The Chair is for Balance

source

Seniors in Silver Sneaker Yoga sit

in chairs to pay attention to breathing—

inhale / exhale.  The instructor coaches

to take our time, but she rushes and we

attempt to keep up.

Seniors in Silver Sneaker Yoga sit

in chairs to raise our arms on an inhale

and float them down on an exhale—

mimicking the instructor’s pace and eyes

closed and yet hurried.

Some, familiar with this instructor, can

anticipate her moves, music and moods,

others half smile, step back and modify

her pace to suit their own inner rhythm

slow, slowing, peaceful.

I succumb to Silver Sneaker Yoga

until I note the simple word “yoga”

means “union,” which is not quite so simple.

At home, I move a chair onto my deck

to attempt to breathe

in air beyond the class, and today two

morning doves join me. We take in tree tops—

white and scots pine, catalpa and cherry—

and we forget to count.  The doves take off.

I relax in joy.

For Sumana's 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Yoga

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

There’s No Mistake About Seven Bullets

Civil Rights Lawyer: Philando Castile's Skin Color
 Ended Up Being a Death Sentence

"Philando Can Be Any of Us": Black Lives Matter Protests 

Acquittal of Officer in Minnesota Killing

You disarmed him and then disheartened him.

He died still sitting in the driver’s seat. 

Your terror took his arm and then his heart.

He tried to give you his driver’s license

and you gave him seven bullets instead.

Quit it.  Acquitted.  Quit it.  Acquitted.  Quit.

There’s no mistake about seven bullets.

There’s no mistake about police terror.

Quit it. Acquitted. May your guilt set fire.

May you turn to writing hymns:  “I was lost,

and now I’m found.” Amazing grace will hit

you with seven bullets, you and other

lawmakers and enforcers in terror

of dark skin colors, you who shoot then duck

and cover yourself with policing codes.

You are one of thousands, you join the list.

Quit it.  Acquitted.  Quit it.  Acquitted.  Quit.

There’s no mistake about seven bullets.

There’s no mistake about dark skin terror

police learn from the system they represent.

A reformed slave trader wrote “Amazing

Grace.”  What will you write when you awaken?

His hymn helped raise awareness of evil,

what will you raise?  How long before you’re found?

How long before we who-are-silent speak?

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

Sounding Depth in Wellfleet

Keyboard clatter is all that separates

the library from the Quaker meeting.

Can one receive God’s word by indirect

means? Technology has not gone so far.

And yet, both have a throat clearing, coughing

and page riffling.  Voices from ten thousand

books clamor to be the day’s ministry.

And why not?  They record testimony.

Authors sound the souls of their characters

and settings in poetry and prose.

Their words saturate educated minds

who must sift through to the burning bush. 

Shakespeare’s There are more things in heav’n and earth,

Horatio* smacks up against Fox’s

there was an ocean of darkness and death**

and Piercy’s ocean that is way too warm.***

And we who have spent a vacation day

at Wellfleet’s shore bring its sizzle and sway,

bring newly salted spirits into play

in silent worship as we seek our way.

*Hamlet (1.5.167-8), Hamlet to Horatio

**George Fox Diaries

***Marge Piercy, “We Know” eco poetry

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

We Are the Food we Eat. (Subtitle: On the Road)

source

  

Food marked our meet-up: After eggs and coffee in

Northampton came fried clams with bellies in Dennis.

With cheese and wine in Wellfleet, we ate poetry

all the way in to our most intimate beliefs.

Have you had days like this to travel and to feast?

Later we examined the wrappers: How many

details and lines?  What did the small print hide? How hard

or easy was access?  Should we have micro-waved?

It’s odd that we arrived at our destination

unscathed.  We didn’t follow directions.  Indeed,

we didn’t look for them in our hurry to feed.

And we could have been poisoned.  We could have been lost.

Have you had days like this to become whole again?

To act with the innocent courage of your youth

without forsaking hard-earned wisdom risk-taking

earned you (either for pleasure or its opposite)?

If we die surfeiting on trust that we are part

of creation—please celebrate our lives.  If we

live—celebrate with us the opportunity

to co-create a world that nourishes us all.

This morning, I brewed coffee in a pot I did

not know, counted tablespoons of new-ground beans to

water whose measure I had to guess.  The coffee is

too weak, but I will make it stronger tomorrow.  

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast

Midsummer at the Jersey Shore

It’s been so long, I try to rush but can’t.

My calves play “push and pull” with sand-soft ground

while soles thicken against each grain’s sharp edge.

The ocean wants me, too, enough to salt

my arms before I reach her moistened slip—

I smell and taste her as I lick an itch,

both hands too full of leisure things to scratch.

Already I breathe with the billowing

skirts of ocean twirling along the shore.

And I haven’t yet felt her cold and wet

between my toes, haven’t yet dared her catch

me, suck the ground beneath and swallow me.

There she is!  Ocean’s playing catch with Earth,

tossing both live and dead beings, mixing

them up with plastic and sea glass and foam.

I place my bags above the high tide line

and bow to both  before marking my space

with blanket and books and water bottle.

Ocean and Earth and Sky intersect where

I am—between, among and inside them—

lining up bottle caps and sparkling stones.

Midsummer meeting needs no fire or drums.

Its mystery predates evil: To stay

in relationship no matter what comes.

*© 1972, Z Budapest

For my prompt 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Ocean(s)

My blog poems are rough drafts.   

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2017 Susan L. Chast