Sonnet for Night

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

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.

For my prompt at 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Evidence/Clues

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

Watching Imaginary Paint Dry

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 paint—await

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

As If There Were No Sun

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.

 For Sumana's 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Sunset

My blog poems are rough drafts.

lease respect my copyright. 

© 2018 Susan L. Chast

Charity/Communication

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

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

*in Rick Rojas' article:  Australia’s Catholic Leaders 

Reject Call to Report Sex Abuse Heard in Confessions  

My blog poems are rough drafts.

lease respect my copyright. 

© 2018 Susan L. Chast