
to wait for it instead, just as
I wait for dogwood buds in spring
or for water to boil.  It will
percolate, picking up more grounds
unpremeditated than if 
I try to cook it without flame.
Then I can imagine longer
lines of inheritance than if
I hurry, trying to shut out
the whispers of past and future.



My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright.
 If you quote, credit this page.
  © 2020 Susan L. Chast


No More Dead Ends



Tell me it’s not too late, that myth will be
reality as soon as we believe
it enough to open its unlocked doors.


That if we listen, indigenous days
of strength will reappear, as grass regrows
from ashes of recently burned forests.


That we can still follow Skywoman to
re-learn the ways and names of those who live
on earth, plants and animals and all life.


I’ve seen native languages reemerge
despite draconian measures we took
to erase them.  Forgive us, we were wrong. 


I’ve seen lands pine and die for want of gifts
of respect and gratitude, for want of 
people to build relationships with them.


Forgive us, we were wrong.  We will turn nouns 
into round verbs so they will evolve with 
cyclical time.  We’ll build no more dead ends.


Tell me it’s not too late, that you might still
welcome people into your ways, as you
did once before.  Our way failed.   Forgive us.



Inspired by a thought at Weekly Scribblings #2: Myth-placed


My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright.
 If you quote, credit this page.
  © 2020 Susan L. Chast

13 January 2020

Dear Ones, Thank You


File:AB-Sweetgrass.png
***


Things wait, I can hear them breathing.
From outside the terminal screens
of humanity, some remain
alive and wait for gratitude
from people seeking relationship
from people who still see the gifts
surrounding them. They wait. Thank you.

Ghosts of other cultures and times,
reach out and whisper Remember,
and some of us do.  We look for
the life of stones and hills and trees,
write books about the theft of dreams,
about braiding sweet grass, about
living in harmony.  Thank You.

We hear the drums connect our hearts
to dripping maple sap and wings
beating the air, to work that must
be done, that must be started now
to do and do and do in sync
with the turning of earth and moon,
all beings our relatives. Thank you.




Poetry of a changing Earth. 
 
 




  My blog poems are rough drafts. 
   Please respect my copyright.
 If you quote, credit this page.

  © 2020 Susan L. Chast


12 January 2020

When the Arctic Fox Appears, Perhaps

Sunday Muse # 90





Are you the devil come to eat
our hens and my gingerbread treat?
I see a red glint in your brown eye
and it scares me. I’ll tell you why.

Artists show evil with red eyes—
wild men, witches, wicked spies.
Then, too, you are not at all tame,
but I dare to know you all the same.

So come, you blue-eyed, brown-eyed one,
If you are hungry, come, take some.
Eat, don’t worry.  You’re safe.  You see,
this is a cane.  No gun’s with me.



 
  My blog poems are rough drafts. 
   Please respect my copyright.
 If you quote, credit this page.

  © 2020 Susan L. Chast